Leslie Charteris - The Saint And The Fiction Makers

Frug did not look at all pleased with the plan.

“Why not just hoist the gold and stuff up the ventilator shaft?” he asked.

“We thought of that,” Simon answered. “But the vault is three hundred feet down, and you’d spend all night getting out just a fraction of the loot... assuming you had all night, and nobody discovered you in the vault. I think you’ll be much safer getting command of Hermetico in one quick stroke, then using their facilities for moving the heavy stuff up to the van.”

Warlock nodded approvingly.

“It’s true,” he said. “It’s the only way.”

“It is unless you’re just after a few souvenirs,” the Saint added. “As I understand it, you intend to empty the place.”

“Exactly,” said Warlock.

Bishop was wriggling in his chair.

“What about guards up top?” he asked.

“There’ll probably be one in a booth by the elevator on the ground floor,” Simon said. “But before he knows you’re in the building you’ll have taken control of the alarm and defence system, so it shouldn’t be much of a problem to handle him. We can go into details about all these things in a minute. There’s also a sleeping room for guards just off the entrance alcove. Probably there’ll be half a dozen men in there. The Hermetico defence plan seems to depend almost entirely on automatic devices for warnings of trouble. Most of the guards can sleep, since they don’t actually have to stand guard, but they do constitute a kind of defence force that can be called on by automatic or manual alarms at any second.”

The conference went on for over an hour and then, when Simon had answered every objection and explained every detail of the operation, moved to the basement laboratory and store rooms. There, for another hour, Warlock’s men brought together various pieces of equipment and discussed and tested them. Warlock, having followed the formation of the Saint’s and Amity’s plan on television, had foreseen most of the needs of the expedition and made certain they were on hand earlier in the day.

“Everything seems to be in order,” he said finally. “We’ll eat in a while and get some rest. Then we’ll have some rehearsals with the equipment at nine o’clock before we load it in the van. The last thing we’ll do is test all the weapons. We’ll leave for Hermetico before midnight.”

“And what do we do?” Amity muttered to Simon in the midst of the clatter and talk at the meeting’s end.

“We’ll just relax here with our window open and listen for explosions off in the direction of Hermetico...”

But for once the Saint underestimated fate’s fondness for involving him in adventure — in this case adventure within adventure. He was not to be allowed to sit quietly in his room listening for the explosive demise of Warlock and his doughty band, nor even to spend the night engineering his own and Amity’s escape from S.W.O.R.D. headquarters. An explosion took place, and it involved Warlock, but it occurred in Simon’s own room.

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.