Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet Part 8

"He said he'd heard noises from Mr. Malcolm's room," the desk clerk told the detective.

"Actually," Mr. Malcolm said, drawing his light blue bathrobe more tightly around himself, "the noises were coming from his room, but I didn't want to make an issue of it. I believe in minding my own business."

"I see," the detective said.

"He must have slipped the girl in without anyone knowing," the desk clerk said. "He probably figured he'd complain about a woman being next door, just to cover himself."

"I heard them in there all night," Mr. Malcolm said. "Then I dozed off. They started fighting again; then she screamed; then, a few minutes later, I heard him hit the courtyard." He looked toward the window where the curtains were fluttering. He almost laughed, remembering the look on Mr. Warren's face, the utter astonishment.

The detective looked at the sheet-covered body on the bed.

"The stories they tell about traveling salesmen," he said. "I guess they're true."

If you don't mind, I should like to suggest that this not be the last story you read before turning out the lights. Dreams, you know.

MAN WITH A HOBBY.

BY ROBERT BLOCH.

It must have been around ten o'clock when I got out of the hotel. The night was warm and I needed a drink.

There was no sense trying the hotel c.o.c.ktail lounge because the place was a madhouse. The Bowling Convention had taken that over, too.

Walking down Euclid Avenue I got the impression that Cleveland was full of bowlers. And most of them seemed to be looking for a drink. Every tavern I pa.s.sed was jammed with s.h.i.+rt-sleeved men, wearing their badges. Not that they needed extra identification; many of them carried the standard bowling-bag holding a ball.

When Was.h.i.+ngton Irving wrote about Rip Van Winkle and the dwarfs, he understood bowlers all right. Well, there were no dwarfs in this convention - just man-sized drinkers. And any sound of thunder from the distant mountain peaks would have been drowned out by the shouting and the laughter.

I wanted no part of it. So I turned off Euclid and kept wandering along, looking for a quiet spot. My own bowling-bag was getting heavy. Actually, I'd meant to take it right over to the depot and check it in a locker until train-time, but I needed that drink first.

Finally I found a place. It was dim, it was dingy, but it was also deserted. The bartender was all alone down at the far end of the bar, listening to the tail-end of a double-header on the radio.

I sat down close to the door and put the bag on the stool next to me. I signalled him for a beer. "Bring me a bottle," I said. "Then I won't have to interrupt you."

I was only trying to be polite but I could have spared myself the trouble. Before he had a chance to get back to follow the game, another customer came in.

"Double Scotch, never mind the wash."

I looked up.

The bowlers had taken over the city, all right. This one was a heavily-built man of about forty, with wrinkles extending well up toward the top of his bald head. He wore a coat, but carried the inevitable bowling-bag; black, bulging, and very similar to mine. As I stared at him, he set it down very carefully on the adjoining bar-stool and reached for his drink.

He threw back his head and gulped. I could see the pasty white skin ripple along his neck. Then he held out the empty gla.s.s. "Do it again," he told the bartender. "And turn down the radio, will you, Mac?" He pulled out a handful of bills.

For a moment the bartender's expression hovered midway between a scowl and a smile. Then he caught sight of the bills fluttering down on the bar and the smile won out. He shrugged and turned away, fiddling with the volume-control, reducing the announcer's voice to a distant drone. I knew what he was thinking: If it was beer I'd tell him to go take a jump, but this guy's buying Scotch.

The second Scotch went down almost as fast as the volume of the radio.

"Fill her up," said the heavy-set man.

The bartender came back, poured again, took his money, rang it up, then drifted away to the other end of the bar. He crouched over the radio, straining to catch the voice of the announcer.

I watched the third Scotch disappear. The stranger's neck was red now. Six ounces of Scotch in two minutes will do wonders for the complexion. It will loosen the tongue, too.

"Ball game," the stranger muttered. "I can't understand how anyone can listen to that stuff." He wiped his forehead and blinked at me. "Sometimes a guy gets the idea there's nothing in the world but baseball fans. Bunch of crazy fools yelling their heads off over nothing, all summer long. Then come fall and it's the football games. Same thing, only worse. And right after that's finished, it's basketball. Honest to G.o.d, what do they see in it?"

"Everybody needs some kind of hobby," I said.

