Leslie Charteris - The Saint And The Fiction Makers

She drained her glass.

“Working like a galley slave. The nearest thing I’ve seen to a bullfighter is the postman dodging dogs on his bicycle.”

“Which probably explains the frustrated look in your eyes, darling,” he remarked.

Darling met his mischievous grin with a determined frown.

“Sir, if you’re going to take advantage of a lady’s loneliness, I shall have to ask you to leave and never break down my door again.”

“You could look at it another way,” the Saint suggested. “Maybe I’m the hero who’s going to rescue the damsel from the dark castle.”

“Maybe so.”

Her face had softened, but it immediately became more businesslike.

“Now,” she continued, “this is all lots of fun, but shouldn’t we get down to work?”

“Fine,” Simon agreed. “First, are your other doors and windows locked?”

“Yes. But what a creepy thing to ask! Do you think somebody might try to kidnap me?”

“Maybe you can tell me that. Frankly, the amount I know about this situation is so limited that my guesses would be just that — guesses. If there had been only one man in Hugoson’s apartment we’d at least have the possibility of some crackpot autograph hound carrying his hobby to completely nutty extremes. But there were at least two people, so that’s out. The other guesses involve newspapermen or unethical publishers, if you can believe that.”

The Saint rested himself sidesaddle on the desk. The girl had shoved the dummy out of the armchair onto the floor and flopped down into the cushions herself.

“You’re right,” she said. “That’s pretty far out.”

“ Any guess seems far out. Unless maybe this whole situation had nothing to do with you as an author at all. But if that were the case, why would the evil ones be tracking you down under the name of Amos Klein? If they were after ransom from your father, for instance, they’d have tried to trace you under your real name, whatever that is.”

The girl wrinkled her nose.

“You’re not going to tell me the real name?” Simon asked. “I give my word not to let the world in on the secret. ‘Darling’ is fine, but it could be slightly awkward if I had to introduce you.”

“It’s Amity,” she said, looking wretched. “Amity Little.”

“Aha. I see where you got Amos Klein.” Simon tried the sound of it, maintaining a strictly straight face. “Amity Little. Sounds like a missionary.”

“My father’s notion,” Amity said. “He’s a Quaker. You can see why I’m not terribly keen on telling people — nor on seeing it emblazoned on the jackets of thrillers.”

“I do see, darling,” said Simon. “Now, to get back to our theories before your mysterious admirers show up here, is it possible they could have started out with a plan to kidnap Amity Little for ransom from her loving father, and then accidentally discovered that Amity Little and Amos Klein were the same? That would seem to promise them even more profit — they could ask Hugoson for ransom as well. And of course one of the last stages in the game would be finding out just where to find Amos Klein.”

Amity shook her head. Her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t think so,” she said very thoughtfully. “I think the real answer might be much weirder than that.”

“Well?”

Amity bit her thumbnail, completely absorbed in her musing.

“I wonder...” she said.

The Saint shifted his weight impatiently.

“So do I. Button, button, who’s got the button?”

“Just a minute,” Amity said.

She broke off her introspection and suddenly got to her feet. Going to the desk, she threw open one of the drawers and began burrowing through a deep and disordered pile of papers.

“Bury a bone?” Simon said.

“A letter. There.”

Triumphantly, she drew a sheet of paper out of the chaos. Attached to the paper was a cheque. She handed it to Simon, who glanced at the amount of the cheque before reading the letter.

“Fifty thousand pounds,” he said in the appreciative tone of a connoisseur of currency in all its forms.

“Before you get excited, read the letter,” Amity Little told him.

“Dear Mr. Klein... enclosed is a cheque for fifty thousand pounds, being half payment for your writing services, which we are most anxious to acquire. Period of employment, two months. Balance of payment on completion. The work will be secret, most challenging, and is guaranteed to be to your taste. Your cashing this cheque will be regarded as full acceptance of the contract as stated above, whereupon you will be contacted and given further instructions.” The Saint’s reaction at the large black flourished signature showed only a moment’s beat before he read it aloud. “ Warlock.”

He looked inquiringly and unbelievingly at Amity Little, who nodded confirmation.

“Warlock,” she repeated. “The arch villain in my Charles Lake books. And look underneath the name.” She looked over Simon’s shoulder and moved the tip of a slim finger along the word as she spelled out the block capitals in which it was printed. ‘S.W.O.R.D.’

“Your fictional organization for world evil.”

“Secret World Organization for Retribution and Destruction. And Warlock’s the boss.”

“You actually got this in the mail?” Simon asked.

“Yes. Forwarded by Finlay. He sends mail on addressed to Amos Klein unopened.”

Simon looked at the date of the letter.

“You got it a month ago?”

“Approximately.”

“What have you done about it?”

“Nothing.”

“How could you resist?”

“Cashing the cheque, you mean?”

“Not necessarily,” Simon said. “But at least trying to find out something about where it came from.”

“Well, for one thing it gave me the creeps,” Amity Little replied.

“Understandably. It must be a bit like seeing yourself walk in the door.”

“Yes. And I’m pretty tied down by the fact that I can’t let anybody know who I am. Of course I don’t have a bank account in the name of Amos Klein.”

“Didn’t you even call the bank this is drawn on?”

“Why?”

The Saint studied the cheque more closely as he answered.

“To see if anyone really has an account in the name of Warlock.”

Amity tossed the idea off with a sweeping gesture.

“Don’t be ridiculous! There isn’t any Warlock, except in my head. Obviously whoever sent this is some sort of nut!”

The Saint held up his hand for silence, and turned his head to listen.

“Who may be coming up your drive right now,” he said softly.

“I don’t hear anything,” Amity Little said.

“I have rather exceptional hearing,” the Saint said. “Let’s have a look out of the front windows.”

She led him through the house to one of the heavily draped windows in the dining room.

“You mean that car?” she whispered, listening. “I hear them turning around in my drive all the time. I’m at the end of the lane, so it’s the natural place.”

Simon had edged a curtain aside enough to peer out.

“Do they often have blue lights flashing?” he inquired.

“Oh!”

Amity looked as a man in uniform stepped from the car and came up the walk. A moment later he knocked at the front door.

“Somebody must have reported the shots,” Simon said.

A fat-faced stocky constable stood on the steps when Amity opened the door.

“Good evening, ma’am, sir,” he said pleasantly. “P.C. Jarvis, Burnham police.”

“Yes?”

“We’ve something peculiar come up,” said the man. “The Inspector asked me to request that you please come down to the station.”

“What for, at an hour like this?” Simon asked. “Does he want someone to sing him to sleep?”