by Robert Bloch
“You wouldn’t murder me—
not in cold blood.”
“Let’s leave it up to the kids.” The piercing blast of the whistle echoed, reverberating from the rounded iron walls beside me and below. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw the five figures moving toward the platform on which we stood. Their laughter was demonic.
“Call them off!” I shouted. “I warn you—”
He shook his head.
Closing my eyes, I concentrated. There are subsonic whistles which make no audible sound, and there was ways of summoning which require no whistles at all. And there’s more than human vermin infesting abandoned sewers, lurking in the far recesses of tangled tunnels, responsive to certain commands.
The rats were coming.
Also by Robert Bloch
published by Tor Books
American Gothic
Firebug
The Kidnapper
The Night of the Ripper
Night-World
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
FEAR AND TREMBLING
Copyright © 1989 by Robert Bloch
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A TOR Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
49 West 24 Street
New York, NY 10010
ISBN: 0-812-51585-4
First edition: March 1989
Printed in the United States of America
Acknowledgments
“The Yougoslaves,” copyright © 1985 by Twilight Zone Publications. First published in Night Cry, Winter 1985.
“A Most Unusual Murder,” copyright © 1976 by Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March 1976.
“The Brood of Bubastis,” copyright © 1937 by Popular Fiction Publishing Company; copyright © 1965 by Robert Bloch. First published in Weird Tales, 1937.
“Groovyland,” copyright © 1969 by Universal Publishing & Distributing Corporation. First published in If, May 1969.
“The Chaney Legacy,” copyright © 1986 by Twilight Zone Publications. First published in Night Cry, Fall 1986.
“Floral Tribute,” copyright © 1949 by Weird Tales, copyright © 1977 by Robert Bloch. First published in Weird Tales, 1949.
“Reaper,” copyright © 1986 by Robert Bloch. First published in Cutting Edge, edited by Dennis Etchison, published by Doubleday & Company, 1986.
“The Shrink and the Mink,” copyright © 1983 by Hustler Magazine Inc. First published in Hustler, 1983.
“A Killing in the Market,” copyright © 1958 by H.S.D. Publications, Inc. First published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, 1958.
“The New Season,” copyright © 1987 by Robert Bloch. First published in Masques II, edited by J.N. Williamson, published by Maclay Associates, 1987.
“ETFF,” copyright © 1976 by Gambi Publications, Inc. First published in Odyssey, Spring 1976.
“Freak Show,” copyright © 1979 by Mercury Press Inc. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, May 1979.
“Horror Scope,” copyright © 1989 by Robert Bloch.
for
Elly’s family
who are my family too.
Contents
The Yougoslaves
A Most Unusual Murder
The Brood of Bubastis
Groovyland
The Chaney Legacy
Floral Tribute
Reaper
The Shrink and the Mink
A Killing in the Market
The New Season
ETFF
Freak Show
Horror Scope
The Yougoslaves
I didn’t come to Paris for adventure.
Long experience has taught me there are no Phantoms in the Opera, no bearded artists hobbling through Montmartre on stunted legs, no straw-hatted boulevardiers singing the praises of a funny little honey of a Mimi.
The Paris of story and song, if it ever existed, is no more. Times have changed, and even the term “Gay Paree” now evokes what in theatrical parlance is called a bad laugh.
A visitor learns to change habits accordingly, and my hotel choice was a case in point. On previous trips I’d stayed at the Crillon or the Ritz; now, after a lengthy absence, I put up at the George V.
Let me repeat, I wasn’t seeking adventure. That first evening I left the hotel for a short stroll merely to satisfy my curiosity about the city.
I had already discovered that some aspects of Paris remain immutable; the French still don’t seem to understand how to communicate by telephone, and they can’t make a good cup of coffee. But I had no need to use the phone and no craving for coffee, so these matters didn’t concern me.
Nor was I greatly surprised to discover that April in Paris—Paris in the spring, tra-la-la-la—is apt to be cold and damp. Warmly-dressed for my little outing, I directed my footsteps to the archways of the Rue de Rivoli.
At first glance Paris by night upheld its traditions. All of the tourist attractions remained in place; the steel skeleton of the Eiffel Tower, the gaping maw of the Arch of Triumph, the spurting fountains achieving their miraculous transubstantiation of water into blood with the aid of crimson light.
But there were changes in the air—quite literally—the acrid odor of traffic fumes emanating from the exhausts of snarling sports-cars and growling motor bikes racing along to the counterpoint of police and ambulance sirens. Gershwin’s tinny taxi-horns would be lost in such din; I doubt if he’d approve, and I most certainly did not.
My disapproval extended to the clothing of local pedestrians. Young Parisian males now mimicked the youths of other cities; bare-headed, leather-jacketed and blue-jeaned, they would look equally at home in Times Square or on Hollywood Boulevard. As for their female companions, this seemed to be the year when every girl in France decided to don atrociously-wrinkled patent leather boots which turned shapely lower limbs into the legs of elephantiasis victims. The chic Parisienne had vanished, and above the traffic’s tumult I fancied I could detect a sound of rumbling dismay as Napoleon turned over in his tomb.
