I sighed. We wandered on through the foggy, deserted streets. Here and there a dim light burned above a gin-mill doorway. Otherwise, all was darkness and shadow. Deep, gaping alleyways loomed as we proceeded down a slanting side street.
We crawled through that fog, alone and silent, like two tiny maggots floundering within a shroud.
“Can’t you see there’s not a soul around these streets?” I said.
“He’s bound to come,” said Sir Guy. “He’ll be drawn here. This is what I’ve been looking for. A genius loci. An evil spot that attracts evil. Always, when he slays, it’s the slums.
“You see, that must be one of his weaknesses. He has a fascination for squalor. Besides, the women he needs for sacrifice are more easily found in the dives and stewpots of a great city.”
“Well, let’s go into one of the dives or stewpots,” I suggested. “I’m cold. Need a drink. This damned fog gets into your bones. You Britishers can stand it, but I like warmth and dry heat.”
We emerged from our side street and stood upon the threshold of an alley.
Through the white clouds of mist ahead, I discerned a dim blue light, a naked bulb dangling from a beer sign above an alley tavern.
“Let’s take a chance,” I said. “I’m beginning to shiver.”
“Lead the way,” said Sir Guy. I led him down the alley passage. We halted before the door of the dive.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked.
“Just looking in,” I told him. “This is a rough neighborhood, Sir Guy. Never know what you’re liable to run into. And I’d prefer we didn’t get into the wrong company. Some of these places resent white customers.”
“Good idea, John.”
I finished my inspection through the doorway. “Looks deserted,” I murmured. “Let’s try it.”
We entered a dingy bar. A feeble light flickered above the counter and railing, but failed to penetrate the further gloom of the back booths.
A gigantic black lolled across the bar. He scarcely stirred as we came in, but his eyes flicked open quite suddenly and I knew he noted our presence and was judging us.
“Evening,” I said.
He took his time before replying. Still sizing us up. Then, he grinned.
“Evening, gents. What’s your pleasure?”
“Gin,” I said. “Two gins. It’s a cold night.”
“That’s right, gents.”
He poured, I paid, and took the glasses over to one of the booths. We wasted no time in emptying them.
I went over to the bar and got the bottle. Sir Guy and I poured ourselves another drink. The big man went back into his doze, with one wary eye half-open against any sudden activity.
The clock over the bar ticked on. The wind was rising outside, tearing the shroud of fog to ragged shreds. Sir Guy and I sat in the warm booth and drank our gin.
He began to talk, and the shadows crept up about us to listen.
He rambled a great deal. He went over everything he’d said in the office when I met him, just as though I hadn’t heard it before. The poor devils with obsessions are like that.
I listened very patiently. I poured Sir Guy another drink. And another.
But the liquor only made him more talkative. How he did run on! About ritual killings and prolonging the life unnaturally—the whole fantastic tale came out again. And of course, he maintained his unyielding conviction that the Ripper was abroad tonight.
I suppose I was guilty of goading him.
“Very well,” I said, unable to keep the impatience from my voice. “Let us say that your theory is correct—even though we must overlook every natural law and swallow a lot of superstition to give it any credence.
“But let us say, for the sake of argument, that you are right. Jack the Ripper was a man who discovered how to prolong his own life through making human sacrifices. He did travel around the world as you believe. He is in Chicago now and he is planning to kill. In other words, let us suppose that everything you claim is gospel truth. So what?”
“What do you mean, ‘so what?’ ” said Sir Guy.
“I mean—so what?” I answered. “If all this is true, it still doesn’t prove that by sitting down in a dingy gin-mill on the South Side, Jack the Ripper is going to walk in here and let you kill him, or turn him over to the police. And come to think of it, I don’t even know now just what you intend to do with him if you ever did find him.”
