Polletti whirled counter-clockwise, throwing himself down and to the side, out of the anticipated line of fire. This was Defensive Maneuver Three, Part 1. At the same time his right hand slapped his breast pocket. Instantly his Quickie holster slammed a gun into his hand. He could see the bogie now—a thickset, scowling man, holding a Luger at full extension. By now Polletti was prone, faced in the direction of the bogie, and firing, thus completing Part 2 of Defensive Maneuver One. He had completed the entire sequence in an incredibly short time. He felt a deep sense of exhilaration, of pleasure at a job well done. …
The bogie faded, overhead lights came on. Polletti was lying prone upon a dusty gymnasium floor. Ten feet in front of him was an old man wearing a soiled gray jump suit and a sour expression. The old man was seated on a stool beside a switchboard, shaking his head wearily.
“Well,” Polletti asked, standing up and dusting himself off, “how did I do? I got him that time, didn’t I?”
“Your reaction time,” the old man said, “was nearly a tenth of a second too slow.”
“I sacrificed reaction time,” Polletti said warily, “in favor of precision and accuracy.”
“Indeed?” said the old man.
“Yes,” Polletti said. “Those are my natural aptitudes, Professor.”
“Well, you can forget about them,” Professor Silvestre said. “You missed the bogie by 3.2 centimeters.”
“That’s fairly close,” Polletti said.
“But not quite close enough.”
“What about my Defensive Maneuver Three?” Polletti asked. “I thought I did that rather nicely.”
“Very nicely,” the professor said, “and with complete and fatal predictability. A cow could have turned faster. The bogie killed you once while you were whirling, and once again when you assumed the prone position. If it had been a real Hunter, Marcello, instead of a three-dimensional projection, you would have been dead twice over.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Read the dials for yourself.”
“Well,” Polletti said, “practice isn’t like the real thing.”
“Of course it isn’t,” the professor said, his voice mordant and inflected with a rather obvious irony. “One tends to be slower when it comes to the real thing. Do you remember how many times the bogie fired?”
“Twice,” Polletti said promptly.
“Five times,” Professor Silvestre corrected him.
“You’re absolutely sure of that?”
“Read the dials. I set up the sequence myself.”
“It was the echoes,” Polletti said bitterly. “One can’t tell the shots from the echoes in a room like this.”
Professor Silvestre raised his right eyebrow all the way to where his hairline would have been, if he had had any hair. He rubbed his unshaven chin and got down from the stool. He was an ugly little gnome of a man, and not even his best friend—if he had possessed one—would have considered him entirely human. Many game instructors bore the marks of learning upon their bodies; Silvestre bore more than most. He had a stainless-steel right hand and a plastic left cheek; he also had a silver plate in his skull, a duraluminum chin, and a 14-carat gold kneecap. It was rumored that certain less visible parts of him were equally ersatz.
Psychologists have known for a long time that men who have had considerable portions of their anatomy blown up or shot away tend to become cynical. Silvestre was no exception to this rule.
“In any event,” Polletti said, “I feel that I am improving. Don’t you agree, Professor?”
Silvestre tried to raise his right eyebrow, but found that it was already raised as far as it would go. Therefore he lowered it and closed his left eye completely. He seemed about to speak; then stopped, reserving judgment.
“Come,” he said briskly, “we will proceed to the next examination.”
He pressed a button on his switchboard. A panel opened and a miniature bar shot out of the wall and stopped with such force that half a dozen champagne glasses were thrown into the air. Polletti winced as they smashed against the floor.
“I told the mechanic to do something about the recoil,” Professor Silvestre said. “You get nothing these days but shoddy workmanship. Come, Polletti, we will proceed with the examination.”
Deftly the professor mixed a drink from several unmarked bottles and handed it to Polletti.
Polletti sniffed cautiously, frowned judiciously, and said, “Gin and angostura, with just a trace of tabasco.”
Without a word the professor mixed and handed him another drink.
“Vodka, lemon and milk,” Polletti declared, “and just a hint of tarragon vinegar.”
