“And as many times as possible, apparently,” the Saint said. “Tonight’s the first I’ve ever seen mass murder performed on one man — assuming your attempts on me would have worked if you’d been serious.”
Wyler again demonstrated his lack of humor by narrowing his eyes and looking almost venomously indignant.
“You deny that I could have succeeded?”
Simon studied the boy for a few seconds and decided that an argument over hypothetical murder was not worth his own time.
“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” he said.
“It’s the scoring Grey’s worried about,” Jenny explained. “Just killing somebody won’t get you much. Like if you shoot him in the back or something while he’s getting out of his car it’s only worth a couple of points.”
“But something like the toy soldier with the poison gas,” Wyler put in, “would be worth four or five.”
“On the other hand,” Jenny said, “if you kill an innocent bystander you get docked three points.”
“The first person to accumulate ten points is named a decathlon winner,” said Wyler.
“And gets a prize,” added Jenny.
Simon gazed at her with fascination.
“It beats tiddlywinks,” he conceded finally.
“Groovy, isn’t it?” Jenny bubbled. “We’re all just absolutely wild about it.”
“Meaning that the whole student body is buzzing with homicidal ingenuity?” Simon asked.
“That’s about it,” Wyler answered.
“And just how did I get involved?” the Saint asked.
“My psychology advisor, Bill Bast, bet me ten pounds I couldn’t kill the great Simon Templar,” Grey said. “Frankly, I thought it would be much more difficult.”
It took some unusual adherence to the qualities implicit in his nickname for the Saint to avoid an overt demonstration of his feelings about Grey’s puppy haughtiness.
“Assuming, since it’s only a game, that you did kill me tonight,” he said, “I have to remind you that you weren’t playing fair.”
“In what way?”
“You didn’t notify me that I was a victim.”
Grey Wyler tensed.
“The circumstances were... It wasn’t practical. Bast knew I couldn’t let you know. It was part of the bet. We assumed that someone like you would always be on his guard.”
“They were afraid you wouldn’t go along with it,” Jenny said. “And besides, old Maunders would’ve hit the ceiling if he’d known they were going after somebody outside the university. I almost think he takes this more seriously than the students do.”
“Old Maunders being some recalcitrant bulwark of professorial tradition?” Simon asked.
“Exactly,” Wyler said. “But you’ll meet him in a few minutes. Now that I’ve won I don’t give a damn what he knows or thinks.”
“I’ll meet him?”
“At the party,” Jenny said. “End of the term — and the Death Game winners get prizes and everything.”
“Having passed the age for student pranks,” Simon said, “and having been killed several times over, I think I’ll just retire to my cozy den and try to summon up forgiveness for those who lured me out of it in the first place.”
His refusal instantly brought from Jenny some of the most ingenuous persuasion to which he’d ever had the pleasure of being subjected. First she gave a little squeal of dismay, and then she flung both her arms around one of his arms, pressing herself against him and fairly jumping up and down.
“Oh, you just can’t disappoint us! I told everybody you were coming — and you’re supposed to pass out the prizes, and everything, and if...”
“The Death Game prizes?” Simon asked, intrigued at the prospect of getting to know more about this college fad that was so much like the game he had played, for real life and death stakes, during most of his existence.
“Oh, yes,” Jenny exclaimed, seeing her opening. “And the winners tell about their kills. You’ll love it. You’ve been such a great sport so far. Just string along a little longer, won’t you, please?”
“Jenny,” he said, “you’re more than I can resist. I’m yours to command.”
Jenny’s car was parked a block from the building where Simon had met his imaginary doom. It was, of course, the red MG from which the shots had been fired. They all squeezed in, as far as the place where Simon had left his own car, and then he followed them out of the deserted neighborhood of shops to the university district half a mile away. The college, forced to expand in the heart of a crowded city, had done so by occupying already existent structures in the area surrounding its original core. The only things distinguishing the academic buildings from nearby apartment houses, book dealers, and purveyors of technical supplies were modest identifying plaques beside each entrance door.
The MG stopped in front of a building labeled PSYCHOLOGY AND SOCIOLOGY. It was dark except for a single row of lighted windows on the ground floor.
“Party’s not here,” Jenny called as Simon left his car and joined her and Wyler, “but Bill Bast is. We’ll run in and see him first, then go over to the club.”
“Looks practically deserted around here,” the Saint commented as they went through the door and entered a corridor smelling strongly of age and floor wax and mildly of unidentifiable chemicals.
“End of term,” Jenny explained. “Most people have left. In fact just the ones who really took an interest in the Death Game are still here. They aren’t all in psychology, of course. Here we are.”
She opened the door to the very large, long room whose windows had helped to illuminate the street outside. Two rectangular tables surrounded by chairs ran down the center. Along the walls were a number of smaller tables, some desks, built-in storage cabinets, and cages of drowsy mice. At the far end was a computer, and beside it a tall almost skinny man of thirty or so wearing a white laboratory smock over his street clothes. The care he did not lavish on the crease of his trousers or the shine of his shoes was apparently devoted to experimental work.
“We got him!” Jenny called as she took a proprietary grip on Simon’s arm and led him between the tables. “This is Bill Bast, our assistant lecturer in psychology. Of course he knows who you are.”
Bast turned from the computer, smiling, and offering the Saint his hand.
“It’s a privilege to meet you,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to this very much.”
Wyler did not contribute to the general good-feeling.
“You owe me ten pounds,” he said in a flat tone that emphasized his arrogance. “It was at least a five point killing, and every step went just as I planned.”
Bast’s acknowledging glance at Grey was not marked by affection.
“Congratulations,” he said coolly, digging into his pocket for a pair of notes which Wyler took without thanks.
“It was nothing,” he said.
Bill Bast turned again to the Saint.
“I take it Grey and Jenny have filled you in on the Death Game?”
Simon nodded.
“It sounds like good clean fun.”
“We think it may have a real psychological value, too,” Bast said. “Just a second, I’ll cut off the computer and we can talk.”
“This machine is what pairs hunters and victims?” Simon asked.
“That’s only a sideline for it,” Bast replied. “It’s used primarily for much more important things — all kinds of data-comparing functions.”
“As a matter of fact,” Jenny said, “I’m surprised old Manders lets us use it for the game at all.”