The Best of Robert Bloch

by Robert Bloch

  "Gee, you're a good dancer!"

  That "Gee" was all I needed. Together with her rather naïve tone of voice, it gave me an immediate insight into her character and background. Small-town girl, probably, who quit school and came to the city. Perhaps she came with some man. If not, she met one shortly after her arrival. It ended badly, of course. Maybe she took a job in a restaurant or a store. And then she met another man, and the dance hall seemed easier. So here she was.

  Quite a lot to adduce from a single exclamation? Yes, but then I've met so many blondes in similar situations, and the story is always the same; that is, if they're the "Gee!" type. And I'm not deprecatory in the least. I happen to like the "Gee!" type best of all.

  She could tell that I liked her, of course, from the way I danced. I almost anticipated her next remark. "There's life in the old boy yet."

  I smiled, not at all resentful. "I'm younger than I look." I winked. "You know, I could dance with you all night—and something tells me that's not a bad idea."

  "You flatter me." But she looked worried. That was the whole idea. She believed me.

  I gave her just under a minute for the thought to take hold. Then I pulled the switch. "I wouldn't fool you," I told her. "I'm like all the other men you meet—just lonely. I'm not going to ask if we couldn't go somewhere and talk, because I know the answer. You're paid to dance. But I happen to know that if I buy, say, ten dollars' more worth of tickets, you can get off. And we can sneak off for a few drinks." I winked again. "Sitting down."

  "Well, I don't know—"

  "Of course you don't. But I do. Look, if you have any worries about me pulling a fast one, I'm old enough to be your grandfather."

  It was obvious, and she considered it. She also considered the delightful prospect of sitting down. "I guess it's O.K.," she murmured. "Shall we go, Mr.—?"

  "Beers," I said.

  "What?" She checked a giggle. "Not really."

  "Really. Beers is the name. Not the drink. You can drink anything you like, Miss—"

  "Shirley Collins." Now the giggle came out. "Sort of a coincidence, don't you think? Beers and Collins."

  "Come on, what are we waiting for?" I steered her over to the edge of the floor, went to buy my tickets, and made the necessary arrangements with the manager while she got her coat. It cost me an extra five for his tip, but I didn't begrudge him the money. We all have to eat, you know.

  She didn't look bad at all, once she had some of that mascara washed off. Her eyes were gray, I discovered. And her arms were soft and rounded. I escorted her quite gallantly to the bar down the street and hung up her coat when we found a nice quiet back booth.

  The waitress was one of those scrawny, sallow-faced brunettes. She wore slacks and chewed gum; I'd never consider her for a moment. But she served her purpose—drinks, rather. I ordered rye on the rocks and she brought the two glasses.

  I paid her, not forgetting to tip, because I'd be wanting prompt service. She snapped her gum in friendly acknowledgment and left us alone. I pushed my drink over to Shirley.

  "What's the matter?" she said.

  "Nothing. It's just that I don't indulge."

  "Now, wait a minute, Mr. Beers. You aren't trying to get a girl loaded, are you?"

  "My dear young lady—please!" I sounded for all the world like an elderly college professor admonishing his class. "You don't have to drink if you don't want to."

  "Oh, that's O.K. Only you know, a girl has to be careful." The way she downed the first rye belied her words. She toyed with the second glass. "Say, this can't be much fun for you, sitting and watching me drink."

  "If you only knew," I said. "Didn't I tell you I was lonely? And wanted someone to talk to?"

  "A girl hears some funny lines, but I guess you're on the level. What'll we talk about?"

  That was an easy one. "You." From now on I didn't even need to think about what I was saying. Everything proceeded automatically. My mind was free to consider her blondness, her ripe and ample richness. Why should anyone insist on the presence of a brain in a body like that?

  I certainly didn't. I was content to let her ramble on, ordering drinks for her whenever the glass was empty. "And honest, you have no idea what that grind does to your feet—"

  "Excuse me a moment," I said. "I must say hello to an old friend."

  I walked down to the other end of the bar. He had just come in and was standing there with a lovely black girl. Ordinarily I wouldn't have known him, but something about the way he kept staring at her tipped me off.

  "Hello," I said softly. "See you're up to your old tricks."