“You’re sure?” the professor asked.
“Quite sure,” said Polletti.
“Drink some, then.”
Polletti lifted the drink, looked at Silvestre, sniffed, frowned, and put the drink down.
“I think I would prefer not to drink it,” he said.
“Just as well,” Silvestre said. “As it happens, that was not a trace of vinegar you smelled; it was a sizable amount of arsenic.”
Polletti smiled with embarrassment and found that he was shuffling his feet like a schoolboy. He stopped shuffling and said, “I have a head cold today. You could hardly expect. …”
One look from the professor was enough to silence him. Silvestre pushed a button on his switchboard. A sofa shot out from the wall, nearly taking the wall with it as it came to a jolting stop. Both men sat down.
After a short but pregnant silence, Silvestre said: “Marcello, up to now you have lived a charmed life.”
“Isn’t that true of all men?” Polletti asked quickly. “I mean to say, when one considers the fortuitous and inexplicable nature of life itself—”
The professor was not to be put off. Inexorably he continued: “On your first time out you had the good fortune to be selected for Hunter, and you were matched against a feebleminded Englishman.”
“He wasn’t feebleminded,” Polletti said. “He was just rather set in his ways.”
“He was a pushover,” Silvestre continued, “a Hunter’s dream. Next you were a Victim, but your assigned Hunter was a 19-year-old suffering from an unsuccessful love affair. Again, the kill was simplicity itself; as a matter of fact, I suspect that the poor boy was simply looking for a socially approved means of suicide.”
“Nothing of the sort,” Polletti said. “He was merely a little absentminded.”
“And the third time you were a Hunter, and you drew that ridiculous German baron who could think of nothing but horses.”
“He was rather easy,” Polletti admitted.
“They were all easy!” Silvestre cried. “But how long do you think it can go on like that? Have you ever considered the law of averages? You haven’t come up against one competent antagonist yet! How much longer do you think it can go on like that? Do you honestly believe you can get by without brains, quick thinking, intuition, and intensive training?”
“Now look,” Polletti said. “I’m not as bad as all that. I’ve been a Victim in my fourth Hunt for nearly twenty-four hours, and absolutely nothing has happened.”
“You’re probably being stalked,” Silvestre said. “Your Hunter is undoubtedly sizing you up, establishing the pattern of your movements, waiting for the moment of maximum opportunity in which to strike. And you aren’t even aware of it.”
“I doubt that very much,” Polletti said, with quiet dignity.
“Do you indeed? Let’s see how you do on identification.”
Professor Silvestre pressed a button on his switchboard. The room went black. He pressed another button. Five life-sized figures appeared on the far side of the room. Four of the figures in this particular test were harmless; “angels” in Hunt terminology, which had borrowed many expressions from the legendary World War II. One was a bogie. It was Polletti’s job to identify the disguised killer.
Polletti looked at the figures with care. They were dressed as a policeman, a Swi
ssair hostess, a Jesuit priest, a hotel porter, and a Jordani Arab. They walked slowly toward the couch and then disappeared.
Silvestre turned on the lights. “Well? Which was the Hunter?”
“Could I see them again?” Polletti asked.
Silvestre shook his head. “I gave you an additional second as it was.”
Marcello rubbed his chin, ruffled his hair, and said, “That Arab didn’t look exactly right. …”
“Wrong,” Silvestre said. He pressed a button and the Jesuit priest appeared alone, somewhat ghostlike since the room lights were on, but clearly visible.
“Observe,” Silvestre said. “The Jesuit is an unmistakable fraud. He has the ‘J’ of his order on the right breast as well as on the left—a clear giveaway!”
“I’ve never paid much attention to Jesuits,” Polletti said, standing up and rattling the small change in his pocket.
“Rome is swarming with them!” Silvestre said.
“Exactly why I’ve never noticed them.”
“But that’s exactly why you must notice them!” Silvestre cried. “The off-key detail in the commonplace is the surest clue of all.” He shook his head sadly. “When I was in the Hunt, one paid real attention to such things. Nothing ever escaped my observation.”
