The Saint And The Fiction Makers

1

Simon’s remark had the effect he intended. Frug glanced nervously into the rearview mirror as he steered the limousine away from Hermetico. His thin jockey’s face was taut with worry.

“This is no safe-cracking job,” he said to the men behind him. “It’s like a war. We’d need an army to smash into that place.”

“And even then the losses would be pretty heavy,” said the Saint.

Warlock’s cheeks were getting blotchy.

“Stop talking nonsense, both of you!” he barked. “I give the orders, Frug, and you obey. Would I get us into this if I thought we’d fail? I’ve more to lose than anybody. Mr. Klein is perfectly capable of planning a sound way of getting into that place. He’s just trying to scare you... which is obviously quite easy.”

“It’s not planning a way to get you in that’s so hard,” Simon said. “It’s figuring a way to get at least some of you out alive that’s got me stumped.”

Warlock looked at the faint, mocking smile on Simon’s lips and lost his temper.

“No more of that, Klein! You’ll do your job just as the rest of us will, and you’ll stop trying to demoralize my men! If you don’t do as I tell you, you’ll have the fun of watching Nero cut up your girl friend for several days before she’s even put on the laser table!”

Simon had an almost overwhelming desire to put his hands around Warlock’s fat sweaty neck and squeeze off not only his flow of words but his breath and finally his last croak of life. It would have been a notable pleasure to feel that gross body shuddering through its last spasm in the grip of his fingers — but the time had not come yet. Warlock felt the Saint’s thoughts, though, and read them in the crystalline blue hardness of his eyes. The fat man shrank involuntarily against his own side of the car.

“Nero has orders to start on her immediately if we’re not back safely,” he blurted. “And that seat you’re in... all I have to do is push this button and it explodes with shotgun shells.”

Warlock’s hand was on the ashtray by his window.

“I know,” Simon said with forced restraint. “I wrote the book, remember? Sort of Damocles sword in reverse. But I don’t think you can afford to give me a permanent hot seat. You need me too much.”

Warlock’s hand remained on the ashtray then and for the rest of the twenty-minute drive to his estate.

“I need you,” he said, “but I’d kill you if you attacked me.”

The Saint sat back with folded arms and admired the countryside.

“Don’t worry,” he said absently. “I don’t need to attack you. You haven’t originality enough to keep yourself alive when the going gets rough anyway.”

Warlock could only sputter, and the rest of the trip took place without conversation. As soon as they had returned to S.W.O.R.D. headquarters, Monk and Frug escorted the Saint through the house towards his room. Galaxy Rose met them at the foot of the staircase in the big reception hall. She looked even more ravishing than usual in a scanty white blouse, a red mini-skirt, and white boots.

“What would you like for lunch?” she asked after they had exchanged greetings.

She was the kind of incorrigibly sexy woman whose hot eyes and pouting mouth made even a question like that sound positively lewd.

“You?” asked Simon politely.

She glowed with appreciation.

“That might be arranged,” she replied. “With or without dressing?”

The Saint glanced meaningfully at Monk and Frug, who were standing irritably by.

“Let’s not discuss these things in front of the children,” he said. “We’ll have a walk — and so forth — later this afternoon. In the meantime, Warlock’s putting me to work. I’m afraid I’ll have to settle for lobster Newburg and asparagus... much as I’d prefer fresh Galaxy on the half shell.”

“You promise — about this afternoon?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

She smiled happily and hurried away as Simon and his captors continued up the stairs.

“The only trouble is,” he remarked, “I’m not sure she wouldn’t slit my throat if Warlock told her to.”

“That’s for her to know and you to find out,” said Monk heavily.

Frug planted a bony hand in the centre of the Saint’s back and gave him a shove which almost made him stumble.

“Right,” Frug snapped. “I’ll slit your throat myself if you foul up this job.”

Without turning Simon performed a brief but highly effective manoeuvre with his right arm which landed his elbow in the centre of Frug’s lower thorax. Frug sat down abruptly on the top step, clutching his belly and chest and gagging for breath. Monk, who had understandably failed to detect the Saint’s lightning back-jab, stared down at his comrade with a puzzled frown.

