Saint and the Fiction Makers (20 page)

He and Amity were at the dining table finishing off their meal with fresh cherries and peaches when the door burst open and Warlock sailed towards them like an apoplectic dirigible.

‘Well, Mr. Simon Templar!’ he shouted.

He was waving a magazine, but the dramatic effect of his entrance and gestures was ruined by the fact that he had begun to quiver all over. Simon looked at him with bland puzzlement.

‘I thought you were rehearsing a raid, not Uncle Tom’s Cabin, he said.

Frug and Nero Jones flanked Warlock menacingly. Galaxy stood triumphantly behind them. The magazine appeared several inches in front of the Saint’s nose.

‘Try to talk your way out of that!’ Warlock bellowed.

‘Try to hold it steady enough for me to see,’ the Saint replied mildly.

He took the magazine and saw what he expected to see: his own picture.

‘Well?’ Warlock shouted.

‘Very handsome,’ said the Saint.

He glanced at the cover of the magazine. It was one of those sensational movie journals with which Frug was occasionally seen enriching his mind. The magazine was two weeks old, and it had a spread on the then forthcoming premiere of Amos Klein’s Sunburst Five. Under Simon’s picture—taken during his attendance at some other gala occasion he could no longer remember—were the words: ”Real life Charles Lake expected at premiere. Simon Templar—better known as the Saint—is among those invited. Don’t shove, girls! You might find a date with him about as relaxing as a ride on a tiger shark … and he’s not talking about his romantic enthusiasm. The legendary Robin Hood of Modern Crime has probably survived more narrow escapes than even Charles Lake.’

‘Well?’ Warlock demanded again.

‘The prose is lousy and the quote’s a pure fiction. Otherwise …’

He shrugged and passed the magazine to Amity.

‘You tricked me!’ Warlock raged.

‘You kidnapped me,’ said the Saint.

‘You let me believe you were Amos Klein. You insinuated yourself into my organization— probably with the intention of destroying it. You haven’t succeeded yet, and you won’t! I’ll see you both dead for this!’

Nero Jones looked excited by Warlock’s last statement, and his fingers caressed some solid object in his jacket pocket. Amity Little put the movie magazine on the table.

‘What have we done?’ she asked. ‘Except to try to go along with your crazy ideas?’

‘And who are you? Warlock asked her furiously.

‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ she said.

‘An accomplice,’ Warlock stormed. ‘Otherwise why would you have co-operated in this masquerade?’

Simon had been thinking at racecourse speed, and he had decided that the best way to protect Amity was to let Warlock know her true identity.

‘In spite of your archaic diction, I think you have a brain under those layers of baby fat and romanticism, so I’ll let you in on something,’ Simon said to the tremulous Warlock. ‘This lady is Amos Klein.’

Warlock’s safety valve went with a wheeze of rage, and his square hand swung towards Simon’s face. The Saint did not move from his casual position in the chair. With a slight tilt of his head he avoided Warlock’s slap, caught the square hand, continued its motion further than its owner had anticipated, and sent Warlock sprawling on his face on the carpet.

The solid object which Nero Jones had been handling so affectionately inside his pocket openly revealed itself as a snub-nosed revolver, and Frug snapped out a six-inch switchblade. Simon did not move except to shake his head warningly at Amity as Warlock floundered first to his knees and then to his feet.

‘You’ll pay for that too,’ he said, his face livid with fury. ‘For tripping me and for insulting me with idiotic lies about this … this woman of yours!’

‘But it’s true,’ Amity said. ‘I wrote the Charles Lake books. My real name is Amity Little, but my pen name is Amos Klein.’

‘So you see,’ Simon joined in, ‘S.W.O.R.D. got a real bargain. Two brilliant experts on crime for the price of one.’ He gave Warlock a winning smile. ‘We aren’t even charging you double. For a mere hundred thousand pounds you’re getting not only a master plan for cracking Hermetico, but also the delightful company of two celebrities in your own home. Why, you’ll be the envy of the neighbourhood, Warlock, old son of a witch.’

The man who called himself Warlock, surprisingly, did not erupt again. Instead, a strange unnatural calm regained control of his quivering bulk that was far more ominous and blood-chilling than any of his outbursts. It reminded the Saint suddenly and startlingly that the house and the organization around him, the whole set-up and everything that had gone before, preposterous and fantastic as they were, were not figments of delirium but had been put together with cold and patient practicality.

