Leslie Charteris - The Saint And The Fiction Makers

As he followed her down the long room towards closed doors of heavy oak, he was more fascinated than ever by the operations of his own mind in these strange circumstances. His powers of recall had always been exceptional and had more than a few times brought him success or even saved his life because of the advantage they gave him. But when he had read the Charles Lake books he had done so entirely for entertainment, or even derision, and with no thought at all that there would be any point in remembering even details of the plots, much less the names of characters, the descriptions of rooms, or the mechanisms of the fantastic devices so prevalent in Charles Lake’s weird world.

But now Simon had new confirmation of something he had always believed — that nothing in one’s experience was ever really lost, though the calling up to consciousness of long ‘forgotten’ facts seemed more responsive to accidental association than to a deliberate effort of will. The stimulus of the Saint’s surroundings — the names, the gadgets, the furnishings — began to revive more and more details of the Amos Klein novels he had read. At first the trickle of recollections had been small, but now the revelations came like the rapid thawing of tributaries in the spring — streams flowing into larger brooks, brooks flowing into rivers. Now Simon’s mind was filling with a torrent of facts about the world of Charles Lake which was astonishing in its completeness.

As Amos Klein — a role that had been thrust upon him, and which he welcomed in the circumstances — he had to know those things about the novels he had supposedly written. He was grateful to the mental gift which renewed a knowledge that he might reasonably have expected to have lost for ever.

“Here we are,” Galaxy said.

They were standing in front of another pair of oaken doors, but before she could expose her thumb to the glowing yellow disc beside them, they swung open from within, revealing what Warlock called the planning room.

“Greetings, Mr. Klein, and welcome to your rightful place in the world.”

The speaker was Warlock himself. He stood just a few feet inside the doorway, and even in his immaculate grey suit he managed to look like a jovial Caligula. The room which provided the setting for his welcome was large, richly panelled with rosewood, and strikingly modern in contrast to the room Simon was leaving. Behind the expansive Warlock was a long mahogany table. Around the table stood four men, two of whom the Saint recognized immediately as the phoney policemen of the night before.

“Overwhelmed,” said the Saint, inclining slightly.

Warlock did not miss the mocking twist of Simon’s lips. He nodded approvingly.

“So far, Mr. Klein, you have lived up to my fondest expectations. I might have known you’d take all this with the same aplomb as Charles Lake... although of course I had no way of telling whether or not you’d resemble him in the slightest.”

Warlock spoke precisely, with a neutral British accent which told nothing about him except that he had probably artificially cultivated his present way of speaking — in the same way that a radio announcer or actor tends to lose the speech patterns of his native region. Warlock’s accent, as a matter of fact, resembled that of the actor who played the role of Warlock in the Charles Lake films.

“We’re always told,” he continued, “that one should never meet one’s favourite author. The man might be so much less impressive than his work that one could be terribly disappointed. But I must say, Mr. Klein, that I’m not disappointed at all. I’m delighted! You’re much more Charles Lake than the man who plays his part in the films.”

Simon bowed his thanks.

“I hope I’ll be half as delighted when I find out why you gassed and kidnapped me.”

Warlock looked hurt. His jowls sagged.

“I wish you wouldn’t look at it that way, Mr. Klein. It seemed to me that since you were understandably dubious about my original offer, I must use unorthodox methods... for the good of both of us. I trust you’ll soon forgive me when you hear my plan.”

“I don’t have much choice at the moment,” said the Saint.

Warlock gave a deprecating wave of his hand, as if pretending not even to hear such an unworthy remark.

“Now, Mr. Klein, please come in, won’t you? This is your planning room. You’ll recognize it, of course.”

Simon accompanied Warlock across the thick carpet, glancing at the beamed ceiling, the high windows which allowed a view only of the sky, and the walls lined with books, maps, and graphs.

“I do recognize it,” Simon said. He had decided to bring a little more of the overawed author into his characterization. “It’s hard to believe. A perfect replica of the S.W.O.R.D. planning room.”

Warlock rubbed his hands delightedly.

“Not a replica,” he said. “This is the S.W.O.R.D. planning room — the only one on earth. Not in your mind, not on paper, not on film, but here, in reality!”

“And you’ve done all this yourselves?” Simon asked.

“I have done it,” Warlock said. “These gentlemen by the table were chosen after the building was completed. It has been absolutely guaranteed that my interests are theirs. Their loyalty is beyond question. You’ll recognize them, I think? You created them.”

Warlock stood happily by while Simon inspected the troops, who stood in varying postures of respectful unease on either side of the table.

“Bishop,” Simon said to the one who had come to the cottage door as P.C. Jarvis.

Bishop, whose chin displayed a dark bruise where Simon had hit him, forced a smile. He was no longer in uniform but like the other men wore a conservatively tailored suit.

“Mr. Klein,” he said politely, by way of acknowledgement.

“Feeling chipper this morning, Bishop? That’s good.”

Simon moved on to the giant who had accompanied Bishop in the impersonation of police constables.

“Simeon Monk, as I live and breathe. Do you really bend railroad irons with your bare hands?”

“Yes,” said Simeon Monk succinctly.

“Better have that throat looked after, Sim. Sounds as if you’re talking from down in a barrel.”

Simeon rubbed his throat and looked confused.

“He always sounds that way,” Warlock explained unnecessarily. “Remember, in Volcano Seven, you described...”

“Right,” the Saint agreed. “He’s perfect. And this handsome fellow here will be... don’t tell me, let me guess... Frug!”

The word ‘handsome’ had probably never been applied to Frug before, even as a joke. He would have been more aptly described, by a speaker less sardonic and more brutally honest than the Saint chose to be at the moment, as an ugly little shrimp. Opposite the huge Neanderthal called Monk, he looked even shorter and more shrimpy than he was, the perfect caricature of the chain smoker who spends his afternoons at the racetrack and his evenings in a billiards hall.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Frug said deferentially.

“And who is this?” Simon asked. “As if I didn’t know.”

He was inspecting the last member of the quartet, a moderately tall man of almost albino colouration. His hair was white, he seemed to have no eyebrows, and his eyes themselves were the palest of milky grey. He seemed to have more difficulty looking either cordial or respectful than any of the others.

“Nero Jones,” he said.

The Saint turned back to Warlock.

“At least I can’t find fault with the casting,” he remarked.

“I am so pleased you think so,” Warlock replied. “I do think our group here is much more true to life—” he laughed and interrupted himself “—I should say, true to fiction, to your books, than the cast in the motion pictures. I want you to understand that from the very beginning I’ve tried to depend on your books entirely and to ignore the films, so as to be as faithful as possible to your own ideas. I can’t deny being influenced by the films, but I’ve tried not to be unduly influenced. It was your ideas I was interested in, and a lot of other writers messing about with them could easily spoil the whole thing.”