Saint and the Fiction Makers (10 page)

The other man looked at him strangely.

‘Warlock,’ he said, as if answering the obvious.

‘I mean the name your mother gave you,’ Simon said.

‘A man’s identity is a precious thing,’ Warlock said. ‘Don’t tamper with it.’

‘No tampering intended,’ the Saint said quickly. ‘Do you prefer Warlock or Mr. Warlock?’

Warlock raised his hand and pointed a trembling finger. His voice rose to a shrill pitch.

‘Mr. Klein, I warn you! People must take me seriously! I insist that people take me seriously!’

‘I do take you seriously,’ Simon assured him. ‘I take you so seriously that I’m going to start racking my brains to conjure up so much trouble for Hermetico that the board of directors will wish they’d used that mine for nothing more important than curing cheese.’

Warlock had an astonishing facility for changing moods.

‘I knew,’ he said benevolently, ‘that you would soon see it my way.’

He was grinning broadly as he led Simon to the door.

‘We’ll be keeping in touch, I suppose,’ said the Saint.

‘Of course. Whatever assistance you require—a computer, technical help, my knowledge as a scientist—you have only to ask. You can dial number one on your phone and get me, or you can speak to Galaxy. She’ll always be nearby.’

‘That’ll brighten the coffee breaks.’

Warlock hesitated before opening the door. He was all expansive bonhomie again.

‘Mr. Klein,’ he said, ‘don’t tell your … secretary about the torture. There’s no reason to upset her.’

‘Of course not,’ Simon said solemnly. ‘You’re very considerate.’

‘Personally,’ Warlock said confidentially, ‘I wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not personally. But did Napoleon ever personally shoot an enemy? I’ve often wondered. But the important thing is that he knew how to use people who didn’t mind shooting.’

3

When the Saint returned to his room, ushered by a silent Simeon Monk, he immediately heard a knock on the door beyond which Amity Little had purportedly been sleeping when he had been taken downstairs for his conference in the planning room.

‘Thanks a lot, Sim,’ he said to the well-tailored gorilla who stood in the corridor as if waiting for some new command to make its tortuous way through his brain. ‘Why don’t you go out in the garden and practise throwing yourself on electrified barbed wire? You could come in very handy when we storm Hermetico.’

The Saint then closed that door of his room, leaving the bulk staring with dim perception from beneath the great bony shelf of his forehead. The knocking on the second door continued.

‘Coming!’ he called cheerily. ‘I’m so popular I can’t keep up.’

He crossed the huge sunny room and turned the handle. From somewhere nearby came the harsh clanging of an alarm bell.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have done that!’ Galaxy Rose cried from the other side of the door. ‘You should have said “come in” and let me do it with my thumb.’

‘Well, go ahead and do it.’

The alarm ceased, there was a gentle ping, and the door opened. Beside Galaxy stood Amity Little. Her short hair was freshly done and her elegant figure was dazzlingly displayed in a blue-flowered summer dress. She was smiling as happily as if her life had never been disrupted and was purring along completely on schedule.

‘Amos!’ she said. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine, now that I see how you are.’

The two girls came into his room. Amity did a slow-motion twirl to take in the decor and at the same time show off her dress.

‘Wow!’ she exclaimed. ‘You really rate! What a gorgeous pad!’

Simon had to fight back a smile at Amity’s skilled transformation into just the sort of light-headed butterfly who might have been with Amos Klein on the night of his kidnapping.

‘That’s the reward of brain and fame,’ he said. ‘You should have been a writer.’

‘And you should have been a diplomat,’ she responded sweetly.

‘You’re treating her all right, aren’t you?’ he asked Galaxy.

Galaxy was like some ideal robot, indistinguishable from a real human female, but lacking the human disadvantage of jealousy.

‘I’m doing my best,’ she said, beaming at Amity like an old school chum.

‘I’ve had the most super bath,’ Amity chirped. ‘Soap jets all around! Coloured water with perfume and bubbles! And look at this dress.’

‘I’ve already looked,’ Simon said. ‘Come on in, Galaxy, and close the door. Let’s make it a party.’

‘Thank you, master.’

‘Amos Klein!’ Amity exclaimed. ‘Do you make her call you that?’

‘I don’t make her, I allow her, and unlike some women she appreciates a privilege when she has one.’ Simon caught Amity’s eyes during his next words. ‘And what does she call you?