‘You’re right,’ he said at last, slowly. ‘I have your plan and I’m going to use it … and you’re coming along as insurance. In case you’ve included any traps, you’ll be the first to die, so you might as well admit anything you’ve deliberately done to try to catch us.’

‘You have as many facts about Hermetico and the plan as I have,’ Simon said. ‘Do you think Amos and I included any traps?’

‘No. I don’t think you were that foolhardy, and that’s why I’m not calling off the raid. But just in case, you will come with us. Your … Miss Little or whatever she is will be clamped on the laser table downstairs and won’t be let up until we get back. If you betray us at Hermetico and we don’t arrive back here by a certain time Miss Little will die. Is that clear?’

‘She actually is Amos Klein,’ Simon said. ‘You wouldn’t want to destroy the person you admire most in the world, would you? I don’t blame you for being sceptical, but you could at least check.’

‘I don’t care any more,’ Warlock said icily. ‘And just to be sure you take me seriously … Frug.’

Warlock nodded towards Amity, and Frug and Nero advanced on her. She backed away. When Simon made a move to put himself in front of her, Warlock pulled a dart pistol from his pocket.

‘I can put you to sleep in a second, Mr. Templar—and my aim is good. Stand still.’

As Simon watched helplessly, Frug caught Amity by one of her arms, swung her around, jerked her arm up behind her, and held the point of his knife against the side of her throat so that the skin was pressed in but not quite punctured. Amity winced with pain, and Frug twisted her arm even more viciously.

‘Nero is very interested in women,’ Warlock oozed. ‘His interests are a bit odd, but for that reason I suppose they’ll furnish us more entertainment.’

Nero, standing in front of Amity, had put his pistol away and taken a cigarette lighter from his pocket. He flicked it into flame with slow deliberation, looking Amity in the eye all the time. It was one of those lighters meant for use on pipes, with a control that could turn the flame into a sideways jet like a miniature blowtorch. He demonstrated it, making the jet lick out and in like a small hot tongue. As it approached her eyes, he suddenly took it away and laughed. With his free hand he reached forward, caught the collar of her blouse, and ripped it half open. Now the coal of the lighter moved with taunting slowness towards the white swell of one of her breasts. She tried to wriggle away, but Frug held her, increasing the twisting pressure on her arm. Her face blanched and her eyes closed. The tip of the flame seemed to just touch her flesh and then Warlock intervened.

‘That’s enough for now. Mr. Templar should have the idea. Galaxy, take her downstairs and put her on the table. Nero will help.’

Nero reluctantly released his hold on Amity’s blouse and withdrew the lighter. She gasped with relief as Frug relaxed his grip on her arm and shoved her towards Galaxy. Galaxy caught her by the shoulder and tried to swing her roughly towards the door, but at that point Amity performed a turn-about entirely worthy of the creator of Charles Lake. As she pretended to stumble forward she caught Galaxy’s wrist in both hands, jerked her off balance, and in the same swift flowing motion threw her sprawling heavily on her back several yards away.

‘It’s all right,’ she said quickly to Warlock as he raised his dart pistol. ‘I’ll go peacefully. I just had to get that out of my system.’

‘Bravo,’ said Simon.

‘Take her downstairs, boys,’ Warlock said. ‘Clamp her to the table. Galaxy will have orders to give her the full treatment, if we’re not back from Hermetico by a reasonable hour.’

Galaxy was in no shape to take any orders at the moment. She was still on the floor, dazedly wondering what had happened.

‘Is all this clear to you, Mr. Templar?’ Warlock asked.

‘I’m afraid it’s very clear,’ Simon replied.

Frug and Nero were escorting Amity though the door to the hall.

‘Good luck,’ she said to Simon over her shoulder.

Her voice was unsteady but controlled.

‘Don’t worry,’ the Saint called after her. ‘It’ll be all right.’

‘It had better be,’ Warlock said soberly. ‘It had certainly better be. Now come along, Simon Templar, and get ready to prove that your plan really works.’

CHAPTER SIX

HOW HERMETICO WAS BREACHED,

AND SIMON TEMPLAR DID NOT

HAVE THE LAST WORD

1

The expedition was ready to leave S.W.O.R.D. headquarters at one o’clock in the morning. Warlock was fuming over delays and shouting at his men as they gathered in the reception hall. Warlock and Bishop wore police uniforms, and the others—including Simon—wore black trousers and long-sleeved black sweaters. It was hoped that if the raid was interrupted, Bishop and Warlock might be able to pass themselves off as policemen who were in the process of apprehending and taking away the criminals.

