Leslie Charteris - The Saint And The Fiction Makers

“You’ve had it moved down to your property for a fish pond,” the Saint interrupted pleasantly.

Warlock darted him a look which did not say much for Warlock’s sense of humour. Simon looked repentant.

“I just meant,” he explained, “that you seem to be able to work miracles, so I wouldn’t be surprised at anything you’ve done now.”

Warlock was somewhat appeased, though still suspicious.

“The Templedown Colliery,” he continued, “was bought by a private company who have converted it into an underground depository for hyper-valuables.”

“Hyper-valuables?” Simon asked innocently. “What are hyper-valuables?”

Warlock turned impatiently from his model.

“Hyper-valuables are... very valuable things. I got the word from one of your books.”

“Oh,” Simon said, embarrassed. “Well, even Homer nods.”

“For example, two of the Middle East countries store their gold reserves there.”

“One of them keeps its crown jewels there,” Frug volunteered.

Warlock nodded.

“And three of De Beer’s subsidiaries keep diamond stocks there,” he said.

“And Oppenheimer’s, too,” said Frug.

By now everybody in the room was looking at the white model building as if it itself were made of diamonds. Warlock reverently touched its domed roof.

“So you can see, Mr. Klein, that it’s a worthy target for your talents.”

Simon stood with his hands clasped behind him and looked down at the model treasure-house.

“There’s just one thing wrong for a start,” he said.

“What’s that?” Warlock asked.

“Where does Charles Lake come in? He’s my hero, remember? He’s supposed to keep people from doing things like this, not cheer them on while they steal some poor potentate’s family jewels.”

Warlock was not taken aback.

“I could not create Charles Lake even if I wanted to. One cannot create an individual, but one can create an organization. And having created this organization, and all the resources and equipment with which your imagination endowed it on paper, I can only be glad that there is no such person as a Charles Lake in the real world.” Warlock’s small mouth smiled faintly, a dark crevasse in the snowy hills of his face. “S.W.O.R.D. actually exists. Charles Lake does not. And there’s your answer, Mr. Klein. If you’re worried about the moral considerations, let’s discuss those later.”

“All right,” said Simon. He nodded towards the model. “Go ahead, please. I’m interested in the problem of cracking this place... just in theory, of course.”

Warlock gave him a delighted glance and put his hand once more on the white dome of the little building.

“The surface structure is bomb-proof. Conventional bombs, I mean. Only the subterranean levels are proof against atomic bombs, and it’s at those levels, far below the ground, that the valuables are stored.” Warlock’s stubby finger touched the fence which surrounded the building. “Twelve feet high, barbed, and every strand wired to the alarm system. Between the fence and the narrow walkway surrounding the building there’s an area crisscrossed with electromagnetic beams. If one of the beams is interrupted an alarm goes off and a buried mine explodes at the point at which the beam was broken.”

The Saint bent over the model.

“Sounds formidable enough,” he commented.

“The place is supposed to be absolutely theft-proof,” Warlock said proudly.

“Maybe we could start with something easy,” the Saint said. “Like the Bank of England.”

“I’m glad you’ve learned to say ‘we’ so quickly,” Warlock responded. “I can see that you find the project interesting.”

Simon had used the ‘we’ as an ocean fisherman uses bits of chopped fish to attract and put his prey off guard before he drops his hook. Having decided that his best strategy was to pretend to be tempted by Warlock’s proposition, he might as well stay on that tack. For the moment there was nothing to be gained by resisting, and there might be a great deal to be learned by ostensibly co-operating.

“It’s interesting,” he said. “And challenging.”

Warlock turned the table around, showing that the underground sections of Hermetico had also been incorporated into the model, extending below tabletop level. He removed half of the surface model, so that now a complete cross-section view of the Hermetico complex was visible — the low building at ground level, the narrow vertical shaft, and the spreading chambers, like the roots of a tree, at the bottom.

“In the surface building,” Warlock said, “are business offices, switchboard, and controls for the surface security complex.” His fingers followed the long shaft downwards. “Here, an elevator, of course, and near the lower mouth of the shaft, the central control room. There are grilles of steel bars at intervals throughout the storage area, each with a different locking system and automatic sealing device. In the event of an alarm, the whole storage area can be flooded. The whole thing is automated.”

Bishop, the constable of the night before, had been standing respectfully by.

“Not the friendliest place in the world,” he volunteered chattily.

Warlock gave him a chilling glance as Simon straightened up after a close inspection of the lower chambers.

“Automated?” he asked. “You mean there aren’t any guards?”

“Oh, I’m afraid there are, but not nearly as many as you might expect. They serve a caretaking purpose, primarily. The management of Hermetico apparently feel that their automatic mechanical devices are more than adequate to discourage any attempt at theft.”

“And so the battle was lost...” Simon murmured.

“What’s that?” Warlock asked.

“It’s that kind of feeling that loses battles,” Simon said.

Warlock cast jubilant glances at his staff.

“So you see a loophole already!” he exclaimed to the Saint. “You can do it!”

Simon managed to look blankly innocent.

“I?” he said. “I only meant that over-confidence can make the most perfect defences vulnerable.”

“Then you will find that weak point,” Warlock replied. “The basic idea came to me from your book, Volcano Seven, except there it was the Bank of England S.W.O.R.D. robbed.”

“Tried to rob,” Simon corrected him. “Charles Lake stopped them.”

“And of course that’s one of the beauties of having you on S.W.O.R.D.’s side, Mr. Klein!” Warlock crowed. “You’ll come up with an even better story this time, in which S.W.O.R.D. wins. ”

Simon elaborated his blank innocence into confusion.

“Story?” he asked.

“Telling how S.W.O.R.D. ransacked Hermetico. How through brilliant thinking, they breached every defence, penetrated to the core of that invulnerable fortress, and left it bare!”

“I’m to do that,” Simon marvelled rather than asked. “That’s the literary project you sent me that fifty-thousand-pound retainer for.”

Warlock rubbed his hands gleefully. He was pacing up and down the rich carpet near the model of Hermetico. The pale faces of his henchmen followed his movements like the spectators of a tennis match.

“Of course,” he said. “But it’s much more than a literary project. Here’s your opportunity to live your art and bring your wildest dreams to reality.”

“Bring your wildest dreams to reality,” Simon said drily. “Mine were doing fine already.”

Warlock stopped his peregrinations.

“I think,” he said, “that we might continue this discussion in private. You’ve met your staff, so to speak, and I see no point in keeping them here, if you agree.”

“I see no point in it at all,” Simon said.