“What’s wrong with you?” he rumbled to Frug.

Frug could only shake his head and gasp.

“He’s in poor condition, obviously,” Simon explained. “Can’t even make it all the way upstairs without losing his breath. While he’s recovering, may I go on to my room?”

“You get on to your room,” Monk commanded superfluously.

He accompanied Simon down the hall as Frug regained enough breath to croak out a few curses more obscene than dire and haul himself totteringly to his feet.

“Thanks very much,” Simon said to Monk as they reached his room. “And I do hope your friend will be feeling better soon.”

Amity was waiting for him just inside the door.

“I saw you drive up,” she said eagerly. “I’m so glad you’re back!”

Simon gave her the hug she was inviting, then let her help him off with his jacket.

“I’m glad to be back,” he said, “but next holiday let’s go somewhere different, what do you say? I get a little bored with the same view, same people...”

“What happened?” Amity asked anxiously. “How did it go?”

“First, I didn’t escape and leave you in the frying pan,” he said.

“Thanks for that,” Amity said wryly. “I realize how much more important Amos Klein is than me, and I’m grateful for any little crumb he throws my way — such as letting me stay alive another few hours.”

Simon kissed her lightly.

“Don’t be bitter,” he said. “I think I’ve figured out how to crack Hermetico — a possibility anyway. So before long we’ll all be rich and free and happy.”

He gave her a brief summary of the morning’s adventures.

Amity cast a warning look towards one of the concealed microphones.

“Care to dance?” she asked.

Simon shook his head, stretched his lean frame out in a chair, and crossed his ankles.

“No need,” he said. “From here on in everything’s for real. Frankly, I did have a half-hearted idea for using that visit to Hermetico as a way of trapping Warlock, but it didn’t work out.” The Saint looked towards a mirror behind which he suspected there was a television lens. “Relieved to hear that, Mr. W?” He turned his cool blue eyes back to Amity’s worried face. “So I used the trip for some genuine reconnaissance — and we’d better get down to work if Warlock’s expecting to lead his gallant little band in there tomorrow night.”

“He won’t take us with him, I suppose?” Amity asked.

“No. We’re too unreliable. He’ll have to make do with some of the boys who came to him with better references. As I see it, the fewer people he takes in, the easier the job should be.”

“You really are going to help him,” the girl said incredulously.

“Yes, I am. Or would you prefer being served up on that rich man’s barbecue grill he’s got downstairs?”

Amity shuddered.

“By all means help him,” she answered.

“Right,” said the Saint, getting to his feet. “Most of the gold in Hermetico was probably accumulated through foreign aid usury or some other form of respectable theft, or by characters without half your personal charm, my brains, or Warlock’s boyish enthusiasm. Why shouldn’t we have it instead of them?”

“It’s all right with me,” Amity said. “How do we get it?”

Simon’s answer was interrupted by the arrival of Galaxy Rose with the lunch he had ordered on his way up from the car.

“Working hard?” she asked with mild sarcasm, looking at Amity as she rolled the serving cart to the dining table.

“Doing my best,” said Amity.

Galaxy turned to Simon, standing so close in front of him that he had to lean back slightly in order to avoid a more intimate contact than he thought appropriate at the time.

“Can I help?” she purred.

“May I help,” Amity corrected. “Yes, you may, by serving lunch. Mr. Klein and I are starving.”

Amity sat down at the table and waited with an ail-too pleasant expression on her face. Galaxy compressed her lips and glowered.

“I’m not your slave,” she crackled. “Do it yourself.”

“You’re Mr. Klein’s slave,” Amity said sweetly. “And Warlock’s, too. So please do as you’re told and don’t keep us waiting.”

Galaxy Rose clenched her fists against her thighs.

“Amos, make her stop it before I...”

Simon thought it wise to accept the invitation to mediate before he became ammunition in a feminine free-for-all.

“Calm down, girls. I hate being fought over at mealtimes. Anyway, I have to work.”

He sat down at the dining table and proceeded to open the wine. Galaxy obediently but huffily served his and Amity’s plates.

“I really could help you, Amos,” she said pleadingly. “I’m sure I could do more than she could.”

