Leslie Charteris - The Saint And The Fiction Makers

“Easy,” Warlock said. “Slowly. Easy does it now.”

The metal projection crept from the cavity of the van and nosed through the hole in the fence. It inched its way down the tunnel, precariously close to the irregularly spaced bands of light which formed the channel. Simon, like the others, felt compelled to stand as close to the bridge as he could and sight along it as it moved out across the deadly mine field. No one breathed. The night wind rustled the trees behind them. The sound of the electric motor which moved the vibrating bridge was a low whine in the background.

“Stop!” Warlock barked suddenly.

The head of the bridge had almost touched one of the beams. There was an adjustment within the van. The bridge crept on. Simon was almost touching it. With a sudden shove he could have set off explosions all across the green strip, but his chances of standing up to or even just escaping Warlock and his men, single-handedly and without a weapon, were infinitesimal. He would have to wait until the group had split up inside Hermetico’s grounds before he could make his move.

As the far end of the bridge reached the other side of the ray field there was a general intake of breath. A switch was thrown inside the van, and the two legs which were to support the suspended end of the bridge eased towards the ground just next to the concrete walk which surrounded the outside of the dome.

“Are you sure it’s steady on those supports?” Warlock whispered.

The others were sighting along the aluminium frame.

“I can’t see a bloody thing,” Monk grumbled.

“What if it’s not steady?” Frug asked. “It’ll swing over or something and blow us all to pieces.”

“Not all of us,” Warlock said shrewdly. “Just one of us. Let’s see the famous Saint demonstrate his talents. You go across first, Mr. Templar, and make certain that the bridge is in good shape. And please notice that when you get to the other side there’s absolutely nowhere for you to run in case you should have any lingering ideas about causing trouble. Nero and Frug will both have guns trained on you the whole time. They could finish you in two seconds. Now, go ahead. If anything feels wrong to you, stop.”

“ Everything feels wrong to me,” Simon replied. “Is that all the information you need?”

“Get on the bridge, Mr. Templar.”

The Saint mounted the rear of the van, looked down the narrow tunnel of darkness among the web of light rays, and lowered his body onto the track of metal rollers.

He felt the aluminium bridge shudder slightly, almost touching one of the light beams. But then there was a scraping creak as one of the legs on the far end adjusted its contact with the ground, and the whole frail structure steadied itself.

“Go on, Templar,” Warlock urged. “Remember what happens to your girl friend if we’re not finished here on time.”

Simon held his legs close together, extended his arms straight before him, and without further hesitation used the full strength of his fingers to pull himself quickly along the rollers. He slipped smoothly past the fence and out through the silent unwavering network of infra-red beams. A few seconds later his head and shoulders emerged from the wall of rays, and the rest of his body followed. He gratefully lowered himself back to solid support in the form of the cement walk which circled Hermetico’s dome.

Looking back, he saw that Bishop was ready to follow, making himself prone on the aluminium rollers at the edge of the truck bed. Down to the right about thirty feet was Nero Jones with a submachine gun strapped to his back and an automatic rifle aimed directly at the Saint. Frug, a few yards along the fence from the other side of the truck, covered Simon with a smaller automatic weapon. Even if he should make the bridge collapse by kicking away the supports with his feet, getting rid of a man or two with the resultant explosions, the Saint knew that he would be instantly cut down by Frug’s and Jones’s interlocking fire.

Such a move would accomplish nothing but the salvation of Hermetico’s treasures for Hermetico’s management and depositors — none of whom were uppermost in Simon’s mind at the moment. He was considerably more interested in squaring accounts with Warlock and his friends, and in the process saving himself and Amity Little. He would have to wait. In the meantime, he surreptitiously tried to weaken the stance of one of the bridge’s supporting legs by kicking it with his foot as he moved away from it. If the bridge should fall down while he was nowhere near it, who could blame him?

But unfortunately the support moved only a fraction of an inch. Bishop’s weight was already on the bridge. With a long canvas pack ahead of him on the rollers, he was inching out over the mine field.

“Elbows in,” Warlock said hoarsely. “Don’t raise your head.”

Whatever Bishop’s qualifications as an extra-legal professional man, he was obviously not very good at or very fond of crossing shaky aluminium bridges over highly explosive strips of earth. When he finally had both feet planted on the ground beside the Saint his face gleamed with sweat in the starlight and his hands were trembling visibly.

“Come on now,” he said condescendingly to the ones who still had the crossing to make, “there’s nothing to it.”

Across the bridge in slow procession came Monk, then Warlock, and finally Frug. With them they brought more canvas packs, the metal tanks which would fuel the acetylene torch, and a great coil of nylon rope.

“Legs together,” Warlock grated to Frug. “Easy does it, you idiot! Don’t drop the rope!”

Frug’s reaction to the crossing was more vehement than Bishop’s had been. He mopped his face with his sweater and swore.

“I wasn’t half an inch from one of those beams at the end! Will I be glad to see those bloody things shut off!”

“The sooner we get below, the sooner they’ll be shut off,” Warlock said. “Move out now — around to the ventilation ducts.”

There was a muffled clanking as Monk shouldered the metal tanks.

“Quiet, you fool!” Frug squeaked.

“Who d’you think you’re calling a fool!” Monk rumbled.

“Shut up, both of you!” Warlock said. “Do your jobs and don’t think about anything else.” He faced back towards the outer fence and whispered to Nero Jones as they passed his position. “Get to your post now. Don’t fire unless you’re absolutely sure something is wrong.”

Jones waved acknowledgement and headed off across the field, circling the outer fence parallel to the circle the rest of the group was making around the dome. He would post himself a hundred feet beyond the fence at a spot from which he could fire either on the side door or the front door of the Hermetico building. His pale face was an eerie circle of white when he glanced back over the shoulder of his black sweater. It had not occurred to anyone except the Saint that Jones should smear his face with blacking in order to camouflage it, and the Saint had somehow neglected to mention the idea.

“Get a move on,” Warlock said. “You can’t see anything with those glasses over your eyes now, Frug. All of you, get them off.”

Only Simon kept his glasses on. He pushed them down on his nose so that he could have a choice of seeing over them or through them. It was one of his more optimistic hopes that there were uncharted and unexpected infra-red beams within the confines of Hermetico itself. If that turned out to be the case, he would be the only one to see them. The S.W.O.R.D. group was so engrossed in its work that none of its members gave the least thought to the spectacles propped on the end of Simon’s nose.

Bishop and Frug led the way. Simon came next, with Monk and Warlock behind. They walked swiftly but quietly in single file around the featureless sloping wall of the building. The only sounds were the night breeze, the muffled clanking of the equipment the men carried, and the cautious scuff of their feet. Then there was a new noise which grew louder as they continued — a low buzzing roar.