  "Look here!" He tried to appear arrogant, but he couldn't hide the fright. "I don't know you."

  "Yes, you do," I told him. "Yes, you do." I pulled him away and put my mouth to his ear. When he heard what I had to say he laughed.

  "Dirty trick, trying to scare me, but I forgive you. It's just that I didn't expect to see you here. Where you located?"

  "Something called the Shane Apartments. And you?"

  "Oh, I'm way outside town. How do you like her?" He nudged me and indicated his girl.

  "Nice. But you know my weakness."

  We both laughed.

  "Well," I concluded, "I won't disturb you any longer. I just wondered if you were making out all right."

  "Perfectly. No trouble at all."

  "Good," I said. "We've got to be extra careful these days, with all that cheap publicity going around."

  "I know." He waved me along. "Best of luck."

  "Same to you," I said and walked back to the booth. I felt fine.

  Shirley Collins felt fine too. She'd ordered another drink during my absence. I paid and tipped the waitress.

  "My, my!" the blonde gushed. "You certainly do throw your dough around."

  "Money means nothing to me," I said. I fanned five twenties from the roll. "Here—have some."

  "Why, Mr. Beers! I couldn't, really."

  She was positively drooling. "Go ahead," I urged. "Plenty more where that came from. I like to see you happy."

  So she took the money. They always do. And, if they're as high as Shirley was, their reactions are always the same.

  "Gee, you're a nice old guy." She reached for my hand. "I've never met anyone quite like you. You know, kind and generous. And no passes, either."

  "That's right." I drew my hand away. "No passes."

  This really puzzled her. "I dunno, I can't figure you out, Mr. Beers. Say, by the way, where'd you get all this money?"

  "Picked it up," I told her. "It's easy if you know how."

  "Now you're kidding me. No fooling, what do you do for a living?"

  "You'd be surprised." I smiled. "Actually you might say I'm retired. I devote all my time to my hobbies."

  "You mean, like books or paintings or something? Are you a collector?"

  "That's right. Come to think of it, maybe you'd like to get acquainted with my collection."

  She giggled. "Are you inviting me up to see your etchings?"

  I went right along with the gag. "Certainly. You aren't going to pretend that you won't come, are you?"

  "No. I'll be glad to come."

  She put the five twenty-dollar bills in her purse and rose. "Let's go, Pappy."

  I didn't care for that "Pappy" stuff at all—but she was such a luscious blonde. Even now, slightly tipsy, she was wholly delectable. What the young folks call "a real dish."

  A half-dozen stares knifed my back as we walked past the bar on our way outside. I knew what they were thinking. "Old dried-up fossil like that with a young girl. What's the world coming to nowadays?"

  Then, of course, they turned back to their drinks, because they really didn't want to know what the world was coming to nowadays. Bombs can drop, saucers can fly, and still people will sit at bars and pass judgments between drinks. All of which suits me perfectly.

  Shirley Collins suited me perfectly, too, at the moment. I had no difficulty finding a cab or bundling her inside. "Shane
Apartments," I told the driver. Shirley snuggled up close to me.

  I pulled away.

  "What's the matter, Pappy—don't you like me?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Then don't act as if I was gonna bite you."

  "It's not that. But I meant it when I said I had no—er—intentions along such lines."

  "Sure, I know." She relaxed, perfectly content. "So I'll settle for your etchings."

  We pulled up and I recognized the building. I gave the driver a ten-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.

  "I can't figure you out, Mr. Beers," Shirley said—and meant it. "Way you toss that moola around."

  "Call it one last fling. I'm leaving town shortly." I took her arm and we stepped into the lobby. The self-service elevator was empty. I pressed the button for the top floor. We rose slowly.

  On the way up Shirley sobered suddenly. She faced me and put her arms on my shoulders. "Look here, Mr. Beers. I just got to thinking. I saw a movie once and—say, what I mean is, way you hand out dough and talking about leaving town and all—you aren't sick, are you? I mean, you haven't just come from the doctor and heard you're gonna die from some disease?"

  Her solicitude was touching, and I didn't laugh. "Really," I said, "I can assure you that your fears are groundless. I'm very much alive and expect to stay that way for a long time to come."

  "Good. Now I feel better. I like you, Mr. Beers."