“I’m sure you have done more,” Amity said, “but for the work Amos is doing you need something you haven’t got.”

“And what’s that?” demanded Galaxy.

“An adult human brain.”

The Saint put his napkin to his mouth, stood up quickly, and ushered Galaxy to the door. He let his hand linger on her arm.

“I’ll see you about four,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I do have to work now.”

“On her,” she said bitterly.

“On Hermetico,” he replied. “Be glad you’re better at playing than working. People ask much pleasanter things of you that way.”

Galaxy softened perceptibly.

“We’ll play later, then. Bye-bye.”

Suddenly her lips touched his, and then she was gone. Amity rolled her eyes and groaned as he returned to the table.

“I wonder what school for delinquent girls Warlock dredged her out of?” she said, cracking down with unrestrained violence on a lobster claw.

Simon raised his eyebrows as he spooned some hollandaise sauce on to his asparagus.

“You and Galaxy aren’t getting along so well lately, I gather.”

“When did we get along? I’m just getting mightily sick of seeing her...” She interrupted herself suddenly and looked at him. “You’re implying that I’m jealous, aren’t you?”

“Not in the least,” said the Saint gravely.

“Well, I am!” Amity said. “I’m sick of seeing her rub up against you every time she happens to pass through the same wing of the building.”

Simon raised both his hands above his plate helplessly, very much aware of the omnipresent microphones and television cameras.

“I find myself in an awkward position,” he said. “Flattering but very awkward, and if we use our vaunted brains, we will understand just why.”

The pointed tone of his last sentence got through Amity’s emotions to her reason.

“I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I am acting like a child.” Suddenly she sounded almost on the verge of tears. “Maybe it’s just the strain of... of not knowing...”

Simon touched her hand soothingly.

“The strain doesn’t need to go on indefinitely,” he said. “Let’s concentrate on making this Hermetico job a successful operation.”

Amity took a deep breath.

“You’re right. It’ll get my mind off myself. Tell me what you found out.”

2

The Saint continued eating at a leisurely rate as he talked.

“Hermetico has some of the defects of the Maginot Line,” he said. “It’s too confident and it’s too rigidly oriented in a single direction. The management is so sure of the power of automation that they don’t watch the outer fence carefully enough. The only real problem is getting across the infra-red beams that protect the grass strip.”

“The only real problem?” his companion asked dubiously.

The Saint speared another snowy chunk of lobster, coated it with sauce, and savoured it luxuriously before he answered.

“I mean it’s the only real problem involved in getting from outside the fence to the inner side of the mined strip.”

“And how do you propose to get from outside the building to the vault?” asked Amity.

“For that matter,” said Simon cheerfully, “how do we propose to get over or through a six-foot-high network of invisible beams, any one of which will set off a mine if you interrupt it?”

“You could go over, I guess,” Amity said.

She was beginning to take an interest.

“You can’t go over because where the infra-red beams leave off six feet above ground there’s a radar system scanning the air. Nothing larger than a bird can go above the fence without setting off alarms.”

“Is there some way to get at the radar system?”

Simon thought about it.

“Not from outside. If we tried jamming it all we’d do would be to arouse suspicion and bring guards out all over the place before Warlock and his boys could even start to get over the fence.”

The two of them went on eating in silence for a while. Amity pushed away the emptied shell of her lobster and stared at it thoughtfully.

“I wonder how many of those infra-red beams there are?” she mused.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” said the Saint. “I noticed that even though the beams are crisscrossed up to six feet, my hat didn’t hit one and set off a mine until it was just a foot or so above the ground. It was sailing in at a slight angle, too, so that must mean that there are some fairly good-sized gaps in the network. I’m sure there’s no place a man could walk straight across, or even zigzag across...”

“But maybe there’d be a channel somewhere, like a tunnel several feet above the ground, where no beams happened to cross,” Amity interrupted.

“It’s possible,” said Simon. “I’m glad to see you getting so excited.”

Amity tried to change her expression abruptly.

“I’m not excited.”

“Well, please get excited. Maybe you’ll come up with some brilliant ideas — like how to find out if there’s a channel through the beams, and how to get through it.”

