The 10th Victim

by Robert Sheckley

  Everyone murmured that the Maestro’s words (Pombello liked to be called the Maestro) were apt, skilled, graceful, and definitely to the point. Everyone also wished that Pombello would be struck dumb upon the spot, or receive a telephone call urgently requesting his presence in Corsica.

  “So we have reduced the problem to its essentials,” the Maestro said. “You are a Victim, Marcello; therefore you need a defense. Nothing could be simpler. It only remains for us to decide which of the many fine defenses available you should select.”

  “I’m not very defense-minded,” Polletti said. “Or offense-minded, either,” he added as an afterthought.

  The Maestro ignored his words, as he had ignored everybody’s words since his tenth kill. “Your best chance,” he said, “would be to utilize the Hartman Concentric Field Depth Sequence.”

  The others nodded slowly. The old man did know quite a little about Hunting, when you came right down to it.

  “I don’t think I know that one,” Polletti said.

  “It is quite easily grasped,” the Maestro said. “First one selects a village of fair size, or perhaps a town. You must be reasonably sure that neither your Hunter, nor his relatives, live in that particular town, since that factor renders the defense ineffective. But a neutral town is not too difficult to find; in fact, the odds are overwhelmingly in your favor.”

  “It’s quite true,” Vittorio said. “I was reading just last week—”

  “So,” the Maestro continued, “having found the town, you go and live there for a week or a month or as long as your Hunter needs to find where you are. Then, when he comes after you, you kill him. It’s as simple as that.”

  Everybody nodded in agreement. Polletti asked, “What happens if the Hunter finds you first, in disguise, perhaps, or—”

  “Ah, I see that I left out the key part of the Hartman Concentric Field Depth Sequence,” the Maestro said, smiling at his own absentmindedness. “The Hunter cannot find you first, no matter how ingenious his disguise. He cannot sneak up on you. As soon as he enters the town, he is at your mercy.”

  “Why?” Polletti asked.

  “Because,” the Maestro said, “you have previously paid every man, woman, and child in the town to act as your spotters, and you have furthermore promised a bonus to whomever spots the Hunter first. Simple, eh? That’s all there is to it.”

  The Maestro sat back, beaming. The others murmured approvingly.

  “You pay every man, woman, and child?” Polletti said. “But that requires a considerable sum of money. Even if it’s only a village of a thousand or so inhabitants—”

  The Maestro waved his hands impatiently. “I suppose that a few million lire would be needed, paid in advance. But what is that against one’s life?”

  “Nothing at all,” Polletti answered promptly. “But I don’t have a few million lire.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” the Maestro said. “Hartman’s Sequence is, in my personal opinion, the best all-around defense.”

  “Maybe if I could get some credit—”

  “But one need not despair,” the Maestro said. “I seem to remember hearing some excellent things about Carr’s Static Defense, though I myself have never used it.”

  “I was reading about it only last week,” Vittorio said. “In the Carr Static Defense, one seals oneself into an all-steel room, along with an oxygen regenerator, a water reconstitutor, a generous supply of food, and some good reading material. Abercrombie and Fitch sells a complete outfit, with three-inch-steel hyper-reinforced walls that are unconditionally guaranteed against any explosion up to one megaton.”

  “Would they sell me one on credit?” Polletti asked.

  “They might,” Carlo said. “But I’d better warn you that Fortnum & Mason’s now sells a multi-wave vibrator unconditionally guaranteed to shake apart anything and anyone inside such a box.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “That’s what happened to my unfortunate cousin, Luigi, on his very first defense.”

  Everyone murmured his regrets.

  “For my part,” the Maestro said, “I have never liked the static defenses. They are too static; they lack flexibility. A nephew of mine, however, once used a rather ingenious Defense of Openness.”

  “I’ve never heard of that one,” Polletti said.

  “It’s an Oriental form,” the Maestro said. “The Japanese call it ‘Invulnerability Through Apparent Vulnerability.’ The Chinese refer to it as ‘The Centimeter Which Contains Ten Thousand Meters.’ I believe there is also an Indian name for it, though I cannot remember it at the moment.”

