“Open up?” Caroline cried. “Just whose hunt does he think this is?”
“He doesn’t mean to shoot,” Martin explained. “He just wants to know if he should televise from his present range or move in closer. I can’t bear these former destroyer captains, but Fortinbras hires them by the boatload.” He turned a switch on the monitor. “Hold your position, Mobile 3, and by no means—repeat, by no means—move in any closer. Give us what you’ve got.”
“Affirmative,” the voice from the monitor said, so briskly that you could almost see his bristling ginger moustache.
The gray face of the monitor turned white, then red with jagged green and crimson lines. At last the picture cleared and showed a lovely sad lady staring with downcast eyes (no mean feat) at three moustached men with compressed lips. A voice said in Italian, “And today we bring you a further episode in the strange, tangled lives of—”
Chet shouted, “Hey, Mobile 3, get on the ball!”
“Aye, sir,” Mobile 3 replied. “Sorry, sir. Little mixup in the omnidirectional pickup.”
“Is that meant to be an excuse?” Martin asked ominously.
“No, sir. Merely an explanation. Here we go, sir.”
The screen went blank, then came to life again. Marcello Polletti was clearly visible now, walking down a street. His shoulders were slumped and his step was listless.
“All the earmarks of a chronic depressive,” Chet said at once.
“Maybe he’s just tired,” Caroline suggested, studying Polletti’s image with care.
“He looks like an ideal Victim type,” Cole said, with boyish enthusiasm.
“The only ideal Victim is a dead Victim,” Caroline said coldly. “I think he’s lazy.”
“Is that good?” young Cole asked hopefully.
“No, it’s bad,” Caroline told him. “You can’t tell what the lazy ones are apt to try.” She studied Polletti for a few more seconds. “But there’s something else, something more than laziness, or depression, or tiredness. He’s not hiding or evading or any of the stuff a Victim is supposed to do. He’s just walking along a public street, a perfect target.”
“It does seem sorta odd,” Martin admitted.
“Are you sure he’s been officially notified?”
“I’ll check it out,” Martin said masterfully. He clicked his fingers; Chet waved two fingers impatiently; Cole hurried to the rear, found a telephone, and plugged it in.
Martin dialed the Hunt Ministry in Rome, tried to make his English understood through a torrent of Italian, and turned helplessly to his assistants.
“Uh, chief,” Chet said, “I took a one-night hypnosomnic course in Italian, just to be on the safe side. So if you’d like—”
Martin handed over the telephone. Speaking in a flawless Florentine accent, Chet learned that B.27.38 Polletti, Marcello, had indeed received personal and official notification of his current Victim status in a Hunt.
“Weird,” Martin commented. “Definitely weird. Where’s he going now?”
“Into a house,” Caroline said. “Did you think he’d walk the streets the rest of the day for the benefit of your camera crews?”
They watched Polletti walk through a doorway. After that, the monitor showed nothing but a closed door.
Martin pressed a button on the monitor. “All right, Mobile 3. The Target is out of view, so you can go to black. Axe you able to keep the Target’s house under surveillance for an hour or two without arousing suspicion?”
“Affirmative,” the voice from the monitor crackled back. “I am operating from the rear of a Volkswagen. So far, to the best of my knowledge, no one has even looked at me.”
“Nice going,” Martin said. “What’s the address of that house? Right, got it. We will relieve you in about an hour, two at the most. You will stay in the car; if you think you are arousing any suspicion, drive away immediately. Okay?”
“Wilco,” the cameraman said.
“See you later,” Martin said.
“Over and out,” the cameraman responded.
Martin punched the button and turned to Caroline. “Well, sweetie, we found the guy, and we also found out where he lives. It is now 3:34 p.m. and 15 seconds. You have to get him into the Colosseum by tomorrow morning. It’s not the easiest job in the world. Think you can bring it off?”
“I think I can,” Caroline said in dulcet tones. “Do you think I can?”