Those words were the beginning of an afternoon of non-stop thought, talk, and study. Amity’s cigarette stubs filled an ashtray and her smoke filled the room. Plans and charts covered the floor. Notes and calculations covered the tables. The Hermetico model was all but taken apart completely and put back together again several times.

It was almost four o’clock when Simon sighed, rubbed his eyes wearily, and stretched his arms, signalling a break in the labour.

“Time for your walk?” Amity asked with only a glimmer of sarcasm.

“It’s pretty obvious that the only way to the vault is the ventilation shaft,” he said, ignoring the remark.

“But we’re still stuck with those damn infra-red beams,” Amity sighed. “If only we could see them or something, then we could...”

“Wonderful!” Simon said.

“What?” she inquired blankly.

“Wonderful. See them. You’ve got it. With the right equipment we could see the beams. Something as simple as a pair of Polaroid glasses with a coating of... what would it be?”

“Something sensitive to infra-red light, you mean?” exclaimed Amity. “Exactly. But what?”

Simon looked up towards the ceiling and pressed his palms together in a prayerful attitude.

“Oh mighty Warlock,” he intoned. “Hast thou some elixir sensitive to infra-red light lying about the place?”

With an answering buzz the panel which covered the television screen was already drawing back. The screen flickered to life with the image of Warlock’s eager round face.

“It might really work!” came his excited voice from the loudspeaker.

Simon stood and salaamed.

“Thou hast heard, oh All Knowing!”

“I’ll get to work on it immediately,” Warlock said. “I’ll have you brought down as soon as we’re ready for a test.”

Warlock was on his way out of the picture even before the screen had become completely blank. There was a knock at the door of Simon’s room.

“So soon?” Amity said.

“It is time for my walk,” Simon said. “Why don’t you get some rest?”

“I’d much rather join the fun and games out on the greensward,” Amity said as Galaxy walked in.

“You can’t both go out at the same time,” Galaxy said promptly. “Anyway, three’s a crowd.”

“Better a crowd than your company,” Amity retorted. She had gone to the open door of her room. “Well, Amos darling, bring ’em back alive... the clichés, I mean.”

“What is she talking about?” Galaxy asked.

The Saint walked with her down the corridor.

“Don’t worry about it. Amity has a very intricate mind.”

“And I’m stupid, I suppose?”

“If you sometimes give that impression — which you don’t, of course — I’m sure it’s because nobody can believe anybody with your beauty could also have a brilliant mind — which you do, of course.”

“Well, I never had the chances she did. That’s obvious.”

“It’s a good excuse, anyway.”

Galaxy looked at him with sudden irritation. They had just come out on to the front steps of S.W.O.R.D. headquarters. Simon continued walking until he and Galaxy were out of range of the microphones which were hidden all over the building. He didn’t doubt that there were other means of monitoring his conversation even out in the garden, but he knew that in moving about constantly in the open he was at least interfering with the clarity of reception.

“What do you mean — excuse?” Galaxy asked him.

“I mean that saying you never had a chance is just a way of evading responsibility for yourself. When you can blame everything on bad luck or whatever you want to call it, you’ve got a perfect excuse for just floating with the tide. There’s nothing Amity can do that you can’t do. I’m sure of that.”

She slipped her arm under his and walked close beside him as he strolled towards the relative privacy of a few beeches near the wall that surrounded Warlock’s property. The sun was low, reddening as it descended towards the horizon through a cloudless sky, and shadows were long on the carefully tended grass. In such pleasant circumstances, the Saint felt almost guilty for lying to Galaxy about her limited intellectual potential.

“I haven’t done so bad,” she said cosily. “I’ve got lots of nice things, and I’ll have lots more after tomorrow night. And look who I’m with.”

“And look where we are,” Simon said wryly.

He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the wall. Galaxy pressed against him reassuringly as they stopped beneath the beech trees.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Everything will be all right after tomorrow night.”

“At least I won’t have to worry,” the Saint said grimly. “I’ll be dead.”

“Dead?” she exclaimed.

“You don’t think Warlock will let me or Amity stay alive to tell the world what he’s done, do you?”