  Everyone waited. Finally the Maestro said, “Still, names do not matter. The essence of the defense, as my nephew explained it to me, is openness. Openness!”

  Everyone nodded and leaned forward.

  “For his defense, my nephew rented a few square miles of desert land in the Abruzzi, for next to nothing. He put up a tent in the middle of his land. From it, he could see for miles in every direction. He also borrowed a radar set from one of his friends, and bought a brace of antiaircraft guns from a second-hand weapons dealer. He didn’t even pay cash for the guns; he merely traded his car for them. I think he also picked up some searchlights from somewhere or other, and he installed the whole thing in two days. What do you think of that, eh, Marcello?”

  “It sounds ingenious,” Polletti said thoughtfully. “It sounds good.”

  “I thought so myself,” the Maestro said. “But unfortunately, as it turned out, my nephew’s Hunter merely bought a surplus tunnel digger from Aramco, tunneled under the boy’s tent and blew him to bits.”

  “Sad, very sad,” Vittorio said.

  “It was a blow to our entire family,” the Maestro said. “But the basic idea is still sound. You see, Marcello, if you took the same concept but modified it somewhat, renting, let us say, a flat granite plain instead of a sand and limestone desert, and if you also installed seismographic equipment, the defense might work very well. It would have certain flaws still, of course; old antiaircraft guns are really not very effective against modern rocketcraft. And there is always the possibility that the Hunter would think to buy a mortar or a tank, in which case the very openness of the defense would be a disadvantage.”

  “Yes,” Polletti said. “And also, I don’t think I could make the necessary arrangements in time.”

  “What about an ambush?” Vittorio said. “I know several superb ambushes. The best of them require time and money, of course—”

  “I have no money,” Polletti said, rising to his feet, “and I probably have no time, either. But I want to thank you all for your suggestions; especially you, Maestro.”

  “It is nothing, nothing at all,” the Maestro said. “But what are you going to do?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all,” Marcello said. “One must, after all, remain true to one’s basic self.”

  “Marcello, you are mad!” cried Vittorio.

  “Not at all,” Polletti said, pausing at the door. “I am merely passive. A very pleasant afternoon to you, gentlemen.”

  Polletti bowed slightly and left. The others were silent for a moment, staring at each other with expressions of mingled consternation and boredom.

  “He is inflicted with a fatal fascination for death,” the Maestro proclaimed at last. “This, in my experience, is a typically Roman state of mind against which one must fight with one’s entire being. The symptoms of this disease—for it must be so called—are quite apparent to the trained ’eye; they are, namely. …”

  The others listened with glazed and vacuous expressions. Vittorio wished fervently that the Grand Old Man would be hit by a car, preferably a Cadillac, and hospitalized for a year or two. Carlo had fallen asleep with his eyes wide open; even in this state he continued to murmur “Hmm,” at every break in the Maestro’s oration, and to take an occasional puff on a cigarette. He had never revealed to any living soul how he had learned to do this.

  12

  Caroline lifted her left arm. On her wrist sh
e wore a Dick Tracy watch radio—a family heirloom handed down through generations of Merediths. People were always telling her that she should get a newer, smaller, better watch radio, with additional features and conveniences. Caroline agreed with them in theory, but she refused to part with the antique. It worked, she pointed out; and anyhow, she had a strong sentimental streak.

  “Martin,” she whispered into the watch, “what does Belleza di Adam mean?”

  “Hang on, I’ll find out,” Martin said, his voice barely distinguishable over the watch’s wretched little speaker.

  Martin was back almost at once. “Chet says it means ‘The Adam Beauty Parlor,’ the same like we got in New York. He says it’s the usual sort of deal; Polletti gets his wrists shaved there every couple of days, and then he has lunch or a drink or something in the snack bar.”

  “Chet sure knows a lot,” Caroline said.

