With indignation Bob Bloch denies a libel: "It is not true that I am a monster! I have the heart of a small boy. I keep it in my desk drawer." Heart he has (no matter whose); he also has wit and insight. And if sometimes what he has to tell us is monstrous (witness his recent shuddery suspense novel Psycho, or, for that matter, the following), it is not that he exaggerates a picture, but only that his perceptions are so clear. Almost any writer could have conceived the setting he describes below, but only Robert Bloch could have made it into—