“I don’t care about Amity. I wish he would kill her. But he won’t hurt you. I’m sure he won’t.”

She sounded more hopeful than convinced, and Simon seized the opportunity.

“You know as well as I do that he’ll have to kill me,” he said urgently.

“No! He’s... he’s not the type.”

He took her in his arms and whispered in her ear.

“I’m sure they can hear what we’re saying even now, so don’t talk out loud. Pretend I’m kissing you.”

She shivered and clung to him.

“Why pretend?” she whispered.

Her lips were suddenly against his, and it was several minutes before either of them spoke again.

“Galaxy,” he said in ardent tones which would have quickened the pulse of a Hollywood film director, “if we ever get out of this thing, I’m going to take you away someplace and spend about six months making sure we both forget it.”

“Oh, Amos, I’m so glad... You can write your books, and I’ll... I’ll...”

“Do what you’re best at,” he suggested.

She giggled against his shoulder.

“Yes.”

Simon straightened and assumed a tragic expression.

“But there’s no use talking about it. I won’t be alive, and Warlock would never let you go.”

“I could go,” she said indignantly. “I’m not his slave.”

The Saint looked her in the eye.

“Are you sure? I have a feeling none of you are here just out of sheer love and loyalty to dear old Warlock. And I don’t think it’s just the profit motive, either. What’s he got on you?”

“Got on me?” she asked nervously.

“Yes, got on you. What’s the hook he’s holding you with? I’ve got to know that before I can risk too much. Were you in prison?”

“No! There wasn’t enough evidence.”

“But there would be enough evidence to convict you if Warlock spoke up to the police? Is that the idea?”

“Something like that,” she said coldly. “Does it matter? Lots of people get killed in wars all the time, and nobody thinks a thing about it, but just let one person get rid of somebody’s nagging bitch of a wife in a way that doesn’t even hurt at all and you’d think the world was coming to an end!”

Simon’s aplomb was put to the test which, of course, it passed nobly.

“You performed this good deed, I take it, with the husband’s permission?”

“I...” Galaxy caught herself and looked at him wisely. “I never said I performed anything,” she went on. “But this husband — the way he acted when she was dead — you never would have known the whole idea was his.” Galaxy disgustedly broke a twig from a bush next to her. “Men are such cowards.”

“What happened to him?” Simon asked.

“He died too. Not long after.” Galaxy smirked. “Of a broken heart.”

“More likely of a highly spiced steak and kidney pie,” said the Saint. “And Warlock is going to share your old family recipe with the police if you don’t co-operate?”

“Even if you’re right, it doesn’t matter,” Galaxy insisted. “I’m glad I’m here anyway. Who wouldn’t be, for the money I’m going to get?”

Any romance Simon had been able to instill into the moment had been pretty thoroughly dissipated, but he tried to restore a little of it as he drew Galaxy closer to him again.

“Listen,” he whispered. “I have plenty of money of my own. If we can get out of here alive, you can have anything you’ve dreamed of... and the money’s in my bank account, not in Hermetico.”

“I couldn’t. Not if you mean before Warlock gets back tomorrow night.”

“That’s what I mean,” Simon said urgently. “We’ll have to escape tomorrow night while they’re at Hermetico.”

Galaxy was shaking her head and trying to draw back.

“Who’s we? she asked sceptically. “I suppose she’s supposed to go with us.”

“She’s going as far as the other side of the wall anyway. We can’t leave her here. But then...”

“But then nothing!” Galaxy said. “Men are all liars.” Her expression changed suddenly. “Unless... we got rid of her. Then I’d know you were serious.”

Simon was quickly calculating the possible advantage of pretending to agree to Amity’s liquidation until Galaxy had given him the means of escape, and then turning the tables.

“Then you’d help me get out of here tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Oh, no. I’m waiting for my share of the money. I’ll be sure you get out after that, and tommorrow night we’ll get rid of her. Right?”

Simon shook his head, abandoning the whole project.

“No. We’re not getting rid of Amity. If you do get rid of her Warlock will be upset and...”

“We could make it look like she was trying to escape. Or she was sick. That’s the way I... it was done to that woman before. Warlock has all kinds of chemicals. He lived in the flat next door to me at the time...”