"Yeah. But what kind of a hobby do you call that? I mean, who can get excited over a gang of apes fighting to grab some kind of a ball?" He scowled. "Don't kid me that they really care who wins or loses. Most guys go to a ball game for a different reason. You ever been out to see a game, Mac?"

"Once in a while."

"Then you know what I'm talking about. You've heard 'em out there. Heard 'em yelling. That's what they really go for - to holler their heads off. And what are they yelling most of the time? I'll tell you. Kill the umpire! Yeah, that's what they're screaming: Kill the umpire!"

I finished the last of my beer quickly and started to slide off the stool. He reached out and rapped on the bar. "Here, have another, Mac," he said. "On me."

I shook my head. "Sorry, got to catch a train out of here at midnight," I told him.

He glanced at the clock. "Plenty of time." I opened my mouth to protest but the bartender was already opening a bottle and pouring a Scotch for the stranger. And he was talking to me again.

"Football is worse," he said. "A guy can get hurt playing football, some of 'em get hurt bad. That's what the crowd likes to see. And boy, when they start yelling for blood it's enough to turn your stomach."

"I don't know," I said. "After all, it's a pretty harmless way of releasing pent-up aggression."

Maybe he understood me and maybe he didn't, but he nodded. "It releases something, like you say, but I ain't so sure it's harmless. Take boxing and wrestling, now. Call that a sport? Call that a hobby?"

"Well," I agreed, "people want to see somebody get clobbered."

"Sure, only they won't admit it." His face was quite red now; he was starting to sweat. "And what about hunting and fis.h.i.+ng? When you come right down to it, it's the same thing. Only there you do the killing yourself. You take a gun and shoot some dumb animal. Or you cut up a live worm and stick it on a hook and that hook cuts into a fish's mouth, and you sort of get a thrill out of it, don't you? When the hook goes in and it cuts and tears -"

"Now wait a minute," I said. "Maybe that's good. What's a fish? If it keeps people from being s.a.d.i.s.ts -"

"Never mind the two-dollar words," he cut in. He blinked at me. "You know it's true. Everybody gets the urge, sooner or later. Stuff like ball games and boxing don't really satisfy it, either. So we gotta have a war, every so often. Then there's an excuse to do real killing. Millions."

Nietzsche thought he was a gloomy philosopher. He should have known about double-Scotches. "What's your solution?" I tried hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "Do you think there'd be less harm done if they repealed the laws against murder?"

"Maybe." The bald-headed man studied his empty gla.s.s. "Depends on who got killed. Suppose you just knocked off tramps and b.u.ms. Or a floozie, maybe. You know, somebody without a family or relatives or anything. Somebody who wouldn't be missed. You could get away with it easier, too."

I leaned forward, staring at him.

"Could you?" I asked.

He didn't look at me. He gazed down at his bowling-bag for a moment before replying.

"Don't get me wrong, Mac," he said, forcing a grin. "I ain't no murderer. But I was just thinking about a guy who used to do it. Right here in town, too. This was maybe twenty years ago."

"You knew him?"

"No, of course not. n.o.body knew him, that's the whole point. That's how he always got away with it. But everybody knew about him. All you had to do was read the papers." He drained his drink.

"They call him the Cleveland Torso Slayer. He did thirteen murders in four years, out in Kingsbury and around Jackall Hill. Cops went nuts trying to find the guy. Figured he came into town on week ends, maybe. He'd pick up some b.u.m, lure the hobo down into a gully or the dumps near the tracks. Promise to give him a bottle, or something. Did the same thing with women. Then he used his knife."

"You mean he wasn't playing games, trying to fool himself. He went for the real thing."

The man nodded. "That's right. Real thrills and a real trophy at the end. You see, he liked to cut 'em up. He liked to cut off their -"

I stood up and reached for my bag. The stranger laughed.

"Don't be scared, Mac," he said. "This guy must of blown town way back in 1938 or so. Maybe when the war came along in Europe he joined up over there. Went into some commando outfit and kept on doing the same thing - only then he was a hero instead of a murderer. See what I mean?"

"Easy now," I said. "I see what you mean. Don't go getting yourself excited. It's your theory, not mine."

He lowered his voice. "Theory? Maybe so, Mac. But I run into something tonight that'll really rock you. What you suppose I been tossing down all these drinks for?"