Martin looked at her, then defensively pinched his upper lip. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess maybe I really think you can. Caroline, you’ve changed.”
“I know,” Caroline said. “Perhaps it’s the influence of Rome, or of my tenth kill, or both. Or maybe it’s something else. I’ll be in touch with you, boys.”
She turned and walked magnificently out of the Borgia Ballroom.
9
Marcello Polletti’s apartment had a bright, chic, impermanent look, as had Polletti himself. The furniture was low, comfortable, harmonious, and pleasing to the eye—although, like its master, it was of no particular period or style, and of dubious intrinsic worth. There were three interior stairways; one led to a terrace, another to a bedroom, and the third, not yet having found a destination, ended in a blank white wall. This, to strain an already overdrawn analogy, was equally symbolic of Polletti.
Polletti himself was stretched out on a dapper crimson couch. He had a little red and blue toy monkey on his chest (transistorized; rechargeable battery; five-year guarantee; fully washable; fun for the entire family!). He scratched it absent-mindedly behind the ear and the pseudosimian twitched and chattered. He stopped scratching and started to practice deep breathing. But after three inhalation-exhalation cycles he gave it up because, like so many other things, it made him dizzy and faintly nauseous. Besides, he knew that he was doing quite well just to be breathing at all. In his circumstances, deep breathing was presumptuous, since it rested upon the illusion of a length of time in which to breathe.
He smiled faintly; he had made an aphorism, or possibly an apothegm.
On the wall opposite him was a television set resting in a wall bracket. Beside him was a low coffee table containing six books, a newspaper, 15 comic books, one bottle of whiskey, two unwashed glasses, one aluminum-framed Smith and Wesson (Model XCB3, known as The Retaliator), fully loaded but lacking a firing pin. (He had been planning to have it fixed.) The coffee table also contained a clever little one-shot derringer with a total length of 1.2 inches, perfect for concealment and reasonably accurate at distances up to three feet. Beside the derringer were two other hand guns of dubious lineage and doubtful ability. Draped across the southeast corner of the table was a bulletproof vest, the latest model, manufactured two years ago by Hightree & Ouldie, Bulletproof Vestmakers by Appointment to Her Majesty, the Queen. The vest weighed 20 pounds and would stop any cartridge load except the new Super Penetrex 9 mm Magnum developed last year by Marshlands of Fiddler’s Court, Bulletmakers by Appointment to His Majesty, the King. The Super Penetrex was now the standard load for all Hunters.
Near the vest were three crumpled cigarette packs and one half-full pack of Régies. And finally, there was a half-finished cup of coffee on the coffee table.
The television set, pretimed, turned itself on. It was The Hunt Hour International, a program one simply had to watch in order to know who was being killed by whom, and how.
Today’s show was being telecast from Dallas, Texas, a city with more game birds (as they were affectionately called) per capita than any other metropolis in the world. For this reason Dallas was known as Homicide Heaven, and was a sort of Mecca for aficionados of violence.
The announcer was a mild, friendly looking young American, who spoke in that mixture of natural friendliness and easy familiarity which is so difficult to simulate and so easy to dislike.
“Hi there, folks,” he said, “and a very special hi to all the aggressive young boys and girls out there who’ll be the Hunters and Victims of the future. I have a special message for you kids, because a s
pecial matter has been brought to my attention. So without moralizing, kids, I’d just like to remind you that it’s morally wrong to kill your parents even if you’ve got what seems like a good reason; and it’s also against the law. So really, and I’m very serious about this, kids, don’t do it. Go see your gym instructor and he’ll arrange a fight for you with someone your own size and weight, using truncheon, cestus, or mace, depending upon your age and scholastic standing. I know it’s not the real thing; I know a lot of you kids think that a few broken bones or a concussion is pretty mild stuff. But believe me, it’s good clean sport, it helps to build healthy bodies and develop quick reflexes, and it really knocks out those old aggressions. I know that a lot of you kids out there think a gun or a grenade is the only thing that really counts; but that’s because you’ve never fooled around with anything else. And let me just remind you of this: the ancient Roman gladiators used the cestus, and nobody thought they were sissies. The knights of the feudal ages swung a pretty mean mace, and nobody laughed at them. So how about it, huh, kids? How about giving it a try?”
