SPIDERWEB
by Robert Bloch
A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK
(HCC-042)
First Hard Case Crime edition: April 2008
Published by
Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street
London SE1 0UP
in collaboration with Winterfall LLC
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should know that it is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Spiderweb copyright © 1954 by Ace Books, Inc.
Shooting Star copyright © 1958 by Ace Books, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Spiderweb cover painting copyright © 2008 by Larry Schwinger
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Print edition ISBN 978-0-85768-355-7
E-book ISBN 978-0-85768-393-9
Cover design by Cooley Design Lab
Design direction by Max Phillips
Typeset by Swordsmith Productions
The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.
Printed in the United States of America
Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com
For
GUSTAV MARX
who gave so much of his time to this book
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
One
The door was of blonde wood, highly waxed. Across its surface, in angular script, was lettered:
LARRY RICKERT
AND
ASSOCIATES
I snapped the brim of my hat, turned the doorknob, and walked into the office. A set of chimes made background music.
The walls of the small reception room were of glass brick. Torcheres gave off a soft, discreet light. There was an end table bearing the usual copies of Variety and Billboard. Two chairs and a sofa, overstuffed by a firm of reliable over-stuffers, completed the ensemble. It made me sick to look at the joint.
I headed for the ticket-window opening in the wall ahead, where a receptionist’s ponytail bobbed behind a panel of glass.
When I rapped, the ponytail switched around until I got a look at a long, thin face with about three dollars’ worth of fancy makeup on it.
The panel opened and the makeup cracked into a smile. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Haines.”
Well, that was something. At least she recognized me, even if she didn’t exactly swoon in my arms at the sight of my smiling face.
“Is Mr. Rickert in?” I asked.
“Have you an appointment?”
“No. Not exactly. But I only want to see him for a minute or two.”
She nodded, closed the panel, and manipulated the intercom system, or the TV set, or whatever they used to convey trivial messages around here. After a brief pause for station identification she opened the panel again.
“Mr. Rickert will see you in a moment. Won’t you be seated, please?”
I tipped my hat, smiled roguishly and hit bottom on the overstuffed sofa. The sliding panel closed again. I waited to see if she would put up a Sold Out sign, but nothing happened.
There were exactly three cigarettes left in my package. I lit one and watched my hand tremble. Inhaling, I leaned back and forced myself to breathe deeply and slowly. Gradually I calmed down. It was going to be all right as long as I kept a grip on myself. Sure, I was perfectly relaxed now.
I only jumped about two feet when the outer door opened and Peter Lorre came in.
It wasn’t Peter Lorre, of course. Rickert didn’t handle any movie talent. But the little guy in the black hat bore a fleeting resemblance to the star. He walked over to the reception window and mumbled something about an appointment. I avoided watching or listening too closely, and presently he took his place on the chair set at right angles to my sofa. Something began to burn inside my forehead. He was staring at me.
Right away, my jumpy feeling came back. It was silly, of course. Let him stare. What did he know about me? What could he know?
I was putting up a good front. Sitting down with my legs tucked back this way, it was hard to tell that the shine was on the seat of my pants and not on my shoes. He couldn’t guess that the reason I came to Rickert’s office instead of calling him was that my phone had been disconnected. For all he knew, I had a full, fresh package of cigarettes in my pocket, and plenty of money to buy more.
So why should I worry if he stared at me? But I did worry. I doused my cigarette and looked up. His eyes were stones set in flesh.
I could feel my shirt getting sticky under the sports jacket. And I got the funniest notion that he felt it, too. He could feel everything I was feeling, think everything I was thinking. Those stones set in flesh were magnets.
Maybe I was flipping my wig? Maybe that’s what was wrong with me? All these weeks in the apartment, waiting for Rickert to call, watching the money run out. Then no phone, and nothing to do but run around and try to break the doors down myself—carrying my own photos and recordings.
Rickert had warned me that I’d get no place, fast, on my own. And that’s exactly where I’d arrived. No place. You feel funny there, in no place. You feel as though you aren’t really alive, or have no right to be alive. So you take a couple of drinks and wait for tomorrow. You might be somewhere else, tomorrow. But you’re not. You wake up in the crummy apartment and you’re still no place. Mr. Nobody from nowhere.
But that’s your business, isn’t it? People haven’t got the right to stare at you and find it out. Damn it, there was nothing to be ashamed about. I knew what I was doing here. I had it all figured out, just how I was going to put it over. And then this little character had to come along and upset me!
I raised my eyes and looked at him. He wasn’t so much. Black suit, unusual for the West Coast, but nothing special about its cut. White shirt, quiet foulard tie. Flashy ring on little finger of left hand. Probably fake stone.
