Leslie Charteris - The Saint And The Fiction Makers

“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.”

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.”