  “He does,” Martin agreed. “As a matter of fact, some people think he knows too much. But why do you want to know about the ‘Adam’?”

  “Because that’s where Polletti is now,” Caroline said. “I reached the Hunt Club just as he was leaving, and I followed him to the ‘Adam.’ But women aren’t allowed in a man’s beauty parlor, are they?”

  “Not in the wrist-shaving section. But the snack bar is open to the public.”

  “Fine,” Caroline said. “I’ll go to the snack bar and take a look at him.”

  “Do you really think you should?” Martin asked. “I mean, maybe it isn’t strictly necessary. We’ve got a couple ideas for getting this joker into the Colosseum tomorrow.”

  “I know all about your ideas,” Caroline said, “and frankly, I don’t think much of them. I’ll bring Polletti in myself. Besides, I want to get a close look at him. I want to meet him if possible.”

  “Why?” Martin asked.

  “Because it’s much nicer that way,” Caroline said. “What do you think I am, some sort of pathological murderer? I like to know who I’m killing. That’s the civilized way of doing things.”

  “OK, baby, it’s your show. But just watch out he doesn’t get you first. You’re playing with fire, you know.”

  “I know. But there isn’t anything that’s as much fun to play with.”

  Caroline turned οff her Dick Tracy watch radio and entered the Belleza di Adam. She walked past the wrist-shaving section to the snack bar in the rear. She saw Polletti at once. He had just finished his lunch and was lounging back in his chair with a cup of coffee and a comic book.

  Caroline sat down at an adjoining table and ordered a dish of seaweed stew à la Milanese. She took out a cigarette, searched her purse for a light, and turned to Polletti with an embarrassed little smile.

  “I seem to be out of matches,” she said apologetically.

  “The waiter will bring you some,” Polletti said, not looking up. He was giggling over his comic book, turning the pages rapidly to find out what happened next, yet reluctant to leave what was behind.

  Caroline frowned. She looked adorable when she frowned, as indeed she looked when she did anything. But her beauty was wasted on a man who wouldn’t look up from his comic book. She sighed magnificently, and then noticed that each table was equipped with a telephone and a clearly visible number. Smiling piquantly (a thing she did extremely well) she dialed Polletti’s number.

  His telephone rang repeatedly, but Polletti seemed oblivious to it. Then, at last, he turned directly to Caroline and said, “I told you that the waiter would bring matches.”

  “Well, it really wasn’t matches I was calling about,” Caroline said, blushing prettily. “The fact is, I’m an American, and I wanted to talk to an Italian male.”

  Polletti made a gesture with his hands indicating that Rome happened at the moment to be filled with Italian males. Then he turned back to his comic book.

  “My name is Caroline Meredith,” Caroline said brightly.

  “So?” said Polletti, not looking up.

  Caroline was unused to this sort of treatment; but she bit her lip charmingly and plunged on.

  “Are you free this evening?” she asked.

  “I expect to be dead this evening,” Polletti replied. He plucked a card from his pocket and handed it to her, still not looking up from his comic book.

  The card said: Be careful! I am a Victim! It was a standard cautionary note printed in six languages.

  “Goodness gracious!” said Caroline in a delectable voice. “A Victim, and you’re simply staying out in the open like anyone else! That’s a very brave thing to do.”

  “There’s nothing else I can do,” Polletti replied. “I haven’t enough money to organize a defense.”

  “Couldn’t you sell your furniture?” Caroline suggested.

  “It’s being taken away,” Polletti said. “I am unable to pay the installments.” He turned a page of his comic book and began to grin.

  “Well, goodness,” Caroline said, “there simply must be something—”

  She broke off abruptly at the sound of a sudden commotion. A rat-faced little man had run into the snack bar, crossed it, come to the far wall and turned, his whiskers quivering. Bare moments later a second man entered. He was extremely tall and thin, and his narrow seamed face was tanned the color of a Peruvian saddle.

  He wore a very large white hat, a black string necktie, a buckskin vest, Levis, and cowhide boots. He also wore two Colt revolvers slung low on his hips in cut-away holsters.