  "I like you, too, Shirley." I stepped back just in time to avoid a hug. The elevator halted and we got out. I led her down the hallway to the stairs.

  "Oh, you have the penthouse!" she squealed. Now she was really excited.

  "You go first," I murmured.

  She went first. At the top of the stairs she halted, puzzled. "But there's a door here—it's the roof or something."

  "Keep going," I directed.

  She stepped out on the rooftop and I followed. The door closed behind us, and everything was still.

  Everything was still with a midnight stillness. Everything was beautiful with a midnight beauty. The dark body of the city stretched below us, wearing its neon necklaces, its bracelets and rings of incandescence. I've seen it many times from the air, many times from rooftops, and it's always a thrilling spectacle to me. Where I come from things are different. Not that I'd ever care to trade—the city's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

  I stared, and the blonde stared. But she wasn't staring at the streets below.

  I followed her gaze to the shadow of the building abutment, to the deep shadows where something shimmered roundly and iridescently in the darkness. It was completely out of sight from the surrounding buildings, and it couldn't be seen at first glance from the doorway here on the roof. But she saw it now, and she said, "Gee!"

  She said, "Gee! Mr. Beers—look at that!"

  I looked.

  "What is it, a plane? Or—could it be one of those saucer things?"

  I looked.

  "Mr. Beers, what's the matter?—you aren't even surprised."

  I looked.

  "You—you knew about this?"

  "Yes. It's mine."

  "Yours? A saucer? But it can't be. You're a man and—"

  I shook my head slowly. "Not exactly, Shirley. I don't really look like this, you know. Not where I came from." I gestured down toward the tired flesh. "I borrowed this from Ril."

  "Ril?"

  "Yes. He's one of my friends. He collects too. We all collect, you know. It's our hobby. We come to Earth and collect."

  I couldn't read her face, because as I came close she drew away.

  "Ril has a rather curious hobby, in a way. He collects nothing but B's. You should see his trophy room! He has a Bronson, three Bakers, and a Beers—that's the body I'm using now. Its name was Ambrose Beers, I believe. He picked it up in Mexico a long time ago."

  "You're crazy!" Shirley whispered, but she listened as I went on. Listened and drew away.

  "My friend Kor has a collection of people of all nations. Mar you saw in the tavern a while ago—Melanesian types are his hobby. Many of us come here quite often, you know, and in spite of the recent publicity and the danger, it's an exhilarating pastime." I was quite close to her now, and she didn't step back any further. She couldn't—she stood on the edge of the roof.

  "Now, take Vis," I said. "Vis collects redheads, nothing but redheads. He has a magnificent grouping, all of them stuffed. Ril doesn't stuff his specimens at all—that's why we can use them for our trips. Oh, it's a fascinating business, I can tell you! Ril keeps them in preservative tanks and Vis stuffs them—his redheads, I mean. Now as for me, I collect blondes."

  Her eyes were wide, and she could scarcely get the words out for panting. "You're—going to—stuff me?"

  I had to chuckle. "Not at all, dear. Set your mind at rest. I neither stuff nor preserve. I collect for different reasons entirely." She edged sideways, toward the iridescent bubble. There was nowhere else to go, and I followed closely, closely.

  "You're—fooling me—" she gasped.

  "No. Oh, my friends think I have peculiar ideas, but I enjoy it this way. There's nothing like a blonde, as far as I'm concerned. And I ought to know. I've collected over a hundred so far since I started. You are number one hundred and three."

  I didn't have to do anything. She fainted, and I caught her, and that made things just perfect—no need to make a mess on the roof. I merely carried her right into the ship and we were off in a moment.

  Of course people would remember the old man who picked up Shirley Collins in the dance hall, and I'd left a trail of money all over town. There'd be an investigation and all that. There almost always was an investigation.

  But that didn't bother me. Ril has many bodies for use besides old Beers, whoever he might have been. Next time I'd try a younger man. Variety is the spice of life.

  Yes, it was a very pleasant evening. I sang to myself almost all the way back. It had been good sport, and the best was yet to come.

  But then, I like blondes. They can laugh at me all they please—I'll take a blonde any time. As I say, it's a matter of taste.

  And blondes are simply delicious.