I moved along under the arches, eyeing the lighted window-displays of expensive jewelry mingled with cheap gimcracks. At least the Paris of tourism hadn’t altered; there would still be sex-shops in the Pigalle, and somewhere in the deep darkness of the Louvre the Mona Lisa smiled enigmatically at the antics of those who came to the city searching for adventure.
Again I say this was not my intention. Nonetheless, adventure sought me.
Adventure came on the run, darting out of a dark and deserted portion of the arcade just ahead, charging straight at me on a dozen legs.
It happened quickly. One moment I was alone; then suddenly and without warning, the children came. There were six of them, surrounding me like a small army—six dark-haired swarthy-skinned urchins in dirty, dishevelled garments, screeching and jabbering at me in a foreign tongue. Some of them clutched at my clothing, others jabbed me in the ribs. Encircling me they clamored for a beggars’ bounty, and as I fumbled for loose change one of them thrust a folded newspaper against my chest, another grabbed and kissed my free hand, yet another grasped my shoulder and whirled me around. Deafened by the din, dazed by their instant attack, I broke free.
In seconds they scattered swiftly and silently, scampering into the shadows. As they disappeared I stood alone again, stunned and shaken. Then, as my hand rose instinctively to press against my inner breast-pocket, I realized that my wallet had disappeared too.
My first reaction was shock. To think that I, a grown ma
n, had been robbed on the public street by a band of little ragamuffins, less than ten years old!
It was an outrage, and now I met it with rage of my own. The sheer audacity of their attack provoked anger, and the thought of the consequences fueled my fury. Losing the money in my wallet wasn’t important; he who steals my purse steals trash.
But there was something else I cherished; something secret and irreplaceable. I carried it in a billfold compartment for a purpose; after completing my sightseeing jaunt I’d intended to seek another destination and make use of the other item my wallet contained.
Now it was gone, and hope vanished with it.
But not entirely. The sound of distant sirens in the night served as a strident reminder that I still had a chance. There was, I remembered, a police station near the Place de la Vendôme. The inconspicuous office was not easy to locate on the darkened street beyond an open courtyard, but I managed.
Once inside, I anticipated a conversation with an inspecteur, a return to the scene of the affair in the company of sympathetic gendarmes who were knowledgeable concerning such offenses and alert in ferreting out the hiding-place of my assailants.
The young lady seated behind the window in the dingy outer office listened to my story without comment or a change of expression. Inserting forms and carbons in her typewriter, she took down a few vital statistics—my name, date of birth, place of origin, hotel address, and a short inventory of the stolen wallet’s contents.
For reasons of my own I neglected to mention the one item which really mattered to me. I could be excused for omitting it in my excited state, and hoped to avoid the necessity of doing so unless the inspecteur questioned me more closely.
But there was no interview with an inspecteur. And no uniformed officer appeared. Instead I was merely handed a carbon copy of the Récépissé de Déclaration; if anything could be learned about the fate of my wallet I would be notified at my hotel.
Scarcely ten minutes after entering the station I found myself back on the street with nothing to show for my trouble but a buff-colored copy of the report. Down at the very bottom, on a line identified in print as Mode Opératoire—Précisions Complémentaires, was a typed sentence reading “Vol commis dans la Rue par de jeunes enfant yougoslaves.”
“Yougoslaves?”
Back at the hotel I addressed the question to an elderly night-clerk. Sleepy eyes blinking into awareness, he nodded knowingly.
“Ah!” he said. “The gypsies!”
“Gypsies? But these were only children—”
He nodded again. “Exactly so.” And then he told me the story.
Pickpockets and purse-snatchers had always been a common nuisance here, but within the past few years their presence had escalated.
They came out of Eastern Europe, their exact origin unknown, but “yougoslaves” or “gypsies” served as a convenient label.
Apparently they were smuggled in by skillful and enterprising adult criminals who specialized in educating children in the art of thievery, very much as Fagin trained his youngsters in the London of Dickens’ Oliver Twist.
But Fagin was an amateur compared to today’s professors of pilfering. Their pupils—orphans, products of broken homes, or no homes at all—were recruited in foreign city streets, or even purchased outright from greedy, uncaring parents. These little ones could be quite valuable; an innocent at the age of four or five became a seasoned veteran after a few years of experience, capable of bringing in as much as a hundred thousand American dollars over the course of a single year.
When I described the circumstances of my own encounter the clerk shrugged.
“Of course. That is how they work, my friend—in gangs.” Gangs, expertly adept in spotting potential victims, artfully instructed how to operate. Their seemingly spontaneous outcries were actually the product of long and exacting rehearsal, their apparently impromptu movements perfected in advance. They danced around me because they had been choreographed to do so. It was a bandits’ ballet in which each one played an assigned role—to nudge, to gesture, to jab and jabber and create confusion. Even the hand-kissing was part of a master plan, and when one ragged waif thrust his folded newspaper against my chest it concealed another who ducked below and lifted my wallet. The entire performance was programmed down to the last detail.