“Nothing but that explosive banana,” Polletti said.
“True,” Silvestre admitted. “That Nigerian fellow found out about my weakness for tropical fruit.”
“And I believe there were a few other mishaps,” Polletti reminded him.
“I am quite aware of it,” Silvestre said with dignity. “Luck always ran against me, and now I try to teach others to avoid my own failures. I’ve had some notable successes. But I don’t think I can count you among them, Marcello.”
“Perhaps not,” Polletti said carelessly.
“You have been through my entire course,” Silvestre said. “And you are not totally lacking in native ability. But there is something about you—some basic core of indifference, something that renders you incapable of putting your heart and soul into man’s noblest occupation—murder!”
“I suppose that’s true,” Polletti said. “I simply can’t seem to stay interested long enough.”
“I fear you have a serious character defect,” Professor Silvestre said gravely. “My boy, what will become of you?”
“I suppose that I’ll die,” Marcello said.
“Probably,” Silvestre agreed. “But more important than that is the question of how you will die. Are you going to die magnificently, like a kamikaze, or miserably, like a cornered rabbit?”
“I can’t see that it makes much difference,” Polletti said.
“It makes all the difference!” the professor cried. “If you cannot kill well, then at least you ought to die well. Otherwise you will bring discredit upon your family, your friends, and upon Professor Silvestre’s School for Victim Tactics. Remember our slogan here: ‘Die as Well as You Kill.’ ”
“I’ll try to bear it in mind,” Polletti said, getting to his feet.
“My boy, my boy,” Silvestre said, rising and resting his stainless-steel hand on Polletti’s shoulder, “your apparent indifference is but a mask for your essential masochism. You must try to fight, not only the deadly Hunter outside, but the even deadlier antagonist within your own mind.”
“I’ll try,” Polletti said, trying to suppress a yawn. “But just now I have an appointment—”
“Of course, of course,” the professor said. “But first there is the little matter of my bill, which we might as well settle now. Today brings it to 300,000 lire. If you could—”
“I can’t just at the moment,” Polletti said, becoming aware that the professor’s stainless-steel hand was about an inch from his left carotid artery. “But first thing tomorrow, as soon as the banks open, I’ll have it for you.”
“You could write me a check,” Silvestre suggested.
“Unfortunately, I have no checks on me.”
“Luckily,” the professor said, “I do.”
“Sadly,” Polletti said, “I can’t write a check at the moment since my funds are in a safe-deposit box.”
Silvestre looked hard at his unpromising pupil, then shrugged and took his steel hand away from Polletti’s neck.
“Very well,” he said. “Tomorrow, on your word of honor?”
“On my word of honor,” Polletti said.
“Let’s shake on it,” the professor said, extending his steel hand.
“I think I’d rather not,” Polletti said.
The professor smiled and offered his good left hand. Polletti shook it warmly. Silvestre pulled his hand back convulsively and gazed at the palm. In the center of it there was a single drop of blood.
“Do you see?” Marcello said, showing the glittering little spike affixed to the palm of his hand. “As you pointed out, the off-key detail within the commonplace. Now if I had dipped that spike in curare.…”
Chuckling with good nature, he walked to the door.
Silvestre sat down, sucking his pierced palm. He felt unhappy. Despite his frivolous tricks, Marcello Polletti was surely headed for a graveyard. But then, he reminded himself, so were all men; whereas he, Professor Silvestre, was probably headed for a junk heap.
8
In the Borgia Ballroom of the Rome Hilton, Caroline was rehearsing her post-kill dance number with the Roy Bell Dancers. There was utter silence except for an occasional exclamation, such as: “I told you the pink spotlight, you mindless, incompetent moron, not the white overheads!”