Sir Guy gulped his gin. “I’d capture the bloody swine,” he said. “Capture him and turn him over to the government, together with all the papers and documentary evidence I’ve collected against him over a period of many years. I’ve spent a fortune investigating this affair, I tell you, a fortune! His capture will mean the solution of hundreds of unsolved crimes, of that I am convinced.”
In vino veritas. Or was all this babbling the result of too much gin? It didn’t matter. Sir Guy Hollis had another. I sat there and wondered what to do with him. The man was rapidly working up to a climax of hysterical drunkenness.
“That’s enough,” I said, putting out my hand as Sir Guy reached for the half-emptied bottle again. “Let’s call a cab and get out of here. It’s getting late and it doesn’t look as though your elusive friend is going to put in his appearance. Tomorrow, if I were you, I’d plan to turn all those papers and documents over to the F.B.I. If you’re so convinced of the truth of your theory, they are competent to make a very thorough investigation, and find your man.”
“No.” Sir Guy was drunkenly obstinate. “No cab.”
“But let’s get out of here anyway,” I said, glancing at my watch. “It’s past midnight.”
He sighed, shrugged, and rose unsteadily. As he started for the door, he tugged the gun free from his pocket.
“Here, give me that!” I whispered. “You can’t walk around the street brandishing that thing.”
I took the gun and slipped it inside my coat. Then I got hold of his right arm and steered him out of the door. The black man didn’t look up as we departed.
We stood shivering in the alleyway. The fog had increased. I couldn’t see either end of the alley from where we stood. It was cold. Damp. Dark. Fog or no fog, a little wind was whispering secrets to the shadows at our backs.
Sir Guy, despite his incapacity, still stared apprehensively at the alley, as though he expected to see a figure approaching.
Disgust got the better of me.
“Childish foolishness,” I snorted. “Jack the Ripper, indeed! I call this carrying a hobby too far.”
“Hobby?” He faced me. Through the fog I could see his distorted face. “You call this a hobby?”
“Well, what is it?” I grumbled. “Just why else are you so interested in tracking down this mythical killer?”
My arm held his. But his stare held me.
“In London,” he whispered. “In 1888…one of those nameless drabs the Ripper slew…was my mother.”
“What?”
“Later I was recognized by my father, and legitimatized. We swore to give our lives to find the Ripper. My father was the first to search. He died in Hollywood in 1926—on the trail of the Ripper. They said he was stabbed by an unknown assailant in a brawl. But I knew who the assailant was.
“So I’ve taken up his work, do you see, John? I’ve carried on. And I will carry on until I do find him and kill him with my own hands.”
I believed him then. He wouldn’t give up. He wasn’t just a drunken babbler anymore. He was as fanatical, as determined, as relentless as the Ripper himself.
Tomorrow he’d be sober. He’d continue the search. Perhaps he’d turn those papers over to the F.B.I. Sooner or later, with such persistence—and with his motive—he’d be successful. I’d always known he had a motive.
“Let’s go,” I said, steering him down the alley.
“Wait a minute,” said Sir Guy. “Give me back my gun.” He lurched a little. “I’d feel better with the gun on me.”
He pressed me into the dark shadows of
a little recess.
I tried to shrug him off, but he was insistent.
“Let me carry the gun, now, John,” he mumbled.
“All right,” I said.
I reached into my coat, brought my hand out.
“But that’s not a gun,” he protested. “That’s a knife.”
“I know.”
I bore down on him swiftly.
“John!” he screamed.
“Never mind the ‘John,’ ” I whispered, raising the knife. “Just call me…Jack.”
A Toy for Juliette
ROBERT BLOCH
Although he is best known for his novel Psycho (1959), Robert Albert Bloch (1917–1994) has also enjoyed great success with his short story “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” (1943), which has been anthologized relentlessly, as well as serving as the inspiration for numerous radio programs, television dramas, and countless plagiarisms.