  All on a Golden Afternoon

  THE UNIFORMED MAN at the gate was very polite, but he didn't seem at all in a hurry to open up. Neither Dr. Prager's new Cadillac nor his old goatee made much of an impression on him.

  It wasn't until Dr. Prager snapped, "But I've an appointment—Mr. Dennis said it was urgent!" that the uniformed man turned and went into the little guard booth to call the big house on the hill.

  Dr. Saul Prager tried not to betray his impatience, but his right foot pressed down on the accelerator and a surrogate of exhaust did his fuming for him.

  Just how far he might have gone in polluting the air of Bel Air couldn't be determined, for after a moment the man came out of the booth and unlocked the gate. He touched his cap and smiled.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor," he said. "You're to go right on up."

  Dr. Prager nodded curtly and the car moved forward.

  "I'm new on this job and you got to take precautions, you know," the man called after him, but Dr. Prager wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on the panorama of the hillside ahead. In spite of himself he was mightily impressed.

  There was reason to be—almost half a million dollars' worth of reason. The combined efforts of a dozen architects, topiarists, and landscape gardeners had served to create what was popularly known as "the Garden of Eden." Although the phrase was a complimentary reference to Eve Eden, owner of the estate, there was much to commend it, Dr. Prager decided. That is, if one can picture a Garden of Eden boasting two swimming pools, an eight-car garage, and a corps of resident angels with power mowers.

  This was by no means Dr. Prager's first visit, but he never failed to be moved by the spectacle of the palace on the hill. It was a fitting residence for Eve, the First Woman. The First Woman of the Ten Box-Office Leaders, that is.

  The
front door was already open when he parked in the driveway, and the butler smiled and bowed. He was, Dr. Prager knew, a genuine English butler, complete with accent and sideburns. Eve Eden had insisted on that, and she'd had one devil of a time obtaining an authentic specimen from the employment agencies. Finally she'd managed to locate one—from Central Casting.

  "Good afternoon," the butler greeted him. "Mr. Dennis is in the library, sir. He is expecting you."

  Dr. Prager followed the manservant through the foyer and down the hall. Everything was furnished with magnificent taste—as Mickey Dennis often observed, "Why not? Didn't we hire the best interior decorator in Beverly Hills?"

  The library itself was a remarkable example of calculated décor. Replete with the traditional overstuffed chairs, custom-made by a firm of reliable overstuffers, it boasted paneled walnut walls, polished mahogany floors, and a good quarter mile of bookshelves rising to the vaulted ceiling. Dr. Prager's glance swept the shelves, which were badly in need of dusting anyway. He noted a yard of Thackeray in green, two yards of brown Thomas Hardy, complemented by a delicate blue Dostoevski. Ten feet of Balzac, five feet of Dickens, a section of Shakespeare, a mass of Molière. Complete works, of course. The booksellers would naturally want to give Eve Eden the works. There must have been two thousand volumes on the shelves.

  In the midst of it all sat Mickey Dennis, the agent, reading a smudged and dog-eared copy of Variety.

  As Dr. Prager stood, hesitant, in the doorway, the little man rose and beckoned to him. "Hey, Doc!" he called. "I been waiting for you!"

  "Sorry," Dr. Prager murmured. "There were several appointments I couldn't cancel."

  "Never mind the appointments. You're on retainer with us, ain'cha? Well, sweetheart, this time you're really gonna earn it."

  He shook his head as he approached. "Talk about trouble," he muttered—although Dr. Prager had not even mentioned the subject. "Talk about trouble, we got it. I ain't dared call the studio yet. If I did there'd be wigs floating all over Beverly Hills. Had to see you first. And you got to see her."

  Dr. Prager waited. A good 50 per cent of his professional duties consisted of waiting. Meanwhile he indulged in a little private speculation. What would it be this time? Another overdose of sleeping pills—a return to narcotics—an attempt to prove the old maxim that absinthe makes the heart grow fonder? He'd handled Eve Eden before in all these situations and topped it off with more routine assignments, such as the time she'd wanted to run off with the Japanese chauffeur. Come to think of it, that hadn't been exactly routine. Handling Eve was bad; handling the chauffeur was worse, but handling the chauffeur's wife and seven children was a nightmare. Still, he'd smoothed things over. He always smoothed things over, and that's why he was on a fat yearly retainer.