The Devil's Game Read online

  “And?” the old man responded quietly.

  “And so, sure, Haverner Enterprises owns most of the business in this country, and a lot of the land, and enough of the government.” (Orestes Cruz sucked breath between teeth, half rose, sank down and shivered.) “You can shell out a million, plus incidental expenses, and feel no pain. But your, uh, hobby hasn’t taken anything like this form before. You’ve paid people pretty good wages—nevertheless, straight wages—to go through assorted odd tests; and that was that, as far as they were concerned.

  “Now, though … we seven are supposed to compete, somehow, for a million dollars you claim you can make tax free. I was willing to come this far, Mr. Haverner, but now, by heaven,” Ellis Nordberg said, “I need details.”

  Their gazes—in some cases, their glares—were upon him as he spoke. He was no unusual sight: of medium stature, lean except for the encroaching paunch of middle age, his long skull bearing angular features which had begun to wrinkle and sag a trifle, thinning nondescript hair, wan blue eyes. He wore bifocal glasses and an expensive, conservative tropical suit.

  Haverner nodded. “True, sir, true,” he answered. “This is why you were brought directly from the landing strip to me. Your curiosities shall soon be satisfied. The reason for the secrecy to date is merely to control this experiment and to save it from bothersome public attention.” Again he raised a skeletal hand. “Don’t be afraid. You will shortly get the whole story. If anyone declines to play—well, it was agreed beforehand you’ll stay here while the game lasts. But you’re free to quit at any stage. In fact, the game is an elimination contest.”

  Larry Rance’s look strayed to Julia Petrie. No conventional beauty, she could be called striking: high cheekbones, prominent straight nose, wide mouth, hazel irises under heavy brows, dark brown hair worn fairly short. Tall and rangy, she could also be called stacked. Her age was obviously in the earlier thirties, which would have been less obvious were it not for the marks of strain carved upon each of the seven.

  She caught his appraisal and gave him an angry return. He grinned at her. The biggest person there—though Haverner had once been physically impressive—Larry Rance stood six feet two and amply broad to match. Muscles bulged under the short sleeves of his flamboyant shirt, under the gold pelt on his forearms. They had shrunken somewhat, however, and his own belly had grown in spite of his being not much older than she. His face was square and hook-nosed, with small blue yellow-thatched eyes. Sun-bleached, his hair was cut at the same length as hers, but in an age of triumphant beards he, like the other men present, had stayed smooth-shaven.

  Because they were side by side, he could murmur in his hoarse baritone, “Relax. Let them use up their energy.” She jerked her stare toward Haverner. Larry shrugged, drew forth pipe and tobacco pouch, readied a smoke.

  Matt Flagler, who had already gone through half a pack of cigarettes today, started a new one from the butt of the last, which he tossed into a flowerbed along the south edge of the patio. “Sure,” he said. Chicago’s West Side had never quite left his speech. He was forty, in reasonably good shape, handsome in a tilt-nosed, long-lipped, blue-chinned fashion, his eyes gray-green and slanty, his hair black and stiff, his clothes retaining a threadbare nattiness. “Sure. I know about you, Mr. Haverner. Been living in Vizcaya these past six years, haven’t I? We can trust you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Flagler,” Haverner replied. “Yet you may as well satisfy yourselves at once that payment will be forthcoming to the winners and that no government can lay a finger on it.” He turned his head, which was bald and resembled that of the mummy of Ramses. Two men stood behind his chair. To him on the left he said, “Captain, bring me the papers bound in red on my desk.”

  “Yis, sir.” That attendant was slight but wiry. The Indian share of his genes dominated his features, save for the alert pale eyes. Neatly clad, he affected a brass-buttoned blue nautical jacket over tropical white. He was off at once.

  “My factotum here,” Haverner remarked of him. “Evans York. Not that that is specific on Tanoa. One might as well say ‘William Jones’ in Cardiff, and as for the title, most Islandmen are or have been captains, even if only of a fishing boat. But don’t consider him a menial or underestimate his intelligence, ladies and gentlemen. By and large, you will have the freedom of this house, these grounds during your stay. But Captain York has the keys to my study. … To be sure, the only full set of keys is mine.”

