"Everybody needs some kind of hobby," I said.
"Yeah. But what kind of a hobby do you call that? I mean, who can get excited over a gang of apes fighting to grab some kind of a ball?" He scowled. "Don't kid me that they really care who wins or loses. Most guys go to a ball game for a different reason. You ever been out to see a game, Mac?"
"Once in a while."
"Then you know what I'm talking about. You've heard 'em out there. Heard 'em yelling. That's what they really go for — to holler their heads off. And what are they yelling most of the time? I'll tell you. Kill the umpire! Yeah, that's what they're screaming: Kill the umpire!"
I finished the last of my beer quickly and started to slide off the stool. He reached out and rapped on the bar. "Here, have another, Mac," he said. "On me."
I shook my head. "Sorry, got to catch a train out of here at midnight," I told him.
He glanced at the clock. "Plenty of time." I opened my mouth to protest but the bartender was already opening a bottle and pouring a Scotch for the stranger. And he was talking to me again.
"Football is worse," he said. "A guy can get hurt playing football, some of 'em get hurt bad. That's what the crowd likes to see. And boy, when they start yelling for blood it's enough to turn your stomach."
"I don't know," I said. "After all, it's a pretty harmless way of releasing pent-up aggression."
Maybe he understood me and maybe he didn't, but he nodded. "It releases something, like you say, but I ain't so sure it's harmless. Take boxing and wrestling, now. Call that a sport? Call that a hobby?"
"Well," I agreed, "people want to see somebody get clobbered."
"Sure, only they won't admit it." His face was quite red now; he was starting to sweat. "And what about hunting and fishing? When you come right down to it, it's the same thing. Only there you do the killing yourself. You take a gun and shoot some dumb animal. Or you cut up a live worm and stick it on a hook and that hook cuts into a fish's mouth, and you sort of get a thrill out of it, don't you? When the hook goes in and it cuts and tears — "
"Now wait a minute," I said. "Maybe that's good. What's a fish? If it keeps people from being sadists — "
"Never mind the two-dollar words," he cut in. He blinked at me. "You know it's true. Everybody gets the urge, sooner or later. Stuff like ball games and boxing don't really satisfy it, either. So we gotta have a war, every so often. Then there's an excuse to do real killing. Millions."
Nietzsche thought he was a gloomy philosopher. He should have known about double-Scotches. "What's your solution?" I tried hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "Do you think there'd be less harm done if they repealed the laws against murder?"
"Maybe." The bald-headed man studied his empty glass. "Depends on who got killed. Suppose you just knocked off tramps and bums. Or a floozie, maybe. You know, somebody without a family or relatives or anything. Somebody who wouldn't be missed. You could get away with it easier, too."
I leaned forward, staring at him.
"Could you?" I asked.
He didn't look at me. He gazed down at his bowling-bag for a moment before replying.
"Don't get me wrong, Mac," he said, forcing a grin. "I ain't no murderer. But I was just thinking about a guy who used to do it. Right here in town, too. This was maybe twenty years ago."
"You knew him?"
"No, of course not. Nobody knew him, that's the whole point. That's how he always got away with it. But everybody knew about him. All you had to do was read the papers." He drained his drink.
"They call him the Cleveland Torso Slayer. He did thirteen murders in four years, out in Kingsbury and around Jackall Hill. Cops went nuts trying to find the guy. Figured he came into town on week ends, maybe. He'd pick up some bum, lure the hobo down into a gully or the dumps near the tracks. Promise to give him a bottle, or something. Did the same thing with women. Then he used his knife."
"You mean he wasn't playing games, trying to fool himself. He went for the real thing."
The man nodded. "That's right. Real thrills and a real trophy at the end. You see, he liked to cut 'em up. He liked to cut off their — "
I stood up and reached for my bag. The stranger laughed.
"Don't be scared, Mac," he said. "This guy must of blown town way back in 1938 or so. Maybe when the war came along in Europe he joined up over there. Went into some commando outfit and kept on doing the same thing — only then he was a hero instead of a murderer. See what I mean?"
"Easy now," I said. "I see what you mean. Don't go getting yourself excited. It's your theory, not mine."
He lowered his voice. "Theory? Maybe so, Mac. But I run into something tonight that'll really rock you. What you suppose I been tossing down all these drinks for?"
"All bowlers drink," I told him. "But if you actually feel the way you do about sports, how come you're a bowler?"
The bald-headed man leaned close to me. "A man's got to have some kind of hobby, Mac, or he'd blow his stack. Right?"
I opened my mouth to agree, but before I could answer him there was another noise. We both heard it at the same time — the sound of a siren down the street.
The bartender looked up. "Heading this way, sounds like, doesn't it?"
The bald-headed man was on his feet and moving towards the door.
I hurried after him. "Here, don't forget your bag."
He didn't look at me. "Thanks," he muttered. "Thanks, Mac."
And then he was gone. He didn't stay on the street, but slipped through an areaway between two adjoining buildings. In a moment he had disappeared. I stood in the doorway as the siren's wail choked the street. A squad car pulled up in front of the tavern, its motor racing. A uniformed sergeant had been running along the sidewalk, accompanying it, and he came puffing up. He glanced at the sidewalk, glanced at the tavern, glanced at me.
"See anything of a big, bald-headed guy carrying a bowling bag?" he panted.
I had to tell the truth. "Why, yes. Somebody went out of here only a minute ago — "
"Which way?"
I gestured between the buildings and he shouted orders at the men in the squad car. It rolled off; the sergeant stayed behind.
"Tell me about it," he said, pushing me back into the tavern.
"All right, but what's this all about?"
"Murder. Over at the Bowling Convention, in the hotel. About an hour ago. The bellboy saw him coming out of her room, figured maybe he was a grab artist because he used the stairs instead of the elevator."
"Grab artist?"
"Prowler — you know. They hang around conventions, sneak into rooms and pick up stuff. Anyway, this prowler leaves this room too fast. Bellboy got a good look at the guy and notified the house dick. The house dick found this dame right on the bed. She'd been carved, but good. But the guy had too much of a start."
I took a deep breath. "The man who was just in here," I said. "A big bald-headed guy. He kept talking about the Cleveland Torso Slayings. But I thought he was just drunk, or rib — "
"The bellboy's description checks with the one a newsie gave us just down the street from here. He saw him coming this way. Like you say, a big bald-headed guy."
He stared down at the bowling bag. "He took his with him, didn't he?"
I nodded.
He sighed. "That's what helped us trace him to this tavern. His bowling bag."
"Somebody saw it, described it?"
"No, they didn't have to describe it. It left a trail. Notice how I was running along the sidewalk out there? I was following the trail. And here — take a look at the floor under the stool."