Saint and the Fiction Makers (3 page)

‘Not at all. I think I understand your interest.’

‘Good. We can run over to the Savoy in my car, and then have our talk.’

He handed the doorman a ticket.

‘Right away, Mr. Templar.’

The Saint’s car was brought promptly, and he took advantage of the short drive to the hotel to sound the publisher out.

‘I assume your pal Amos Klein is uppermost in your mind at the moment,’ he said.

Hugoson darted him a quick glance before answering, but apparently decided that even the Saint, whose private sources of information were popularly reputed to rival those of most national security agencies, could not know the facts of this matter.

‘Of course,’ he said, and then he paused.

‘What’s all this “no comment”?’ Simon asked.

Even while speeding through the post-theatre traffic of Trafalgar Square, he was as relaxed as most men would have been drowsing at home with the evening paper. Finlay Hugoson clutched the armrest and watched Simon’s impossibly near misses of other vehicles with strained admiration.

‘I was merely being evasive with the reporters,’ the publisher said.

‘That was fairly obvious. The question is, why? If you want to tell me, that is.’

Hugoson’s mind seemed to be promptly taken off the rampaging armada of taxis by dour thoughts of his professional problems. He sat back and folded his arms.

‘Can you guess what I made out of publishing The History of the 38th Regiment Hertfordshire Veteran Volunteer Infantry, morocco bound, with sixty glorious colour plates?’

Simon grinned.

‘Obviously not one single family in the U.K. could afford to be without a copy,’ he said with an appearance of mental calculation. ‘I should think you must have cleared at least, say, sixty thousand pounds.’

Finlay Hugoson showed no overt signs of amusement at the Saint’s whimsy.

‘I took a net loss of almost four thousand,’ he said. ‘And how much would you guess I was enriched by Birds of Western Australia, with thirty-five full-page photographic plates, each copy numbered and signed by the author—who incidentlaly was my wife’s brother?’

‘Was it out in time for the Christmas gift trade?’ Simon asked.

Hugoson grimly wrung his hands.

‘Printers’ strike. We missed Christmas by two weeks.’

‘Doesn’t sound good,’ said the Saint.

‘Net loss of two thousand. At least the libraries wanted that one.’

‘Well, cheer up,’ Simon said. ‘If you’d got it out in time for Christmas you might have broken even.’

‘Wonderful,’ groaned Hugoson. ‘What more could a publisher ask?’

‘With your flair for picking winners, I’d say breaking even might call for a real celebration.’

‘And then,’ Hugoson said, ‘along came the first Charles Lake novel.’

‘And?’

‘They’re making me rich.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘They’re making me richer than I ever dreamed I’d be.’

‘That’s even nicer.’

‘But …’

‘But what?’ the Saint asked encouragingly. When the other hesitated, he continued. ‘And that still doesn’t explain all the “no comments”.’

There was no chance for explanation then, because the Saint’s skilful navigation had brought them to the Embankment entrance of the Savoy, where most of the horde of people in any way connected with Sunburst Five had already disembarked and made their way to the private rooms set aside for their jubilation. Simon and Hugoson found one or two hundred of them in the early phases of that intoxication which is never quite so swiftly induced or magnificently sustained as by the presence of an unlimited supply of free booze. The raiment of the females, as well as that of some of the males, would have made the finery of the best-dressed birds of western Australia seem pale in comparison, and the gushing and shameless politicking of both sexes would have made the first day of the mating season on Seal Island sound like the slumbrous murmurs of teatime at the old folks’ home.

Simon failed to spot Starnmeck or Carol Henley, and nodded wryly towards the impenetrable mob pressed along the bar.

‘This visit may be even briefer than I’d planned.’

‘The briefer the better,’ Hugoson agreed. ‘This is one aspect of making a fortune I could very well do without.’

The melancholy prognosis was promptly justified, as he was swallowed up in the gilt and purple plumage of a woman of impressive stature who swooped down on him with shrill cries of delight.

‘Why, Finlay, you naughty thing! We were sure you’d run out on us, probably off to see that author of yours! Come now! You simply must tell us where you’re hiding him!’