Polletti murmured to himself, “I wish I were a child again.”
“You are,” a sepulchral voice said from the top of the second staircase.
Polletti didn’t look up; it was only Olga, moving silently down from the bedroom.
“And here are some other news and views from the World of the Hunt,” the announcer was saying. “In India, a recent but widespread revival of the ancient cult of thuggee has been officially confirmed by the Foreign Office at New Delhi. A spokesman for the government said today—”
“Marcello,” said Olga.
Polletti waved one hand impatiently. The television screen was showing stock footage of Bombay.
“—that thuggee, the ages-old practice of strangulation by means of a silk sash, or, in cases of extreme poverty, by a cotton sash—”
“Marcello,” Olga said again, “I am so sorry.” She had come halfway down the staircase, leaning heavily on the bannister for support.
“—is one of the few forms of murder readily available to people in all walks of life which does not break the commandment, explicitly stated in many of the world’s great religions, against the shedding of blood. Various Buddhist groups in Burma and Ceylon have expressed interest in this concept, which a spokesman for the Kremlin has called—and I quote—‘sheerest casuistry.’ This view was challenged, however, by a spokesman for the Chinese People’s Government, who is quoted by the New China Agency as having hailed the thuggee sash (or the Tsingtao Neck Covering, as he called it) as a true People’s Weapon and therefore—”
“Marcello!”
Polletti turned his head reluctantly and saw that Olga had reached the bottom of the staircase. Medusalike, her unbound black hair fell to her shoulders in snaky ringlets; her mouth was painted crimson and squared at the sides in the new “pythoness” fashion; and her great black obelisk eyes had become unfocused and dull, like the hopeless eyes of a jacklighted wolf who has been shot in the gut.
“Marcello,” she asked, “can you ever forgive me?”
“Of course,” Polletti said promptly, and turned back to the television set.
“Meanwhile, President-elect Gilberte of Brazil opened Section 2 of the World Olympics with a solemn statement. He told the millions packed into the Rio Central Stadium that primary emotional catharsis, as canalized and directed in the Hunt, was not yet economically possible for all; whereas the Olympic Gladiatorials, which gave the finest and most powerful form of secondary emotional catharsis available, were within the means of every citizen. He further stated that attendance at the games was the duty of every citizen who sincerely wished to avert the massed-slaughter warfare of the past. His words were greeted with respectful applause. The first contest today was between Antonio Abruzzi, three-time European champion of the free-style Battleax Event, against the popular Finnish left-hander Aesir Drngi, victor at last year’s North European semifinals. An upset seemed in the making when—”
“I was driven to it,” Olga said. Her knees began to buckle and her whitened grip on the banister came loose. “I am sorry, Marcello—so very, very sorry.” The banister slipped away from her straining right hand. Her left hand opened as of its own volition, and from it fell an ominous brown bottle of sinister shape and obvious intent. Polletti recognized it at once; it was the bottle in which Olga kept her sleeping pills—or in which she used to keep her sleeping pills, for the brown bottle was unstoppered and rolled emptily across the floor.
It was clear to anyone that Morpheus had formed a fatal alliance with his brother Thanatos.
“I took an overdose of sleeping pills,” Olga said, in case it was not clear to Marcello. “I suppose—I suppose—” Here words failed her, and the wretched girl crumpled onto the taupe rug.
“—while in the Broadsword Competition, Nicholai Groupopolis of Greece scored a clear first, delivering the death stroke with an upward-slanting backswing against Edouard Comte-Couchet of France, his gallant but clearly outclassed rival. In Middleweight Strangulation, a surprise upset was scored by Kim Sil Kul of the Republic of Central Korea.”