I listened and shook my head. “Why didn’t the police tell me these things? Surely they must know.”
“Oui, m’sieur.” The clerk permitted himself a confidential wink. “But perhaps they do not care.” He leaned across the desk, his voice sinking to a murmur. “Some say an arrangement has been made. The yougoslaves are skilled in identifying tourists by their dress and manner. They can recognize a foreign visitor merely by the kind of shoes he wears. One supposes a bargain has been struck because it is only the tourists who are attacked, while ordinary citizens are spared.”
I frowned. “Surely others like myself must lodge complaints. One would think the police would be forced to take action.”
The clerk’s gesture was as eloquent as his words. “But what can they do? These yougoslaves strike quickly, without warning. They vanish before you realize what has happened, and no one knows where they go. And even if you managed to lay hands on one of them, what then? You bring this youngster to the police and tell your story, but the little ruffian has no wallet—you can be sure it was passed along immediately to another who ran off with the evidence. Also, your prisoner cannot speak or understand French, or at least pretends not to.
“So the gendarmes have nothing to go by but your word, and what can they do with the kid if they did have proof, when the law prohibits the arrest and jailing of children under thirteen?
“It’s all part of the scheme. And if you permit me, it is a beautiful scheme, this one.”
My frown told him I lacked appreciation of beauty, and he quickly leaned back to a position of safety behind the desk, his voice and manner sobering. “Missing credit cards can be reported in the morning, though I think it unlikely anyone would be foolish enough to attempt using them with a forged signature. It’s the money they were after.”
“I have other funds in your safe,” I said.
“Très bien. In that case I advise you to make the best of things. Now that you know what to expect, I doubt if you will be victimized again. Just keep away from the tourist-traps and avoid using the Metro.” He offered me the solace of a smile which all desk clerks reserve for complaints about stalled elevators, lost luggage, faulty electrical fixtures, or clogged plumbing.
Then, when my frown remained fixed, his smile vanished. “Please, my friend! I understand this has been a most distressing occurrence, but I trust you will chalk it up to experience. Believe me, there is no point in pursuing the matter further.”
I shook my head. “If the police won’t go after these children—”
“Children?” Again his voice descended to a murmur. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear. The yougoslaves are not ordinary kids. As I say, they have been trained by masters. The kind of man who is capable of buying or stealing a child and corrupting it for a life of crime is not likely to stop there. I have heard certain rumors, m’sieur, rumors which make a dreadful sort of sense. These kids, they are hooked on drugs. They know every manner of vice but nothing of morals, and many carry knives, even guns. Some have been taught to break and enter into homes, and if discovered, to kill. Their masters, of course, are even more dangerous when crossed. I implore you, for your own safety—forget what has happened tonight and go on your way.”
“Thank you for your advice.” I managed a smile and went on my way. But I did not forget.
I did not forget what had happened, nor did I forget I’d been robbed of what was most precious to me.
Retiring to my room, I placed the Do Not Disturb tag on the outer doorknob and after certain makeshift arrangements I sank eventually into fitful slumber.
By the following evening I was ready; ready and waiting. Paris by night is the City of Light
, but it is also the city of shadows. And it was in the shadows that I waited, the shadows under the archways of the Rue de Rivoli. My dark clothing was deliberately donned to blend inconspicuously with the background; I would be unnoticed if the predators returned to seek fresh prey.
Somehow I felt convinced that they would do so. As I stood against a pillar, scanning the occasional passerby, I challenged myself to see the hunted through the eyes of the hunters.
Who would be the next victim? That party of Japanese deserved no more than a glance of dismissal; it wasn’t wise to confront a group. By the same token, those who traveled in pairs or couples would be spared. And even the lone pedestrians were safe if they were able-bodied or dressed in garments which identified them as local citizens.
What the hunters sought was someone like myself, someone wearing clothing of foreign cut, preferably elderly and obviously alone. Someone like the grey-bearded old gentlemen who was approaching now, shuffling past a cluster of shops already closed for the night. He was short, slight of build, and his uncertain gait hinted at either a physical impairment or mild intoxication. A lone traveller on an otherwise-deserted stretch of street—here was the perfect target for attack.
And the attack came.
Out of the deep dark doorway to an arcade the yougoslaves danced forth, squealing and gesticulating, to suddenly surround their startled victim.
They ringed him, hands outstretched, their cries confusing, their fingers darting forth to prod and pry in rhythm with the outbursts.
I saw the pattern now, recognized the roles they played. Here was the hand-kisser, begging for bounty, here the duo tugging at each arm from the rear, here the biggest of the boys, brandishing the folded paper to thrust it against the oldster’s chest while an accomplice burrowed into the gaping front of the jacket below. Just behind him the sixth and smallest of the band stood poised. The instant the wallet was snatched it would be passed to him, and while the others continued their distraction for a few moments more before scattering, he’d run off in safety.