Simon could not inventory much more in the general turmoil, before Jenny Turner came shoving through the crowd, waving and shouting to him.
“Oh, Simon, I’m so glad to see you. What about the old Death Game motif? Great, huh? I did almost all of it.”
Simon was amused to find that she had already put him on a first name basis, but of all the young women he’d seen for some time he could not think of any to whom he would have been more willing to permit such familiarity. In fact, what Jenny Turner’s lushly curved shape did for her short skirt and sweater would have guaranteed a desire for intimacy in any even semi-sentient male.
“It’s lovely,” said the Saint. “Are these spiders on the tables hors d’oeuvres or guests?”
She laughed.
“I made them out of dyed pipe cleaners.”
Bast was opening a pack of cigarettes preparatory to further enriching the already dense atmosphere of the cellar.
“A highly developed originality quotient has our Jenny.”
“Among other things,” Simon said appreciatively.
If he expected a maidenly blush and lowered eyelids he had for once miscalculated. The girl gave him a bold gaze, and the half-smile that lingered on her lips took on a tinge of expectancy and invitation. Far from turning shyly aside, she drew her shoulders further back as if to make it impudently clear that she knew quite well what he was referring to.
“It’s almost eleven,” Bill Bast said. “If we don’t want a riot on our hands we’d better get on with the prize giving.”
As the young lecturer led the way to the dais, Jenny leaned towards Simon.
“Where’s Dr Manders?”
“Sulking in his tent,” said the Saint in a low voice. “I’m afraid he’s not only upset about you people attacking strangers on the streets, but also because you’ve giving me the spot he should have had.”
“He’s acting like an old sourpuss. Who cares? Come on.”
She took his hand and led nun to Bill Bast’s side as the din of chattering and laughing died away.
“Tonight,” Bast said, “we’re very fortunate to have with us a gentleman who — if even half the legends about him are true — has been through much more in reality than we’ve ever dreamed of in our Death Game.”
The speaker went on in the same vein for several minutes, working in some humorous comments about the game in general. Dr Manders came into the basement, avoided meeting Simon’s eyes, and took up a station next to the wall on the other side of the room, sucking his cold pipe as if it were his thumb. Jenny, who had seen fit not to relinquish her warm grasp on Simon’s hand, squeezed his fingers and looked up at him with something uncomfortably close to adoration as Bast concluded his remarks.
“Now,” he said, “I’m very pleased to introduce Mr Simon Templar, who will give out the prizes for the three highest scores in the Death Game.”
Bast started to step aside as applause filled the low ceilinged room, but then he had an afterthought.
“And let’s hope this too shall pass, and in the next term we can stop dreaming up ways to kill one another and get back to our white mice and mazes.”
He said it without a smile, and Simon thought it doubtful that many of the students even heard him, since most had begun clapping enthusiastically to welcome the Saint. But it probably did not matter to Bast whether they heard him or not. He had addressed himself directly to the sullen Dr Manders.
Simon was given a piece of paper with the citations on it, and Bast briefly explained the procedure to him. Then it was his turn to take the stand.
“As one whose bones tend to creak with boredom at the mere thought of anyone lecturing me on any subject whatever for a period of more than three and a half minutes,” he said, “I’m going to spare you all the funny cracks and solemn thoughts and get on with the prizes. I’ll just say that it’s quite a novel experience to be here — even though my invitation did arrive on the nose of a bullet — and that I truly appreciate this unique opportunity to see how the world’s leaders of tomorrow are spending their time today.”
There was laughter and more applause. Simon looked at his script by the light of a candle which Jenny held for him.
“Now for the Death Game first prize. Will Alastair Davidson stand, please? He’s one of the dead ones.”
A tall, blond, sheepish-looking boy raised himself halfway from his chair, grinned, and sat back down.
“Mr Davidson’s hunter was the winner of the prize for the highest accumulated score. And I must say that after my experience with him this evening I can testify to his homicidal skills: Grey Wyler.”
As Wyler got to his feet with a lazy, contemptuous nod, it was apparent that the applause he was receiving was not really what he would have expected for a first-prize winner. And to anyone who had spent ten seconds in Grey’s arrogantly chilly presence the reason for the lack of popular enthusiasm would also have been predictable.
“We’ll ask the champion to describe his prize-winning murder for us,” Simon said.
“Rather simple, actually,” Wyler said, letting it be known with his expression and tone that he found the whole business of public acclaim slightly boring. “Alastair has ambitions to be a writer.”
Alastair squirmed as Wyler paused to let his unspoken but completely obvious evaluation of his victim’s literary potential impress itself on the group. Then Wyler continued.
“I knew he had an electric typewriter and that he spent a couple of hours every night writing his fictional productions. I wired the typewriter space bar to a pen light concealed under the machine. As soon as Alastair started to type the pen light turned on. But it wasn’t a pen light. It was a laser beam. In two seconds it had burned through his vital organs to his spine, rendering him quite dead... and depriving the world, I’m sure, of a quantity of artistic outpourings second only to the works of Tobias Smollett.”
Grey sat down amid grudging chuckles and a new round of applause.
“Congratulations,” the Saint said dryly. “It seems you won’t get your prize until the other announcements have been made.” He looked at his paper and then out over the crowd. “Would Eleanor Knight please stand?”
In the dim light Eleanor Knight was not much more than a plump ghost with long dark hair and an apologetic smile.
“She doesn’t look dead,” Simon said gallantly, “but according to these notes she is. And the one who killed her is certainly one of the most lovely murderesses I’ve ever met: Jenny Turner.”
Jenny, still holding the candle, told her story. Unlike Grey Wyler, she was more giggly than blase about her accomplishment.
“I gave Eleanor a can of hair spray for her birthday. When she pressed the button the first time, out came a blast of spray, the top popped off, and there was a note that said, ‘Congratulations. You have just been instantly killed by prussic acid gas. Many happy returns of the day. From your hunter, Jenny Turner.’ ”
The next victim introduced by the Saint was almost invisible at his crowded table in the darkest recesses of the room.