  He sighed. “Forgive an old man’s wordiness,” he continued in a tone that, without bothering to be sarcastic, asked no pardon. “While we are on the subject, let me introduce Anselmo, Anselmo Gomez, since you’ll have more to do with him.” He nodded backward at the man who stood behind him on his right. “He’ll be my chief representative, my referee and reporter, while you play out your games.”

  He thought a moment. “Games,” he said. “Anselmo will see to it that the rules are observed. You may appeal his decisions to me. Be warned, I’ll probably back him. Anselmo and I have worked together for quite a few years, and he has my total confidence”—he grimaced—“as far as does any member of our mongrel species.”

  “ ’Ow do you do,” said the man bespoken. He didn’t seem to mind his employer’s reference to mongrels, perhaps because he was nearly pure mainland Indio, bearing no resemblance to Orestes Cruz in looks or behavior. He didn’t reach upward to snatch yet another plum, or shift about or crush yet another ant. Instead, he stood as if he could stand forever, growing no more tired and no less supple than the tree. White open-necked shirt, trousers, deck shoes stretched immaculate over his stocky frame; the 9-mm Smith & Wesson automatic belted at his hip was somehow not conspicuous. His face, broad, flat, brown, bore a mustache in lieu of expression.

  “We ’ave studied your records, ladies and gentlemen, the detecteeves sent us.” His English, fluent and not unduly accented, sounded almost casual. “You ’ave been chosen out of many. We theenk you do well. I am ’ere to ’elp you. Please feel free you call on me.” He bowed slightly. “Y Usted también, naturalmente, Sr. Cruz.”

  “You had best omit the Spanish, in this company,” snapped the man thus singled out. Orestes Cruz was lean and very dark; his features were smooth, part Negro, part Indian, tinged fractionally Visigothic; but his hair was a black bush and his clothes—no, they did not bespeak poverty; they were too plainly given him a day or so before the airplane fetched him. He talked harshly, his accent dissimilar to Anselmo’s. A certain jerkiness of movement suggested a bout of chorea or the like during his mainland childhood.

  The breeze was dropping as noontide neared. With less noise in the leaves, people heard surf out on those skerries that sheltered the little bay. They had heard nothing from the electric generator that supplied the establishment. It worked in an insulated vault beneath the service building near the landing strip. This house and its satellites kept the width of Tanoa between themselves and the North Port, almost the entire length of the island between themselves and the Caye. From the servants’ quarters, a domestic called to a child, “You dere, Sam?” It was a peculiarly lonely sound. Insects droned. A native rankness crept out from among the flower perfumes.

  “Well, then.” Haverner nodded. “Let’s get on to business, and afterward to lunch, eh? I said the object of the next two weeks, as far as I am concerned, will be to test how a variety of individuals react to stress—to challenge, if you prefer. I admit, Mrs. Petrie, this requires me to explain the terms under which you seven will create that challenge for yourselves.”

  They waited, knowing they must. Gayle Thayer took up her purse in search of a cigarette. The plum she had been holding rolled from her.

  “What you will do—those of you who remain willing and, ah, qualified—is simple,” Haverner told them. “You must all know the children’s game of Follow the Leader. Seguid el Conductor.” (Orestes Cruz scowled.) “Leaders are chosen in turn. Whatever the leader does, the rest must imitate. Those who cannot, drop out, losing their chance to lead if they
have not already done so. Ideally, one alone is left at the end.”

  He paused for a moment before adding slowly, “I have a personal preference for a version I recall from very long ago, by the name of Simon Says. The leader cries, ‘Simon says jump up and down!’ or whatever action he has chosen, and performs it. Again, the others must do likewise or fail. However, if he calls the order and performs the action, but did not begin his words with ‘Simon Says,’ then anyone who does copy him is a loser. Many a child has thus been betrayed by his own overeagerness.

  “I mention this touch of subtlety in order to remind you at the outset that you are not asked to engage in a merely physical contest. At least, it would disappoint me if that is what you do. No, stratagems, quick-wittedness, the out-thinking of your rivals are not only allowed but encouraged in this game of Follow the Leader you are going to play—for the prize of a million dollars.”