He saw what I was doing, of course. But his expression did not change. He stared. I stuck my chin out, folded my hands across my chest and stared back. It hurt a little. He refused to blink, and those two stones met my gaze. You can’t break stones with your fist. Constant dripping—
Sweat rolled down my forehead and I blinked first. But I wouldn’t turn my head. I stared at the bridge of his thick nose. Maybe if I thought of something else, it would help.
I thought about the trip out, thought about meeting Rickert for the first time, and the fast line of con he handed me, the buildup about what he would do for me. I thought about really getting a break, making the grade on a big show, wowing ’em. That would make my dumb brother wipe the sneer off his face for good. I’d wipe the sneer off all their faces, including this little puffy face in front of me.
&
nbsp; But he kept staring. He knew. He knew I was a fake, he knew I was licked, that I’d never make it.
The hell he did! All imagination. Keep staring. He’ll break first.
I looked into his eyes. For the first time, the stones seemed to turn. His pupils were dilating. The lids crept back. The stones glittered. Diamonds. Diamond drills. Drills that bored.
Fakes. Like the diamond on his little finger. I wasn’t afraid. I stared.
All at once, his hand moved. Pudgy worms crawled into the handkerchief pocket of his coat. They emerged and carried something up to his left eye. It glittered. A monocle.
He fixed it into position without altering his line of vision. It hung there in the eye-socket and the eye behind it became huge. The distorted pupil glared at me. I thought that he looked like Erich von Stroheim. I thought that if I had to endure that wave of power beating into my brain, I’d get up and run. I thought—but I stared back.
And his mind told me something. Told me that I was really through, that it was no use, that I was washed up. I’d better get up and leave now. Yes, that’s what he told me, and he was right. I’d get up and—
“Mr. Rickert will see you now.”
I heard it somewhere in the distance. Then I was on my feet, stumbling through the inner office, walking down the hall to the big layout in back.
My head was splitting. Larry Rickert smiled at me across the desk.
“Sit down,” he said. “Good to see you, Eddie. Be with you in just a sec.”
He waved goodbye at me with his left hand and picked up a phone with his right. He began to talk, and a steady stream of conversation and cigar smoke drifted around the big red folds of his neck.
I lit my next-to-the-last cigarette. The headache was worse now. I tried to remember my canned speech, but I couldn’t. All I wanted to do was run away. When he finally hung up and turned to me again, I couldn’t even remember to smile.
“Now,” said Rickert, “what can I do for you, sweetheart?”
“That’s exactly what I want to know,” I told him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I came in here over two months ago, because your ads say you’re a good agent and that’s what I needed. You didn’t sign me up or anything like that. But you did manage to get over three hundred bucks out of me, for retainer fee and for photographs and audition records. What I want to know now is, when do I see a little action?”
He gave me the same grin he used for his advertising photos.
“Take it easy, Eddie. Relax.”
“I’ve been taking it easy, but I can’t relax. I want to know why you haven’t sold me or my show idea.”
Rickert stopped smiling. He leaned forward and waved the chewed end of his cigar at me. It dripped.
“Listen, son,” he said. “This isn’t Iowa. That package idea of yours—the Television Psychologist—may have sounded pretty good to you when you dreamed it up back there. And I was willing to give it a whirl. I sent out your audition discs to all the network reps. I’ve pitched you. But it’s just no dice.”
My headache was worse. Rickert’s face wavered in and out of focus as I answered him. “All right, drop the show idea. But remember, I’m still an announcer. I had a chance to get on in Des Moines, and I’m willing to start at the bottom here. There must be plenty of openings around town.”
“In manholes, yes.” Rickert lit a fresh cigar. It dripped nicely, too. “Look, sweetheart, here’s some free advice. Maybe you’re not ready for the big time yet. Why don’t you go back home, take that job? You won’t starve. So you’re out a couple of hundred on this deal—so what? Maybe you’ll click later on. Lots of these executives, they listen to the little stations. Who knows, maybe somebody will spot you and—”
“So I’m not ready for the big time yet, eh?” I stood up and tried to keep my balance in the rolling room. “All right, Mr. Rickert. Thanks for the analysis. But it’s a pity you didn’t tell me all this before I spent three hundred bucks with you—and two months of my life.”
“Hold on, now, sweetheart—”
I was holding on, hard. Even though my head was splitting, even though I wanted to kill somebody, I held on. I knew there was no use getting mad. He’d given me the answer. I was washed up.
“No hard feelings, Eddie,” said Rickert. “Go on home and think it over. Maybe something will still break. I’ll let you know.”
“Only if it’s your neck,” I told him. “This I’d love to hear about.” Then I stopped. “I—I really don’t mean that. Sorry, I’m not feeling too good.”