Martin, Chet, and Cole sat in the front row of the hastily erected little theater, pinching their upper lips judiciously. They could see that Caroline was no Pavlova; but then she didn’t have to be a Pavlova. What she lacked in dancing ability (which was considerable) she made up for in sheer female magnetism (which was more than considerable). The Roy Bell Dancers skillfully portrayed the various aspects of Woman; but Caroline had no need to portray—she was Woman. Sometimes she made you think of a vampire, sometimes of a Valkyrie. Her tall, lithe body seemed incapable of an awkward gesture, and her long blonde hair streamed down her shoulders like a perilous bright flag of promise.
“She’s not much of a dancer,” Martin said, still pinching his upper lip, “but she’s all Woman.”
Chet nodded. “It’s amazing. Sometimes she makes you think of a vampire, sometimes of a Valkyrie.”
“That’s for sure,” said young Cole, removing his fingers from his upper lip. “And have you noticed how her tall, lithe body seems incapable of making an awkward gesture, and how her long blonde hair streams down her shoulders like a bright perilous flag of promise? ”
“Shaddap,” Martin said, still pinching his upper lip. He had been on the verge of saying that himself, and he hated to have underlings snatch the words right out of his mouth. He decided to have Cole fired along with Chet. Martin hated a wise guy.
The dance came to an end. Panting slightly but deliciously, Caroline left the stage and flung herself into a seat next to Martin.
“Well?” she asked. “How was I?”
The three men made noises of approval, the loudest and most definite coming from Martin, due to his seniority.
“And everything is set up at the Colosseum for tomorrow morning?” she asked.
“The works,” Martin assured her: “Lights, stages, remote-control microphones, five active cameras and two more on standby. We’ve even got a special narrow-beam shotgun mike so we can pick up the Victim’s death rattle.”
“Sounds OK,” Caroline said. She mused for a moment, and her protean face, formerly that of vampire or Valkyrie, changed into that of Diana, the implacable maiden huntress. “Now, let’s see some stills of this Polletti.”
Martin gave her a batch of shiny 8 × 10 photographs of Polletti, shot earlier that day and developed, processed, enlarged, and delivered in a matter of hours, due to the miracle of money.
Caroline studied the pictures closely. Abruptly she asked, “How old is t
his guy?”
“About forty,” Martin said.
“And what sign was he born under?”
“Gemini,” Chet answered promptly.
“Untrustworthy,” Caroline declared. “Especially with those crinkles around the eyes.”
“I think he was squinting when our man took the pictures,” Cole said timidly.
“A crinkle is a crinkle,” Caroline declared. “But I like his hands. Did you notice? He’s got spatulate fingers, except for the left ring finger.”
“You’re right,” Martin said. “I didn’t even notice before.”
“I don’t suppose you got a phrenologist’s report on him?”
“Gee, Miss Caroline,” Cole said, “there just wasn’t time.”
“What difference does it make what bumps he has on his head?” Martin asked. “All you got to do is kill the guy, Caroline.”
“I like to know something about the people I kill,” Caroline said. “It makes it nicer, somehow.”
Martin shook his head with exasperation. That was just like a woman; always dragging in the personal element. He decided to fire Caroline as soon as he had taken over Fortinbras’ job; then, with a slight start of dismay, he realized that after her tenth kill, Caroline would be in an excellent position to have him fired.
“I know what you mean,” Martin said, hastily transforming his exasperation at her into anger at himself. “It is nicer to know, and if there had been any possible way of getting a phrenologist’s report on Polletti, Chet would surely have figured out a way.”
Caroline seemed about to say something—probably caustic, to judge from the shape of her mouth; but she was interrupted by a tinny voice from a small monitor nestling comfortably at Chet’s feet.
“Hello, hello,” the voice from the monitor said. “This is Mobile Camera 3, proceeding, approximately south-southwest and a point west along the Via Giulia. Do you read me, Central Command Post, do you read me?”
“Yeah, we hear you okay,” Martin said. (He hated stuffy formalities almost as much as he hated egalitarian informalities.)
“I have the Target presently in view at a range of approximately thirty-seven and four-tenths feet. Do you wish me to effect a maximum closure, or shall I open up at present range, interrogative.”
The 10th Victim Page 4