  Gayle Thayer’s large, ornate purse dropped and spilled its contents. They were numerous and, here, foolish.

  “Oh!” Her voice, inherently high, went thin and wavered. She herself was plump, verging on stout, and short, with a fair complexion, curly light brown hair, snub nose, pouty lips. Her eyes, in contrast, were big and gray, bright and long-lashed, her best feature emphasized by careful makeup. She wore a flowered maxi-length gown and, on a massive necklace, a peace symbol. “Oh, I … I … I’m sorry. Please go on.”

  “Quite all right, Mrs. Thayer,” Haverner said. “Or do you prefer Miss, or even this ridiculous new Ms. I hear about? Your dossier isn’t clear about that. About which you use, that is.”

  “Anything, anything,” she whispered, scrambling about on hands and knees to recover her possessions.

  “No, wait, surely not anything goes,” Byron Shaddock put in. “I mean … this comes suddenly, and no doubt we’ll spend the rest of the day arguing over details, but, … well, … rules, the law, not to mention individual capability …” Now it was he whom they regarded. He flushed and snapped, “Listen, I’m not afraid. Some of you will’ve heard of me. Nevertheless, I agree with Mr., ah, Mr. Nordberg?—I agree the rules will have to be spelled out beforehand.”

  “That’s what Mr. Haverner’s gonna do, you,” Matt Flagler said. His look was insulting, but when countered it vanished at once and was replaced by a pleasant enough grin.

  Byron Shaddock straightened in his chair and met their glances. He hardly seemed the surfer, water skier, auto racer, stunt pilot that the newspapers reported. Rather, he resembled the tennis player, the attender of important opening nights, the server of numerous worthy causes and generally conscientious scion of a distinguished family, that the newspapers also, less prominently, reported. His body was tall and thin, his nose cragged, his mouth trap-like, his chin interminable, accompanied by vaguely brown flat hair and vaguely brown flat eyes, archetypal New England. His clothes were reasonable for the environment, and one felt that they always would be, whatever the surroundings.

  “At ease, at ease,” Haverner murmured.

  Captain York returned bearing a crimson-covered document, gave it to him, and resumed his stance behind the master. “Ah, yes,” Haverner said. “Here we are. As you can see, this is a long and complicated instrument. But in front is a one-page precis. I imagine everybody will wish to examine that, at least. Perhaps right away?”

  “If you please.” Ellis Nordberg rose, stretched out an arm, took the codex and resettled himself. “Go on, Mr. Haverner. I’m used to reading legal papers, reports, that kind of thing, during the conferences they’re relevant to.”

  Gayle appeared surprised that a Midwestern businessman should know the word “relevant.”

  “Good.” Haverner clicked his tongue. “How I wish I could smoke! At my age … Would anybody care for a drink? Not yet?”

  His tone grew stem. “Yes, Mr. Shaddock, certainly we’ll put common-sense restrictions on what game the day’s leader may call on the rest to play. Otherwise the game becomes meaningless. You, for instance, given your Ivy-League education, could demand that Sr. Cruz parse Greek verbs; he could demand you to do likewise for a mountain Indio dialect. Who shall say which knowledge is better to have? Mr. Rance appears able to lift, say, three hundred pounds; the ladies presumably cannot.

  “No, everything must be within the limitations of everyone.” He paused to let this sink in. “In case of dispute, Anselmo is the lower court, I the final. Believe me, neither of us cares who wins or who loses. We … I am concerned only with observing the psychology of the interplay.”

  He bridged his fingers. His desiccated cheeks creased in another smile of sorts. “One million dollars tax free, to spend or invest as you choose … and my investigators verified that you each have compelling reason to want it. ”

  Did somebody whimper far down in his or her throat? “The game,” Haverner said. “Follow the Leader. You will cut cards today to decide the order of precedence. Play begins the day after tomorrow, so the first leaders can have a chance to devise their strategies. Each turn lasts from sunrise to sunrise. We’ll post the schedule in the living room. Between turns there’ll be twenty-four hours for rest, recreation, preparation, whatever you wish.