Simon, knowing full well that he himself would become the prey of similar predatory onslaughts as soon as he was recognized, pried Hugoson from his female assailant and steered him through a suffocating haze of cigarette smoke and other hot air towards the door.

‘Had enough?’ he asked.

‘I never saw her before in my life,’ Hugoson gasped.

‘Public acclaim is the reward of guessing right,’ Simon said. ‘If you’re enjoying it, don’t let me interrupt the fun.’

‘Please! Let’s get out. Here comes another one.’

Hugoson lived in a town house just off Park Lane, in the kind of street notable for its large cars and small well-shampooed dogs. It was almost midnight, and some of the dogs were leading their masters and mistresses on pre-bedtime walks. Those of the large cars which were not garaged shone in the light of street lamps like brightly polished gemstones. The great stone facades of the buildings created a sense of solidity, dignity, and abiding success not so newly achieved as to be embarrassing to the kind of people who only respect success if it is not indecently recent.

‘A very suitable location for England’s most prosperous publisher,’ Simon said.

He and Hugoson had left the car and were climbing the steps towards one of the massive brass-trimmed doors.

‘Publishing’s a gentleman’s game, you know,’ said Hugoson wryly. ‘I’ve lived here for years. Only difference is, now I can afford the rent.’

He fitted his key into the lock, opened the door, and felt for a switch.

‘Thought I left a light on,’ he said. ‘Well, no wonder: the switch is on, but the bulb must have burnt out. Have you a match?’

‘I don’t carry them since I quit smoking,’ Simon apologized.

‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll just—’

Event the Saint’s superb reflexes, which rarely left him at a disadvantage, were of no use to him in the totally unexpected onslaught that followed. In the same instant that he heard Finlay Hugoson’s pained grunt, he felt a crushing blow on the back of his own head, and the darkness of the hall merged into a deeper black.

3

The Saint had never been fond of things on grounds of rarity alone. He had never been excited by eclipses of the moon nor had his pulse quickened at the sight of a six-legged calf. But of all the things which the Saint did not like because of their rarity, he liked least the rare experience of being bashed with some firm artifact on the back of his skull.

As he woke up on the floor of Mr. Finlay Hugoson’s house off Park Lane, his mind naturally turned to the subject of blows on the head (his own head in particular), to the alertness and skill which had made such blows a rarity in his life till then, and to the means by which he would make such blows an even greater rarity in the future.

But such meditations, however fruitful they might be in the long view, had to give way to more immediate considerations. The Saint knew only that he was lying on the floor of some dark silent place. Instinct and experience made him avoid making any sound or movement at first beyond the slow opening of his eyes: before revealing that he was conscious, he wanted to be certain that his attacker was not still present. Having made reasonably sure of that fact, he ventured to sit up. The dull throbbing in his head suddenly became a sharp ache, as if his whole brain had shifted position inside his cranium, but the moan that broke the silence did not come from his throat. It came, presumably, from Finlay Hugoson, somewhere else in the darkness.

‘Are you awake?’ Simon asked, unable to think of any question or remark which would not sound equally ridiculous in the circumstances.

The only response from Hugoson was an inarticulate groan. The Saint got to his feet, trying to force his pain and his anger at whoever had caused it out of his consciousness.

He recalled that they had just entered the house, and the hall light wouldn’t go on: Hugoson had been looking for another switch, and there had to be one, in some room opening off the hall. Simon found a wall, groped along it to a door frame, almost fell over something sprawled across the threshold, and finally found a switch on the inside which turned on the bulbs of a crystal chandelier in the centre of the ceiling of the room beyond.

The room was just as solidly elegant as he had expected it to be, and just as severely disordered. Drawers from an antique writing table were upside down on the floor. Sheets of paper and envelopes were strewn on the rug. The owner of the ransacked property was also still lying in the doorway, and Simon turned quickly back to him when he saw that the side of Hugoson’s face was covered with blood. Using his handkerchief, the Saint ascertained that the wound was not serious, but was no more than an abrasion caused by a glancing blow on the side of the head.

‘Nice way your retainers have of welcoming you home,’ Simon said as Hugoson’s eyes flickered open.

‘What happened?’ the publisher groaned.

‘I’m hoping you can tell me … beyond the obvious fact that we were both swatted on the sconce.’