‘She calls me Amity Little, nuthead, because that’s my name. They saw it on my driver’s licence before I woke up. Where have you been and what have you been doing—or having done to you?’

‘I’ve just returned from my investiture as commander-in-chief of S.W.O.R.D. It’s coronation day. Isn’t somebody going to break a bottle of champagne over me?’

‘I’ll coronate you with a floor lamp,’ Amity said. ‘What are you babbling about?’

‘Didn’t Galaxy tell you anything?’

Galaxy shook her head.

‘I’m not allowed to tell things,’ she said dutifully. ‘Only that you were all right and wouldn’t be hurt. You mentioned champagne? Would you like some? It’s in the cooler right here.’

‘Perfect,’ Simon said. ‘Bollinger, please, for three, and then would you order up some pheasant for lunch? On second thought, caviar first, and then pheasant.’

Galaxy seemed happiest when taking orders.

‘Right, master! Did you say for three?’

‘Of course. You may be only a slave, but in these democratic days you’re allowed to eat with the master.’

Galaxy hurried to a cabinet which concealed a small refrigerator while Amity folded her arms and stared at Simon.

‘Well, really, Amos, what’s got into you?’

‘Fifty thousand pounds for starters, and the grand panjandrumship of S.W.O.R.D., not to mention the challenge of a bold adventure unequalled in modern times.’

‘You’ve either gone off your rocker or been reading your own movie reviews,’ said Amity. ‘While your concubines are preparing your feast, try to settle down and tell me what in the world is going on!’

Simon told her in terms which bordered on the enthusiastic, and as his narrative developed she managed to betray nothing except awed amazement.

‘And this fellow who calls himself Warlock has actually created S.W.O.R.D., gadgets and all?’ she asked unbelievingly.

‘So he tells me, and so far I have no reason to doubt his word. Apparently he’s some sort of electronic genius, and I think we’ll be amazed when we find out just how far he has gone.’ Simon paused to glance around the room. ‘I assume he can hear me, by the way, because if he has duplicated S.W.O.R.D. this room will have more bugs than a Bowery hop-house.’

‘And pictures,’ Amity added. ‘There’ll be a man somewhere monitoring every move you make by closed-circuit television.’

‘More like monitoring every move Galaxy makes,’ Simon said.

He sat down in an armchair and settled his legs comfortably on a marble-topped table as Galaxy performed one of her undulatory transits, bringing Bollinger, caviar, and newly polished glasses. Simon opened the champagne and poured.

‘To success,’ he said.

‘Cheers,’ Amity said drily, as Galaxy echoed the Saint’s words.

When they had drunk, Simon lifted his glass and scanned the upper walls and ceiling.

‘And here’s to all our friends out there in television land. Prepare to have your tapes censored, boys. I always throw an intimate little orgy to celebrate the beginning of a new book.’

Galaxy giggled and tilted up her glass. She was on a leather ottoman near Simon’s feet. Amity, who was in a neighbouring chair, showed subtle but perceptible signs of a less cheerful and co-operative disposition. She wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes in the typical way of women who feel that their duty in life is to be ballast for the incorrigible silliness of men.

‘And this book,’ she said. ‘It’s to be the plan for cracking this big underground vault?’

‘Exactly.’

There was a rapping at the hall door.

‘Come in,’ Simon called, ‘but don’t forget to use your thumb.’

Bishop, the bruised mock policeman, and Nero Jones, the semi-albino with the pale eyes of death, came in carrying the Hermetico model between them.

‘Perfect timing, boys. Just put it over there by the window. Amity, I’d like you to meet two of my assistants, Mr. Bishop and Mr.—’

‘Nero Jones,’ Amity said, completely awed. ‘It’s fantastic! I’d recognize both of you anywhere, just from reading the books.’

‘Warlock’s going to love you,’ Simon said.

‘Miss Little,’ Bishop said politely.

Nero Jones merely inclined his head, then both men made several more trips to the hall, from which they brought an electric typewriter, a small tape recorder, several reams of paper, and a large assortment of such minor items as pencils, rubbers, and paper clips.

‘Warlock says if there’s anything else you need, just let us know.’

‘I won’t hesitate.’

Nero Jones handed Simon a sizeable book bound in black leather.

‘The Hermetico dossier,’ he said. ‘And you left your money downstairs.’ .