  “The leader—the day’s leader—will call on you to do that which he or she chooses—as I said, within your physical and mental capacity. Anselmo will judge its fairness. If necessary he’ll ask me via a walkie-talkie radio he’ll carry. Or you can approach me directly by appointment. You must be satisfied that your judges are impartial. If you are not, or if you are otherwise discomfited, you’re free to drop out, though your contract does require you to stay here until the game is finished.”

  He paused, probably for breath. “Of course,” he said, “the leader must perform personally. He can stop or modify or completely change his demand at any instant, subject only to the rule of fairness. His object will naturally be to force you out of competition. If you meet his challenge, then when your turn comes, your object will be to force him out. Because only those who last the full two weeks will share the prize money. The rest get nothing except transportation back to Ciudad Vizcaya. Those who are from the States have already been given their return tickets.

  “Mr. Shaddock mentioned the law. Well,”—his smile flickered—“in effect, here we are beyond the law. I assure you that no authorities in the sovereign Republic of Santa Ana will pay attention to any charges that anyone may bring in connection with this episode. As for the press, when you have returned home—” He chuckled. “Go ahead. Tell what you like. That too should make an interesting study. However, for your personal sakes, I do recommend you keep quiet.”

  He said into faces bewildered, appalled, uncertain, thoughtful, “Calm, calm. You have the rest of today and the whole of tomorrow before you start. Those who draw high cards, early leadership, will have less time to plan. On the other hand, they’ll be less tired, more alert and resourceful. What you do in your leisure will be your own business. Think of this as a cutthroat but not necessarily unfriendly game—for a pot of one million dollars.

  “Maybe ideas will come up that require special equipment. In that case, ask me, in strict soundproofed confidence. I have various things here in storage … Anyone who can’t think up a challenge may read the inventory in the hope of inspiration. Or, if you need something not on hand, you may order what you like, free of charge, within reason, and ‘reason’ really means little more than ‘feasibility.’ We’re not far by air from many large cities. I have agents in most of them, and radiophone connections.”

  He lifted a gristly finger. “Now no doubt you’ll have questions, plus you’ll want to get settled in. I’m not strong these days, and, besides, I have other affairs. Let’s go to lunch. We’ll cut a new deck of cards immediately afterward. Then I must retire from your company. I’ll be available for discussions, open or private as you wish, this evening and parts of every following day. Anselmo will always be available.”

  He rose, a slow process, assisted by his men at either elbow. He shaped a t
iny laugh. “Good luck, ladies and gentlemen,” said Sunderland Haverner.

  INTERVAL ONE

  The lunch was excellent. Two white-clad Islandwomen waited faultlessly on table in a long and graciously furnished chamber whose French doors, now Venetian-blinded, gave on the patio and the lawn and flowerbeds beyond. It was a shame that none of the diners paid much attention to the bonito almondine or the hearts of palm salad—except the host, and he doubtless had limited capacity left for sensory pleasure.

  He raised his glass of Chablis. “To your health and fortune,” he toasted.

  Larry Rance grinned in a strained fashion. “Mine, at least,” he said.

  Matt Flagler regarded him with what was at the moment honest hate. “Go ahead, crack wise while you can,” the Chicagoan growled. “Want to make a side bet? I say you won’t last half the course.”

  Gayle Thayer, who chanced to be seated by Lance, winced away from him as if expecting violence. The big blond man shrugged. Byron Shaddock urged, “Let’s stay cool. As Mr. Haverner remarked, we’re in competition, but it needn’t be, ah, unsporting.”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?” Orestes Cruz demanded. “Sport, that’s a thing the white man invented to pass the time.” He glared around the table. “How many here really need a million dollars?”

  “I do,” Julia Petrie said, voice low but clear. “A goodly share, anyhow. My God—my child’s life—”

  “Sympathy pitch, eh?” Ellis Nordberg muttered. Eyebrows raised, he looked away from her and around at everybody else.

  She started up from her seat, then subsided, breath audible and uneven. Blood flew across her face and withdrew. Haverner sipped his wine, watching.

  “We might get acquainted,” Byron suggested. “What do we do for our livings? Why are we here?”