“And you borrowed some of his potions.”

“Something like that,” Galaxy said proudly. “I’ve watched him. I could get something that would make it look like Amity just suddenly...”

“No,” Simon said firmly. “If you killed her, I... I’d feel too guilty to go away with you anywhere.”

Galaxy stepped back and gave her whole body a jerk like an enraged child.

“You’re just like the others!” she said. “Men are all talk! I know what you’d do. You’d let me get you and her out of here and then you’d throw me over so fast I wouldn’t know what hit me!”

The Saint was grateful to see Bishop appear by the corner of the house at that point and call to him.

“Mr. Klein! Warlock would like you to come to the laboratory!”

“Right away,” Simon replied. “Sorry, Galaxy. We’ll have to continue this pleasant chat later.”

She hurried along close beside him as he strode across the lawn to the front door.

“If you let me get rid of her I still might believe you,” she said. “Then I’d know you were serious.”

“No,” said Simon. “That’s absolutely out.”

The details of Galaxy’s subsequent remarks would be of interest only to a serious specialist in colourful English colloquialisms.

“Come along quickly, please,” Bishop said at the door, and led Simon and Galaxy to the cellar.

Warlock was standing beside one of his lab tables painting a small square of glass with a greenish metallic liquid. On the table was something like a sun lamp with a focussing lens in front of it. Frug stood nearby watching.

“Ah, Klein!” Warlock said. “Just in time. Frug, plug that cord in, would you?”

Frug plugged the lamp-like device into a wall outlet. Warlock flicked a switch.

“There,” he said with satisfaction.

“Is it on?” Bishop asked. “I can’t see anything.”

“Of course you can’t,” Warlock said impatiently. “Infra-red radiation is like light, except that it’s beyond the range the human eye is designed to pick up. If we could see it, do you think we’d be going to all this trouble?”

Bishop looked uncomfortable, and his head seemed to sink lower than usual between his shoulders. Simon raised the piece of coated glass to his eye and turned to the table on which the infra-red device sat. Where a second before he had seen nothing, he now saw a distinct beam of pale light. He nodded, and Warlock took the glass with such excitement that he almost dropped it on the floor.

“It works!” he exulted. “We’ve done it. Klein, you’re a genius.”

“I know,” Simon said humbly.

“Now we can get in Hermetico?” Frug asked.

“Not necessarily,” Simon told him. “But you’ll at least be able to see the beams that may blow you to bits.”

Warlock compressed his lips and gave Simon a stern look.

“I’ve asked you to stop your discouraging talk,” he said. “Tell us the rest of your plan.”

“There isn’t any rest yet,” the Saint said. “I’d suggest you send somebody over to Hermetico right away with a piece of this glass — or better still with several pairs of glasses coated with this stuff — and give it a test.”

“But we already know it works,” Frug interrupted.

Warlock turned to him in nervous exasperation.

“Will you go back to your ridiculous magazines?” he snapped. “It’s better than having you interfering at every turn!”

“I have another reason for sending somebody over there,” Simon put in. “We need to know how thickly those beams are interlaced. It won’t do you any good to see them if there’s not enough space between them anywhere for you to work your way through.”

“Is that clear to you, Bishop?” Warlock asked. “As soon as I’ve coated some glasses, you and Nero get over there and do as Mr. Klein said. I’ll give you some ideas on estimating the distance between beams. There’s a wooded patch that comes near the fence at the back of the Hermetico building. It’s the only place where you can get quite near without being seen. For heaven’s sake don’t let anyone spot you.”

“Just one other thing,” Simon said. “If it’s possible to make a circuit of the whole fence without getting caught, try to see if there’s a channel through the beams.”

“Right,” Warlock agreed. “But since the pattern of beams will probably be the same all the way around, don’t take any risks. Now go get Nero and explain everything to him. I’ll give you the glasses on your way out.”

“And shall I go back to my palatial cell?” Simon asked.

Frug was still hovering near the door as Bishop left.