  “Well, Blackie,” the thin man said, in a deceptively mild voice, “I reckon we meet again.”

  “Reckon so,” the rat-faced man replied. His whiskers had stopped quivering, but fear was still manifest upon his unpleasant features.

  “I also reckon,” the thin man said, “that we’ll settle this little matter now once and for all.”

  Caroline, Polletti, and the rest of the diners immediately took refuge beneath the tables.

  “There ain’t nothing to settle, Duke,” the rat-faced man quavered. “There really and truly ain’t.”

  “Is that a fact?” the thin-faced Duke replied, still with deceptive mildness which at this point was deceiving no one. “Wellsir, Blackie, maybe you and me got kind of different values. Me, I’m just old-fashioned enough to resent having my best grazing land cut through by a railroad and my best girl married off to a smooth-talking whiskered little mutt of a Boston banker, and my money taken in a crooked faro game. That’s the way I feel about it, Blackie, and I plan to do me something about it.”

  “Now wait!” Blackie cried desperately. “I can explain everything!”

  “Save it,” Duke said. “Come on, you high-stepping, fancy-talking, yellow-bellied tinhorn—slap leather!”

  “Duke, please, I haven’t even got a gun!”

  “Then I reckon I’ll be the only one to slap leather,” Duke said relentlessly. His right hand started to move toward his holster. At that instant the bartender recovered his wits and shouted, “No, no, you must not do that, sir!”

  Duke turned to him and said with deceptive mildness, “Sonny, I’d advise you to keep your long nose out of other people’s business; otherwise some irate citizen is liable to shoot it off.”

  “I do not mean to interfere in your affairs, sir,” the bartender said. “I merely wished to advise you that murder is illegal in these premises.”

  “Now look, bub,” said the tall stranger, “I’m a fully accredited Hunter and that quivering little rat of a polecat over yonder is my fully accredited Victim. It took a little finagling to pull it off, but I’ve got the papers all legal-like, so kindly keep out of the line of fire.”

  “Sir, please!” the bartender cried. “I was not questioning your status. Anyone could see at a glance that you are a man with a perfect right to kill. But unfortunately, these premises have been declared out of bounds for all killings, legal or otherwise.”

  “Well I’ll be hornswoggled,” said Duke. “First you can’t kill in church, then they won’t let you kill in a restaurant, then they put barber
shops out of bounds, and now snack bars. It’s getting to the point where a man might as well stay home and die of old age.”

  “I think perhaps it is not that bad yet,” the bartender said soothingly.

  “Maybe not, son, but it’s getting there. I don’t reckon you’d have any objection if I blasted that little polecat in the back alley?”

  “We would consider it an honor, sir,” the bartender said.

  “OK,” Duke said grimly. “Blackie, you got time for one final message to your Maker before. … Hey! Where’d Blackie go?”

  “He left while you were talking to the bartender,” Polletti said.

  Duke snapped his fingers in disgust. “He’s a slippery one, that Blackie, but I’ll catch up with him yet.”

  He turned and rushed out the door. Everyone in the snack bar resumed his seat. Polletti resumed reading his comic book. Caroline resumed looking at Polletti. The bartender resumed making double Martinis.

  Polletti’s telephone rang. He waved a hand at Caroline, vaguely indicating that she should answer it. Pleased and proud at having attained even this degree of intimacy with her enigmatic Victim, Caroline lifted the receiver.

  “Hello? Just one moment, please.” She turned to Polletti. “It’s for Marcello Polletti. Is that you?”

  Polletti turned the last page of his comic book and asked, “Is it a man or a woman?”

  “Woman.”

  “Then tell her I’ve just left.”

  Caroline said into the receiver, “I’m sorry, he’s just left. Yes, that’s right, he isn’t here. What do you mean, I’m lying? Why on earth would I lie about something like that? What? What’s my name? My name happens to be none of your business. What’s your name? What did you say? The same to you, sister, in spades! Goodby! What? Yes, really, he has really just left.”