The story resonated so powerfully for Harlan Ellison when he was preparing his anthology Dangerous Visions (1967) that he made contact with Bloch and asked him for a sequel. One of the most (justly) lauded anthologies ever published, this giant collection of speculative fiction contained original work by many of the greatest names in the history of science fiction, every story edited and introduced (frequently at great length) by Ellison.
The challenge hurled at Bloch was to write a Jack the Ripper story set in the future. It was a logical suggestion, based on the premise of “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper,” and Bloch succeeded with a story every bit the equal of its predecessor.
The story, so to speak, doesn’t end there. Inspired by “A Toy for Juliette,” Ellison asked Bloch if he would grant permission for him to write a sequel to the sequel. “The image of a creature of Whitechapel fog and filth,” Ellison wrote in Dangerous Visions, “the dark figure of Leather Apron, skulking through a sterile and automated city of the future, was an anachronism that fascinated me.” The story that follows “A Toy for Juliette” in this collection, then, is Ellison’s sequel to this sequel.
“A Toy for Juliette” was first published in Dangerous Visions, edited by Harlan Ellison (Garden City, NY, Doubleday, 1967).
A TOY FOR JULIETTE
Robert Bloch
Juliette entered her bedroom, smiling, and a thousand Juliettes smiled back at her. For all the walls were paneled with mirrors, and the ceiling was set with inlaid panes that reflected her image.
Wherever she glanced she could see the blonde curls framing the sensitive features of a face that was a radiant amalgam of both child and angel; a striking contrast to the rich, ripe revelation of her body in the filmy robe.
But Juliette wasn’t smiling at herself. She smiled because she knew that Grandfather was back, and he’d brought her another toy. In just a few moments it would be decontaminated and delivered, and she wanted to be ready.
Juliette turned the ring on her finger and the mirrors dimmed. Another turn would darken the room entirely; a twist in the opposite direction would bring them blazing into brilliance. It was all a matter of choice—but then, that was the secret of life. To choose, for pleasure.
And what was her pleasure tonight?
Juliette advanced to one of the mirror panels and passed her hand before it. The glass slid to one side, revealing the niche behind it; the coffin-shaped opening in the solid rock, with the boot and thumbscrews set at the proper heights.
For a moment she hesitated; she hadn’t played that game in years. Another time, perhaps. Juliette waved her hand and the mirror moved to cover the opening again.
She wandered along the row of panels, gesturing as she walked, pausing to inspect what was behind each mirror in turn. Here was the rack, there the stocks with the barbed whips resting against the dark-stained wood. And here was the dissecting table, hundreds of years old, with its quaint instruments; behind the next panel, the electrical prods and wires that produced such weird grimaces and contortions of agony, to say nothing of screams. Of course the screams didn’t matter in a soundproofed room.
Juliette moved to the side wall and waved her hand again; the obedient glass slid away and she stared at a plaything she’d almost forgotten. It was one of the first things Grandfather had ever given her, and it was very old, almost like a mummy case. What had he called it? The Iron Maiden of Nuremberg, that was it—with the sharpened steel spikes set inside the lid. You chained a man inside, and you turned the little crank that closed the lid, ever so slowly, and the spikes pierced the wrists and the elbows, the ankles and the knees, the groin and the eyes. You had to be careful not to get excited and turn too quickly, or you’d spoil the fun.
Grandfather had shown her how it worked, the first time he brought her a real live toy. But then, Grandfather had shown her everything. He’d taught her all she knew, for he was very wise. He’d even given her her name—Juliette—from one of the old-fashioned printed books he’d discovered by the philosopher De Sade.
Grandfather had brought the books from the Past, just as he’d brought the playthings for her. He was the only one who had access to the Past, because he owned the Traveler.
