Robert Bloch was a correspondent of Lovecraft and became a supernatural horror writer for Weird Tales, a science fiction writer, a mystery writer, then a film writer.
"Bloch epitomizes the horror dimension of today’s pop
culture,” says one major reference book. His novel, Psycho, appeared on Stephen King's ten-best list and the film made by Alfred Hitchcock is a classic. He has published more than a dozen story collections principally horrific. His earliest stories, such as "The Shambler From
the Stars," are Lovecraftian but his characteristic work
has as its hallmark abnormal psychology and absurd
irony. He is a master of the pun. "Yours Truly, Jack the
Ripper" is arguably his best story, an ironic blend of
psychology and the supernatural, a monster story, a
story that reinforces our belief in supernatural evil and
connects it cleverly to evil in the real world. While later
Bloch is often psychological horror (some of his best
effects occur in mystery novels such as The Scarf), this
story suggests the same moral universe as Harlan Ellison’s “The Whimper of Whipped Dogs.” Bloch was the first winner of the Grand Master Award for Life Achievement at the first World Fantasy Convention in 1975.
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Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper
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1
I looked at the strange Englishman. He looked at me.
“ Sir Guy Hollis?” I asked.
“ Indeed. Have I the pleasure of addressing John Carmody,
the psychiatrist?”
I nodded. My eyes swept over the figure of my distinguished visitor. Tall, lean, sandy-haired—with the traditional tufted moustache. And the tweeds. I suspected a monocle
concealed in a vest pocket, and wondered if he’d left his
umbrella in the outer office.
But more than that, I wondered what the devil had impelled Sir Guy Hollis of the British Embassy to seek out a total stranger here in Chicago.
Sir Guy didn’t help matters any as he sat down. He cleared
his throat, glanced around nervously, tapping his pipe against
the side of the desk. Then he opened his mouth.
“ Mr. Carmody,” he said, “ have you ever heard of—Jack
the Ripper?”
“ The murderer?” I asked.
“ Exactly. The greatest monster of them all Worse than
Springheel Jack or Crippen. Jack the Ripper. Red Jack.”
“ I ’ve heard of him,” I said.
“ Do you know his history?”
“ I don’t think we’ll get any place swapping old wives’
tales about famous crimes of history.”
He took a deep breath.
“ This is no old wives’ tale. It’s a matter of life or death.”
He was so wrapped up in his obsession he even talked that
way. Well—I was willing to listen. We psychiatrists get paid
for listening.
“ Go ahead,” I told him. “ Let’s have the story.”
Sir Guy lit a cigarette and began to talk.
“ London, 1888,” he began. “ Late summer and early fall.
That was the time. Out of nowhere came the shadowy figure
of Jack the Ripper—a stalking shadow with a knife, prowling
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through London’s East End. Haunting the squalid dives of
Whitechapel, Spitalfields. Where he came from no one knew.
But he brought death. Death in a knife.
“ Six times that knife descended to slash the throats and
bodies of London’s women. Drabs and alley sluts. August
7th was the date of the first butchery. They found her lying
there with thirty-nine stab wounds. A ghastly murder. On
August 31st, another victim. The press became interested.
The slum inhabitants were more deeply interested still.
‘ ‘Who was this unknown killer who prowled in their midst
and struck at will in the deserted alleyways of nighttown?
And what was more important—when would he strike again?
“ September 8th was the date. Scotland Yard assigned special deputies. Rumors ran rampant. The atrocious nature of the slayings was the subject for shocking speculation.
“ The killer used a knife—expertly. He cut throats and rem oved-certain portions—of the bodies after death. He chose victims and settings with a fiendish deliberation. No one saw
him or heard him. But watchmen making their gray rounds
in the dawn would stumble across the hacked and horrid thing
that was the Ripper’s handiwork.
“ Who was he? What was he? A mad surgeon? A butcher?
An insane scientist? A pathological degenerate escaped from
an asylum? A deranged nobleman? A member of the London
police?
“ Then the poem appeared in the newspapers. The anonymous poem, designed to put a stop to speculations—but which only aroused public interest to a further frenzy. A mocking
little stanza:
I ’m not a butcher, I ’m not a Yid
Nor yet a foreign skipper,
But I ’m your own true loving friend,
Yours truly—Jack the Ripper.
“ And on September 30th, two more throats were slashed
open. There was silence, then, in London for a time. Silence,
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391
and a nameless fear. When would Red Jack strike again?
They waited through October. Every figment of fog concealed his phantom presence. Concealed it well—for nothing was learned of the Ripper’s identity, or his purpose. The drabs
of London shivered in the raw wind of early November. Shivered, and were thankful for the coming of each morning’s sun.
“ November 9th. They found her in her room. She lay there
very quietly, limbs neady arranged. And beside her, with
equal neatness, were laid her breasts and heart. The Ripper
had outdone himself in execution.