Hugoson’s eyes opened wider, as if in suddenly realized fear. He tried to raise his head and fell back.

T feel as if my skull’s fractured,’ he gasped.

‘It very well could be. You may have a concussion, so lie still. There’s no chance of catching our playmates right now anyway. I never even got a look at them. Did you?’

‘No,’ answered Hugoson weakly. ‘I just know that something hit me. What … what have they done?’

‘Just a little housekeeping,’ said the Saint. ‘When you get well enough to sit up, you’ll be amazed at what a few thougthful changes have done for your decor.’

Hugoson tried again to move, but shut his eyes and winced.

‘I’d better get you a doctor,’ the Saint told him. ‘Any preference?’

‘Later,’ Hugoson mumbled. ‘First … I’ve got to know … what they took.’

‘I’d be glad to tell you,’ Simon replied, ‘but it’s a little diffcult since I don’t have any idea what was here before they came to call. Where’d you keep the family treasures? I’ll check there first.’

‘No,’ said Hugoson. ‘I don’t keep any money or valuables in the house, except some rare books in glass cases in the library, just off to the right.’

Simon moved to take a look at the room which Hugoson indicated with a feeble motion of his hand.

‘But there’s not much point even checking that,’ the publisher continued. ‘I’m afraid … those weren’t the sort of things they were after.’

The remark brought the Saint up short, but not before he had seen that the books in their cases were undisturbed.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You mean—these guests were expected?’

‘In a way. Yes. Please, check my desk—in the library. Did they get into that?’

‘They did,’ Simon reported, after a moment. ‘It looks as if they took it apart with a crowbar.’

‘They were probably looking everywhere for the key,’ Hugoson called, ‘but I took the precaution of carrying it with me.’

‘I’m afraid the power of locks and keys is greatly over-estimated,’ the Saint called back.

He was fingering the splintered wood of several drawers in the library desk. Papers had been tossed aside at random until a certain file folder had been uncovered. The folder was open on the desk. Whatever it had once held was gone. On the tab of the folder were printed the words ‘Amos Klein.’

‘That’s what they were after,’ quavered Hugoson’s voice.

The Saint looked up and saw that the publisher had made his way to the library door, and was standing there, clinging feebly to the jamb.

‘This?’ Simon asked, holding up the folder.

‘Yes. Personal correspondence with … with Amos Klein.’

‘Just over-eager autograph collectors, or what?’

‘They wanted his address primarily. I’m sure of it.’

‘There must be easier ways of getting it than this,’ hazarded the Saint.

‘There aren’t. Only I know it.’

Hugoson’s voice trailed off, so Simon helped him into a chair.

‘Your employees must have learned his address,’ Simon said then. ‘Your secretary? And why all the secrecy anyway?’

‘One thing at a time,’ Hugoson said tiredly. ‘In the first place, I correspond from my office with Klein only to post office boxes, using fake names. Nobody could find him through information in my office files. The people who are looking for him already discovered that: they broke into my publishing house offices a couple of days ago. That, in fact, was my main reason for wanting to talk to you. I realized somebody was out to find Klein by any means necessary.’

The Saint, lounging against the wall, held up one hand and interrupted.

‘Just one question, to put at least some perspective in this picture: why should Amos Klein be so difficult to find in the first place?’

‘Because I don’t want him to be found,’ Hugoson said.

‘Why?’

‘Because … because of several things, but primarily because I want to protect my investment.’

‘He doesn’t sound like an investment—he sounds like a pure asset.’

‘Whatever you want to call it …’

‘The goose that lays the golden eggs?’ Simon suggested. ‘You’ve hidden it away so nobody can steal it?’

‘Right,’ said Hugoson. ‘Exactly.’ He noted Simon’s almost unbelieving and somehow accusing stare. ‘Well, you can’t blame me! I’m a capitalist. I was dangerously close to being bankrupt when Klein came along, and I’ve no intention of letting anybody take him away from me. I don’t want to publish literature any more. I just want to be a millionaire!’

‘A laudable ambition,’ the Saint said. ‘But you have a rather extreme way of protecting yourself. I’m beginning to think you may really have your boy Klein locked up in a hen coop somewhere. What does he think about this?’