I went out and managed to wobble through the hall, back to the outer office. It was like walking under water, and the glass bricks wavered before my eyes.
The little man with the monocle was still sitting there. I swam past him. He looked up and started to open his mouth. Fat little fish, gulping air in the wavering water.
“Pardon me,” he said. Voice from far away. Sound under water.
I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I opened the door and emerged upon the sunlit shore of the street.
He padded after me. “Please—” he murmured.
I shook him off. “Go away.” I knew that’s what my voice said, but I couldn’t control it. “Go away. Can’t you see I’m busy? I have to kill somebody.”
Rushing around the corner, rushing into the crowd, I wondered who it was I meant to kill.
All I knew was that it was going to happen soon.
Two
The sunshine swept all around me, and so did the people. These people walking along the Strip were no better or no worse than those in any crowd, but right now I couldn’t stand their faces: those horrid, impersonal wooden masks which everyone wears in public.
I see those masks on people everywhere: walking down the street, waiting on the corner for cars or busses, standing in elevators, eating in restaurants. All of them trying to pretend they’re alone, all of them behaving like toys wound up to walk, ride, stand or eat.
I saw them now, the hideously animated dolls, and as I hurried along I turned my head away. I breathed deeply but I couldn’t stop trembling. What was wrong with me, anyhow?
I knew what was wrong. I had nowhere to go.
Stopping in a doorway, I lit the last cigarette, and when I threw the package away I was tossing Rickert and the photos and the recordings into the gutter. Everything was gone.
And where did I go from here? The cigarette teeter-tottered in my mouth as I searched my pockets. I found crumpled bills and some change. Four dollars and thirty-five cents. I’d better have something to eat, first.
Eat? I never eat on an empty stomach...
The thoughts kept spinning around, bruising my brain. Why had I ever come out here, anyway? I was just a hick, like all the other Iowa farmers who dream of the trip for years, save up for years, finally travel 2000 miles to get here, and then have nothing to do but send a souvenir to the folks back home—a miniature wooden privy with the name of the city stamped on it.
Yes, I was a hick, but I couldn’t go back home. They’d laugh at me. My brother Charlie would laugh at me. I was laughing at myself.
Eddie Haines, the Boy Wonder. The star of the Senior Play. Just a high-school kid who never grew up. I used to think I was pretty good. They all thought so, then. “You ought to be in the movies. Or on the radio. Or television.”
Why not? It sounded great—in high school. And after high school I got this job at the local radio station. Things were looking up. Then came the idea for this Television Psychologist program and I thought I was all set. So I came to Hollywood and went to Rickert and here I was.
Here I was, right now, standing in the bar with half a snootfull. Funny, I wasn’t standing on the street any more. I was in this dark, quiet bar, and I kept telling these things to the bartender, and he said, “Sure, buddy,” and poured me another.
He didn’t care. He was my pal. He knew there was nothing else to do. Nothing else to do when you’re down to four dollars and thirty
-five cents and can’t go back.
Then there wasn’t any more money and it was time to go home. Home? That one-room deal on the third floor with the disconnected phone and the mail slit that never had a letter sticking in it? And how much longer would I even have that to go back to?
Well, maybe I wouldn’t need it much longer. The important thing now was to get there, fast. Walk a little. Lurch a little. Up the stairs. Easy to find the key—it was the only thing left in my pocket.
Very close inside and dark. Close and dark, like a tomb. Shut the door, click the light against the night. There.
When the light came on, my headache started up again. Something about monocles crept into my brain, something about them staring at me. Did Charlie wear a monocle, or Rickert, or the bartender? I couldn’t remember. No, it was somebody else. I wanted to figure it out, but there just wasn’t any time left.
I had promised to do something and I must do it in a hurry. I must do it right now, to get rid of the headache. I walked quickly into the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror hit me in the face. I steadied myself and waited for the mirror to go away. It didn’t, but I knew how to make it go away. I pulled back the door of the medicine cabinet and that did it.
The objects on the shelves were unpleasant. I didn’t want to see them, but I was looking for something and couldn’t help but notice. Aspirin, toothpaste, cold tablets, pills, iodine, scissors—I hated all of it. The melancholy of anatomy...
Everything I saw reminded me of the way you have to fight just to keep alive. Fight with yourself, with your body. There’s always something. Like this headache. Or a cold, sinus trouble. Tooth decay. Bad eyes. Bruises, blisters, cuts, burns, aches, pains. An endless round of cleaning, brushing, scrubbing, combing. Cutting of hair and fingernails and toe-nails. Eating, eliminating, resting, sleeping. Fighting all the time and you can’t win.
Hard Case Crime: Shooting Star & Spiderweb Page 16