“Excuse me,” Polletti said, looking up guiltily from the screen. “Did you say you were having trouble sleeping?”
“In the Class B Double Stiletto Classic, a draw was proclaimed between Juanito Rivera of Oaxaca, Mexico, and Giulio Carerri of Palermo, Sicily, while in—”
“I said,” Olga said in a weak but distinct voice, “that I took an overdose of sleeping pills; of barbiturates, to be more precise.”
“—the Grenade-throwing Event, Middle-weight Division, Michael Bornstein of Omaha, Nebraska, despite a shoulder separation, blew his opponent—”
“And furthermore,” Olga said, “I have no regrets, except for you, Marcello, since it is you who have driven me to this by your indifference over the last twelve years, and it is you who, if there is a vestige of conscience somewhere within your callous soul, will suffer worse pangs than I am suffering now, and will someday come to realize that inaction is a warped form of action and that inattention is a perverted form of attention; and when that day comes—”
“Olga,” Polletti said.
“Yes?” Olga said, her voice barely audible above her Cheyne-Stokes breathing.
“I forgot to refill your sleeping-pill prescription the other day.”
Olga rose gracefully to her feet, found cigarettes on a nearby table and lighted one. She inhaled deeply, blew smoke at the ceiling, and said, “Marcello, why don’t you ever do anything for me? You were passing right by the drugstore yesterday.”
Polletti wrinkled his forehead. He had always admired Olga’s refusal to allow any embarrassing situation to embarrass her.
“—and in the special Armored-car Event, an Aston-Martin Vulcan V scored an extremely accurate—or extremely lucky—first hit on a favored Mercedes-Benz Death’s Head 32.”
Olga walked over to a vase of artificial roses, which she rearranged hideously with a few light, deft motions. She did nearly everything with style, even if she did nearly everything wrong.
“Marcello,” she said, in the light, playful voice which she reserved for the most serious matters, “why don’t we get married? It would be such fun—it really would, Marcello.”
“I am already married,” Polletti said.
“But if you weren’t?”
“Then we could consider the question in a much more realistic way,” Polletti replied, with the automatic caution one acquires after 12 years with the same mistress.
Olga smiled sadly and started up the terrace staircase. Near the top she turned and said, “I don’t believe you are married any more. Your annulment has come through, hasn’t it, Marcello?”
“Unfortunately, it hasn’t,” Polletti replied, in the grave, straightforward, manly tone he reserved for his most serious lies. “One can’t rush the authorities in these matters. For all I know, it’ll never come through.”
“It has! Admit it!”
Olga took one more step up the staircase and came to a heavy terra cotta vase she had put there the previous day. The sight of it, and of the recumbent, complacent Polletti infuriated her. “Beast! Swine! Ox!” she shouted. She picked up the vase, tottered for a moment under its weight, then threw it.
Polletti didn’t bother to move. The vase missed his head by an inch or two, shattering on the floor. Poor Olga always missed: targets, true love, husbands, parties, luncheon appointments, sessions with her analyst—anything you cared to name. Dr. Hoffhauer had told her that she was an extreme masochist who tried to compensate for her self-destructive urges through the acting out of pseudospontaneous sadistic impulses which, of course, her overdeveloped death wish would never allow her to accomplish. That was very bad. But, the doctor had pointed out, Polletti was in even worse shape (judging by what she said about him), since his death wish seemed to have no ameliorating sadistic impulses to help hold it in line.
The Hunt Hour International ended, and the television set turned itself off. Polletti, calm possessor of a hypothetical uncompensated death wish, rose to his feet, brushed terra cotta dust out of his hair, and started toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Olga asked accusingly.
“Out,” Polletti said mildly.
“Out where?”
“Just out.”
“Then take me with you.”
“I can’t,” Polletti said. “I’m going to the Hunt Club. They allow only accredited Hunters or Victims.”
“They allow everybody!”
“Not to the Members’ Annex #1,” Polletti said. “And that’s where I’m really going.”
The 10th Victim Page 5