The Traveler was a very ingenious mechanism, capable of attaining vibrational frequencies which freed it from the time-bind. At rest, it was just a big square boxlike shape, the size of a small room. But when Grandfather took over the controls and the oscillation started, the box would blur and disappear. It was still there, Grandfather said—at least the matrix remained as a fixed point in space and time—but anything or anyone within the square could move freely into the Past to wherever the controls were programed. Of course they would be invisible when they arrived, but that was actually an advantage, particularly when it came to finding things and bringing them back. Grandfather had brought back some very interesting objects from almost mythical places—the great library of Alexandria, the Pyramid of Cheops, the Kremlin, the Vatican, Fort Knox—all the storehouses of treasure and knowledge which existed thousands of years ago. He liked to go to that part of the Past, the period before the thermonuclear wars and the robotic ages, and collect things. Of course books and jewels and metals were useless, except to an antiquarian, but Grandfather was a romanticist and loved the olden times.
It was strange to think of him owning the Traveler, but of course he hadn’t actually created it. Juliette’s father was really the one who built it, and Grandfather took possession of it after her father died. Juliette suspected Grandfather had killed her father and mother when she was just a baby, but she could never be sure. Not that it mattered; Grandfather was always very good to her, and besides, soon he would die and she’d own the Traveler herself.
They used to joke about it frequently. “I’ve made you into a monster,” he’d say. “And someday you’ll end up destroying me. After which, of course, you’ll go on to destroy the entire world—or what little remains of it.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” she’d tease.
“Certainly not. That’s my dream—the destruction of everything. An end to all this sterile decadence. Do you realize that at one time there were more than three billion inhabitants on this planet? And now, less than three thousand! Less than three thousand, shut up inside these Domes, prisoners of themselves and sealed away forever, thanks to the sins of the fathers who poisoned not only the outside world but outer space by meddling with the atomic order of the universe. Humanity is virtually extinct already; you will merely hasten the finale.”
“But couldn’t we all go back to another time, in the Traveler?” she asked.
“Back to what time? The continuum is changeless; one event leads memorably to another, all links in a chain which binds us to the present and its inevitable end in destruction. We’d have temporary individual survival, yes, but to no purpose. And none of us are fitted to survive in a more primitive environment. So let us stay here and take what pleasure we can from the moment. My pleasure is to be the sole user and possessor of the Traveler. And yours, Juliette—”
Grandfather laughed then. They both laughe
d, because they knew what her pleasure was.
Juliette killed her first toy when she was eleven—a little boy. It had been brought to her as a special gift from Grandfather, from somewhere in the Past, for elementary sex play. But it wouldn’t cooperate, and she lost her temper and beat it to death with a steel rod. So Grandfather brought her an older toy, with brown skin, and it cooperated very well, but in the end she tired of it and one day when it was sleeping in her bed she tied it down and found a knife.
Experimenting a little before it died, Juliette discovered new sources of pleasure, and of course Grandfather found out. That’s when he’d christened her “Juliette”; he seemed to approve most highly, and from then on he brought her the playthings she kept behind the mirrors in her bedroom. And on his restless rovings into the Past he brought her new toys.
Being invisible, he could find them for her almost anywhere on his travels—all he did was to use a stunner and transport them when he returned. Of course each toy had to be very carefully decontaminated; the Past was teeming with strange micro-organisms. But once the toys were properly antiseptic they were turned over to Juliette for her pleasure, and during the past seven years she had enjoyed herself.
It was always delicious, this moment of anticipation before a new toy arrived. What would it be like? Grandfather was most considerate; mainly, he made sure that the toys he brought her could speak and understand Anglish—or “English,” as they used to call it in the Past. Verbal communication was often important, particularly if Juliette wanted to follow the precepts of the philosopher De Sade and enjoy some form of sex relation before going on to keener pleasures.
But there was still the guessing beforehand. Would this toy be young or old, wild or tame, male or female? She’d had all kinds, and every possible combination. Sometimes she kept them alive for days before tiring of them—or before the subtleties of which she was capable caused them to expire. At other times she wanted it to happen quickly; tonight, for example, she knew she could be soothed only by the most primitive and direct action.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 131