In his other hand he was carrying the attache case with which Simon had been presented in the planning room. Jones set it on the floor.

‘Thanks very much,’ the Saint said. ‘I don’t have much to spend it on at the moment, but I might as well keep it around to cheer me up when the going gets tough.’

Jones gave him a sour look and followed Bishop into the corridor. When they were gone, and the door was closed, Simon swung his feet to the floor, sat forward in his chair, and looked thoughtfully at the typewriter on its desk near the window.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what it amounts to is this: either I come up with a scheme to knock over Hermetico, or little Amity gets herself taken slowly apart in S.W.O.R.D.‘s torture chamber.’

Amity, who had gone to inspect the Hermetico model, suddenly spun around and stared.

‘Who?’ she squealed. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, darling. If I don’t perform, you’ll have the honour of being the first person to try out some of those devilish machines in the basement.’

Amity swallowed and pointed feebly at the floor.

‘You mean … they really are … down there?’

‘I haven’t seen them, but I’m willing to take Warlock’s word. I’ll bet you another bottle of Bollinger that they’re all down there, just as they were described with such grim and loving precision in the Charles Lake books.’ Simon sprawled back in his chair and regarded Amity’s face with mildly sadistic satisfaction. ‘Don’t you wish I didn’t have such an active imagination?’ he asked. ‘Or at least, not such a perverted, fiendish one?’

Amity clenched her fists and looked at the ceiling for some sign of a divine power which would keep her from murdering the Saint.

‘Well, what are we going to do?’ she finally asked. ‘I mean, I can’t help it if there are twenty dozen people listening and watching: I’d like to know what we’re going to do.’

Simon got almost lazily to his feet and strolled to the window.

‘As the one who got us into this with his writing, I suppose it is up to me to get us out,’ he said. ‘All I can offer at the moment is what I said before. We’ll make this Hermetico deal a big success, everybody’ll be happy and rich, and nobody will get tortured.’

Amity gawked at him, put her hands to her pretty head as if making certain it was still there, and turned around to appeal to the wall.

‘But this is insane!’

‘I wouldn’t use that word around here too freely,’ Simon told her. ‘Let’s refer to it as—visionary.’

‘More champagne?’ Galaxy interrupted.

She had remained on the ottoman hugging her knees as she followed the conversation. Evidently she had occasionally refilled her glass from the bottle, too. The bottle was empty, and Galaxy showed definite symptoms of non-emptiness.

‘No more for you,’ Simon said. ‘Master seems to have someone else to convince. Get him another bottle to lubricate his style and then run along and see how lunch is coming. I might be needing you later, and I don’t want you paralysed.’

She gave him an unsteady but dazzling smile, set another bottle of Bollinger from the refrigerator on the table, and waved at him from the hall door.

‘Good luck,’ she cooed. ‘Just call me when you want a change.’

‘Thanks. And thanks for everything else, too. You’ve made my first day here absolute paradise.’

When he and Amity were alone, she stood uncomfortably by the Hermetico model and looked at him with eyes that seemed bright with suppressed fury.

‘I’d like to know just how she accomplished that,’ she said.

‘What?’ Simon asked.

‘Paradise.’

‘Just a figure of speech. There’s no such place on earth—but there is such a place as Hades, right here, unless you and I get to work.’

He went quickly over to the phonograph which he had seen nested behind one of the wall panels beside the refrigerator. It slid out into the room for convenient use. Behind another sliding panel was an assortment of records.

‘There,’ said Simon. ‘Pick out the loudest, swingingest thing you can find.’

Amity obeyed, casting him a doleful look as he opened the second bottle of champagne and filled two fresh glasses.

‘I thought you were going to work,’ she said.

‘This is the way I go to work. You know that. I get my best ideas when I’m dancing—sort of like the Africans leaping themselves into a frenzy before the battle.’

Suddenly, as Amity lowered the phonograph needle onto the record, the room was overwhelmed with a deafening roar of drums, grunts, twangings, metallic thwonks, and other primitive sounds.

‘African enough for you?’ she asked grimly.

‘More than enough.’

He gave her champagne, and then he took her into his arms and they began to dance. Simon, while he was pleased with the tumultuous quality of the music for its value as voice-camouflaging noise, did not match its pace with his dancing. He moved rhythmically but slowly, holding Amity close to him, his lips near her ear.