“ Then, panic. But needless panic. For though press, police, and populace alike waited in sick dread, Jack the Ripper did not strike again.
“ Months passed. A year. The immediate interest died, but
not the memory. They said Jack had skipped to America.
That he had committed suicide. They said—and they wrote.
They’ve written ever since. But to this day no one knows who
Jack the Ripper was. Or why he killed. Or why he stopped
killing.”
Sir Guy was silent. Obviously he expected some comment
from me.
“ You tell the story well,” I remarked. “ Though with slight
emotional bias.”
“ I suppose you want to know why I ’m interested?” he
snapped.
“ Yes. That’s exactly what I ’d like to know.”
“ Because,” said Sir Guy Hollis. “ I am on the trail of Jack
the Ripper now. I think he’s here—in Chicago!”
“ Say that again.”
“ Jack the Ripper is alive, in Chicago, and I ’m out to find
him.”
He wasn’t smiling. It wasn’t a joke.
“ See here,” I said. “ What was the date of these murders?”
“ August to November, 1888.”
‘ ‘ 1888? But if Jack the Ripper was an able-bodied man in
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1988, he’d surely be dead today! Why look, man—if he were
merely bom in that year, he’d be fifty-seven years old today!”
‘‘Would he?” smiled Sir Guy Hollis. ‘‘Or should I say,
‘Would she?’ Because Jack the Ripper may have been a
woman. Or
any number of things.”
‘‘Sir Guy,” I said! ‘‘You came to the right person when
you looked me up. You definitely need the services of a psychiatrist.”
“ Perhaps. Tell me, Mr. Carmody, do you think I ’m
crazy?”
I looked at him and shrugged. But I had to give him a
truthful answer.
“ Frankly—no.”
“ Then you might listen to the reasons I believe Jack the
Ripper is alive today.”
“ I might.”
“ I ’ve studied these cases for thirty years. Been over the
actual ground. Talked to officials. Talked to friends and acquaintances of the poor drabs who were killed. Visited with men and women in the neighborhood. Collected an entire
library of material touching on Jack the Ripper. Studied all
the wild theories or crazy notions.
“ I learned a little. Not much, but a little. I won’t bore you
with my conclusions. But there was another branch of inquiry
that yielded more fruitful return. I have studied unsolved
crimes. Murders.
“ I could show you clippings from the papers of half the
world’s greatest cities. San Francisco. Shanghai. Calcutta.
Omsk. Paris. Berlin. Pretoria. Cairo. Milan. Adelaide.
“ The trail is there, the pattern. Unsolved crimes. Slashed
throats of women. With the peculiar disfigurations and removals. Yes, I ’ve followed a trail of blood. From New York westward across the continent. Then to the Pacific. From
there to Africa. During the World War of 1914-18 it was
Europe. After that, South America. And since 1930, the
United States again. Eighty-seven such murders—and to the
Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper
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trained criminologist, all bear the stigma of the Ripper’s
handiwork.
“ Recently there were the so-called Cleveland torso slayings. Remember? A shocking series. And finally, two recent deaths in Chicago. Within the past six months. One out on
South Dearborn. The other somewhere up on Halsted. Same
type of crime, same technique. I tell you, there are unmistakable indications in all these affairs—indications of the work of Jack the Ripper!”
“ A very tight theory,” I said. “ I ’ll not question your evidence at all, or the deductions you draw. You’re the criminologist, and I ’ll take your word for it. Just one thing remains to be explained. A minor point, perhaps, but worth mention-
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“ And what is that?” asked Sir Guy.
“ Just how could a man of, let us say, eight-five years commit these crimes? For if Jack the Ripper was around thirty in 1888 and lived, he’d be eighty-five today.”
“Suppose he didn’t get any older?” whispered Sir Guy.
“ What’s that?”
“ Suppose Jack the Ripper didn’t grow old? Suppose he is
still a young man today?
“ It’s a crazy theory, I grant you,” he said. “ All the theories about the Ripper are crazy. The idea that he was a doctor. Or a maniac. Or a woman. The reasons advanced for
such beliefs are flimsy enough. There’s nothing to go by. So
why should my notion be any worse?”
“ Because people grow older,” I reasoned with him.
“ Doctors, maniacs and women alike.”
“ What about— sorcerers’?”
“ Sorcerers?”
“ Necromancers. Wizards. Practicers of Black Magic.”
“ What’s the point?”
“ I studied,” said Sir Guy. “ I studied everything. After a
while I began to study the dates of the murders. The pattern
those dates formed. The rhythm. The solar, lunar, stellar
rhythm. The sidereal aspect. The astrological significance.
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Robert Bloch
“ Suppose Jack the Ripper didn’t murder for murder’s sake
alone? Suppose he wanted to make—a sacrifice?”
“ What kind of sacrifice?”