"All bowlers drink," I told him. "But if you actually feel the way you do about sports, how come you're a bowler?"

The bald-headed man leaned close to me. "A man's got to have some kind of hobby, Mac, or he'd blow his stack. Right?"

I opened my mouth to agree, but before I could answer him there was another noise. We both heard it at the same time - the sound of a siren down the street.

The bartender looked up. "Heading this way, sounds like, doesn't it?"

The bald-headed man was on his feet and moving towards the door.

I hurried after him. "Here, don't forget your bag."

He didn't look at me. "Thanks," he muttered. "Thanks, Mac."

And then he was gone. He didn't stay on the street, but slipped through an areaway between two adjoining buildings. In a moment he had disappeared. I stood in the doorway as the siren's wail choked the street. A squad car pulled up in front of the tavern, its motor racing. A uniformed sergeant had been running along the sidewalk, accompanying it, and he came puffing up. He glanced at the sidewalk, glanced at the tavern, glanced at me.

"See anything of a big, bald-headed guy carrying a bowling bag?" he panted.

I had to tell the truth. "Why, yes. Somebody went out of here only a minute ago -"

"Which way?"

I gestured between the buildings and he shouted orders at the men in the squad car. It rolled off; the sergeant stayed behind.

"Tell me about it," he said, pus.h.i.+ng me back into the tavern.

"All right, but what's this all about?"

"Murder. Over at the Bowling Convention, in the hotel. About an hour ago. The bellboy saw him coming out of her room, figured maybe he was a grab artist because he used the stairs instead of the elevator."

"Grab artist?"

"Prowler - you know. They hang around conventions, sneak into rooms and pick up stuff. Anyway, this prowler leaves this room too fast. Bellboy got a good look at the guy and notified the house d.i.c.k. The house d.i.c.k found this dame right on the bed. She'd been carved, but good. But the guy had too much of a start."

I took a deep breath. "The man who was just in here," I said. "A big bald-headed guy. He kept talking about the Cleveland Torso Slayings. But I thought he was just drunk, or rib -"

"The bellboy's description checks with the one a newsie gave us just down the street from here. He saw him coming this way. Like you say, a big bald-headed guy."

He stared down at the bowling bag. "He took his with him, didn't he?"

I nodded.

He sighed. "That's what helped us trace him to this tavern. His bowling bag."

"Somebody saw it, described it?"

"No, they didn't have to describe it. It left a trail. Notice how I was running along the sidewalk out there? I was following the trail. And here - take a look at the floor under the stool."

I looked.

"You see, he wasn't carrying a bowling ball in that bag. Bowling b.a.l.l.s don't leak."

I sat down on the stool and the room started to spin. I hadn't noticed the blood before.

Then I raised my head. A patrolman came into the tavern. He'd been running, judging from the way he wheezed, but his face wasn't red. It was greenish-white.

"Get him?" snapped the sergeant.

"What's left of him." The patrolman looked away. "He wouldn't stop. We fired a shot over his head, maybe you heard it. He hopped the fence in back of the block here and ran onto the tracks. And smack into this freight train."

"Dead?"

The patrolman nodded. "Lieutenant's down there right now. And the meat-wagon. They're gonna have to sc.r.a.pe him off the tracks."

The sergeant swore softly under his breath. "Then we can't know for sure," he said. "Maybe he was just a sneak-thief after all."

"One way," the patrolman said. "Hanson's coming up with his bag. It rolled clear of the freight when it hit."

The other patrolman walked in, carrying the bowling bag. The sergeant took it out of Hanson's hands and set it up on the bar.

"Was this what he was carrying?" he asked me.

"Yes," I said. My voice stuck in my throat.

I turned away. I didn't want to watch the sergeant open the bag. I didn't even want to see their faces when they looked inside. But of course, I heard them. I think Hanson got sick.

I gave the sergeant an official statement, which he requested. He wanted a name and address and he got them too. Hanson took it all down and made me sign it.

I told him all about the conversation with the stranger, the whole theory of murder as a hobby, the idea of choosing the dregs of life as victims because they weren't likely to be missed.

"Sounds screwy when you talk about it, doesn't it?" I concluded. "All the while, I thought it was a gag."