‘All of you except Monk go out to the truck,’ Warlock commanded. ‘Go over the equipment checklist completely and test everything again. Mr. Simon Templar and I are going down to see that his lady love is comfortable. Monk, you come with us.’

As Simon followed Warlock to the cellar, with Monk guarding the rear of the little procession, the rest of the men trooped silently out the front door.

‘I think you might need some last-minute inspiration, Mr. Templar,’ Warlock said. ‘Go in, please.’

The Saint entered the cellar and saw Amity lying spread-eagled on the steel table, her ankles and wrists chained. Galaxy was lounging in a swivel chair eating chocolates and reading a vividly coloured paperback called Holiday Lust Spree. Amity raised her head and tried to smile at Simon as Warlock shot Galaxy an angry look.

‘Must you read that trash? If you can’t pay attention to what you’re doing here, you could at least try improving your mind.’

‘Assuming she has any mind to begin with,’ Amity said.

Galaxy called her several names which even the author of Holiday Lust Spree would have been forced to delete from his manuscript.

‘If we’re not back by three-thirty,’ Warlock said, ‘you are to turn on this machine and eliminate Miss Little slowly but completely.’

‘With pleasure!’ Galaxy said.

‘Isn’t that early?’ Simon asked. ‘We could hardly be back by then anyway.’

‘Of course we can,’ Warlock said. ‘It’s five past one now. The trip to Hermetico takes twenty minutes. We’ll be there at one-thirty. I allow until two o’clock for us to have opened the building, and until three o’clock at the very latest to complete the loading. We’ll easily be here by three-thirty.’ He smiled grimly at Amity’s helpless figure. ‘And besides I’m sure Galaxy won’t get the thing over with too fast. Even if we were five minutes late—which I guarantee we won’t be—there’d still be something left of Miss Little to save. Admittedly, the ultra-sonic waves would have destroyed that mind she seems to be so proud of, but her body would be quite intact.’

Amity lost her surface composure. She closed her eyes and lay back on the slab with a heavy shuddering sigh. Simon started to move towards her, but Monk intervened.

‘No, Mr. Templar,’ Warlock said. ‘No fond farewells. Concentrate instead on being sure of a reunion.’

‘All right then,’ the Saint replied icily. ‘Let’s not waste any more time. Try to relax, Amity.’

‘Good luck,’ she said.

‘If you’ve got any ideas about starting to work on her before three-thirty, I promise to fix your face so that even dogs will run away from the sight of it.’

‘Not very gallant of you, Mr. Templar,’ Warlock said, as Galaxy merely gaped like a spoiled child whose hand has just been slapped for the first time. ‘Galaxy will obey her orders to the letter. And so will you. Let’s go.’

Five minutes later the van rolled out of the gates of Warlock’s grounds. Behind came the counterfeit police car; Bishop drove it, Simon sat next to him, and Warlock and Frug sat watchfully in the back seat. The pace was slow, and a winding route along back roads towards the rear of the Hermetico building necessitated considerable caution and flashing of brake lights on the part of Monk, who was driving the van. But at that hour of the night there was little traffic, and within the twenty minutes specified by Warlock they had reached the pasture they would have to cross in order to reach their goal, which was still half a mile away.

Nero Jones jumped from the van, clipped the wires of the low fence, and waved his arm to signal Monk to proceed. The van bounced slowly through the opening and rumbled off across the rocky field with Nero back inside. Ahead, as the police car followed, Simon could see the patch of forest which was their goal. There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and even though both the vehicles had turned off their lights the bright masses of stars gave a silvery illumination of the whole landscape which disposed of any problem about finding the way.

Warlock was leaning forward tensely, looking at the van.

‘Why is the fool tearing along like that?’ he fretted. ‘He’ll turn over.’

‘He’s only going ten miles an hour,’ Bishop said.

‘Mind that rock!’

‘I see it,’ said Bishop.

A sulky cow plodded leisurely out of the way as the procession growled through its hitherto private territory. Warlock, taken by surprise, had yanked out his automatic before he realized the bovine nature of the lumbering shape.

‘Good idea,’ Simon said. ‘Work in a little big-game hunting and we’ll have steaks for breakfast.’