Sir Guy shrugged. “ It is said that if you offer blood to the
dark gods they grant boons. Yes, if a blood offering is made
at the proper time—when the moon and the stars are right—
and with the proper ceremonies—they grant boons. Boons of
youth. Eternal youth.”
“ But that’s nonsense!”
“ No. That’s—Jack the Ripper.”
I stood up. “ A most interesting theory,” I told him. “ But
why do you come here and tell it to me? I ’m not an authority
on witchcraft. I ’m not a police official or criminologist. I ’m
a practicing psychiatrist. What’s the connection?”
Sir Guy smiled.
“ You are interested, then?”
“ Well, yes. There must be some point.”
“ There is. But I wished to be assured of your interest first.
Now I can tell you my plan.”
“ And just what is that plan?”
Sir Guy gave me a long look.
“ John Carmody,” he said, “ you and I are going to capture
Jack the Ripper.”
2
That’s the way it happened. I ’ve given the gist of that first
interview in all its intricate and somewhat boring detail, because I think it’s important. It helps to throw some light on Sir Guy’s character and attitude. And in view of what happened after that—
But I ’m coming to those matters.
Sir Guy’s thought was simple. It wasn’t even a thought. Just
a hunch.
“ You know the people here,” he told me. “ I ’ve inquired.
That’s why I came to you as the ideal man for my purpose. You
Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper
395
number amongst your acquaintances many writers, painters,
poets. The so-called intelligentsia. The lunatic fringe from the
near north side.
“ For certain reasons—never mind what they are—my clues
lead me to infer that Jack the Ripper is a member of that
element. He chooses to pose as an eccentric. I ’ve a feeling
that with you to take me around and introduce me to your
set, I might hit upon the right person.”
“ Itrs all right with m e,” I said. ‘‘But just how are you
going to look for him? As you say, he might be anybody,
anywhere. And you have no idea what he looks like. He
might be young or old. Jack the Ripper—a Jack of all trades?
Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, law yer-
how will you know?”
‘‘We shall see.” Sir Guy sighed heavily. ‘‘But I must find
him. At once.”
‘‘Why the hurry?”
Sir Guy sighed again. ‘‘Because in two days he will kill
again.”
‘‘Are you sure?”
‘‘Sure as the stars. I ’ve plotted this chart, you see. All of
the murders correspond to certain astrological rhythm patterns. If, as I suspect, he makes a blood sacrifice to renew his youth, he must murder within two days. Notice the pattern
of his first crimes in London. August 7th. Then August 31st.
September 8th. September 30th. November 9th. Intervals of
twenty-four days, nine days, twenty-two days—he killed two
this time—and then forty days. Of course there were crimes
in between. There had to be. But they weren’t discovered and
pinned on him.
“ At any rate, I ’ve worked out a pattern for him, based on
all my data. And I say that within th
e next two days he kills.
So I must seek him out, somehow, before then. ’ ’
“ And I ’m still asking you what you want me to do.”
“ Take me out,” said Sir Guy. “ Introduce me to your
friends. Take me to parties.”
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“ But where do I begin? As far as I know, my artistic
friends, despite their eccentricities, are all normal people.”
“ So is the Ripper. Perfectly normal. Except on certain
nights.” Again that faraway look in Sir. Guy’s eyes. “ Then
he becomes an ageless pathological monster, crouching to
kill.”
“ All right,” I said. “ All right, I ’ll take you.”
We made our plans. And that evening I took him over to
Lester Baston’s studio.
As we ascended to the penthouse roof in the elevator I took
the opportunity to warn Sir Guy.
“ Baston’s a real screwball,” I cautioned him. “ So are his
guests. Be prepared for anything and everything.”
“ I am .” Sir Guy Hollis was perfectly serious. He put his
hand in his trousers pocket and pulled out a gun.
“ What the—” I began.
“ If I see him I ’ll be ready,” Sir Guy said. He didn’t smile,
either.
‘ ‘But you can’t go running around at a party with a loaded
revolver in your pocket, man!”
“ Don’t worry, I won’t behave foolishly.”
I wondered. Sir Guy Hollis was not, to my way of thinking, a normal man.
We stepped out of the elevator, went toward Baston’s apartment door.
“ By the way,” I murmured, “just how do you wish to be
introduced? Shall I tell them who you are and what you are
looking for?”
“ I don’t care. Perhaps it would be best to be frank.”
“ But don’t you think that the Ripper—if by some miracle
he or she is present—will immediately get the wind up and
take cover?”
“ I think the shock of the announcement that I am hunting
the Ripper would provoke some kind of betraying gesture on
his part,” said Sir Guy.
“ It’s a fine theory. But I warn you, you’re going to be in
for a lot of ribbing. This is a wild bunch.”
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Sir Guy smiled.
“ I ’m ready,” he announced. “ I have a little plan of my
The Color of Evil - The Dark Descent V1 (1991) Page 48