“You’re not gone yet!” Warlock snapped at him. “Take Mr. Klein to his room.” The next words were directed to Simon. “You’re doing a fine job. If there’s space among the beams, we can either walk through or make an aluminium extension bridge to put through any channel. Have you worked out the details of getting to the vault through the ventilation system?”

“Not completely. I won’t have it finished before tomorrow sometime.”

“Good. We’ll plan to enter Hermetico after midnight tomorrow. Shall I tell you what Bishop and Nero have found out when they come back tonight?”

“I’d rather get some sleep,” Simon said. “I think I can control my excitement.”

“Understandable. You were a busy fellow last night. Which reminds me, Mr. Klein...”

Simon had started to walk out into the corridor. He turned in the doorway.

“What?”

“If you have any intention of building some trap for us into your Hermetico scheme — don’t be foolish enough to think I won’t detect it. After all, I’ve plenty of time to study the plans too, and I’m as familiar with the place as you are — probably more so.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Simon said.

“Good. If you forget, the consequences could be most painful... for you, not for us.”

3

Remembering Warlock’s words early the next afternoon, the Saint silently pondered the fact that the consequences of a slip-up in the Hermetico raid could be most painful for everybody concerned — Warlock included. And it was a slip-up he counted on to end the career of S.W.O.R.D. and its leader. But at the same time he was vividly aware, without Warlock’s needing to warn him, of the folly of trying to include a trap for the raiders in his and Amity’s plan for the theft. Warlock was no stupid man by any standards. He would undoubtedly spot the weak point in the scheme, keep the main part of the plan for immediate use, and simply eliminate the weakness and the two people who had conceived it.

Simon had no intention of being eliminated, but he had every expectation that Warlock would fall into a trap. Hermetico itself, even with no help from the Saint, was a trap. The chances of a party of men entering the place and leaving it without being detected — even with the best laid of plans — were approximately those of a party of arthritic rabbits making their way undisturbed through a kennel of greyhounds.

There were too many unpredictable elements. Merely getting the van (which would be necessary for transporting men and equipment, and later for removing the stolen metals) near the fence and leaving it there during the raid involved a tremendous risk of detection, even if Hermetico did not feel the need for human guards around the periphery. More importantly, Bishop’s and Jones’s check on the infra-red beams had revealed that while there were gaps through which men might enter, they were several feet in the air and so small that the slightest error would break a beam and set off an explosion.

Those problems were just the beginning. At any step a dozen different and deadly things could go wrong. The Saint felt sure that S.W.O.R.D.’s expedition would fail quite easily enough on its own, without any special help from him. If Warlock was too much of a nut to see that, all the better.

“I suppose that’s it,” Simon said to Amity. “We’ve finished.”

He turned from the window of his room, from which he had been watching Monk complete the repair to the front gate Simon had wrecked two nights before. Amity was sitting at the worktable with a small dormant volcano of cigarette remains at her elbow and a pencil behind one ear. She was chewing a thumbnail and staring at one of the maps of Hermetico’s innards.

“We still don’t know if there’s some kind of detection device inside the ventilation duct,” she said.

“We’ve done the best we can,” Simon answered. “We can’t be expected to know more than we could possibly know. What happens now is up to Warlock.”

Amity tilted her head to listen.

“What’s that?” she asked.

She and Simon went to the window and watched a van move from behind the garage, where it had been parked since its arrival in the morning (Bishop had apparently gone out and bought or rented it), into the drive. A few hours before it had been a big bright thing of shiny aluminium. Now it was painted a dull, non-reflective black. Frug and Bishop opened its back doors, manipulated something inside, and an aluminium ladder-like projection moved horizontally straight out behind the van until it extended over twenty feet. Warlock came out of the front door of the building to watch as a pair of legs were automatically lowered from the extended end of the projection, forming a kind of bridge supported at one end by the truck and at the other by the legs.

“That’s what they’ll try to get through the beams on,” the Saint said.

“Go across it, Bishop,” Warlock called.

The bridge was about a foot wide and equipped with continuous parallel rows of rollers. To move along it, Bishop, starting at the truck, had only to lie on his large belly and scoot along the rollers like a seal on ice. In a few seconds he was at the outer end.

“Don’t flap your arms about like that while you’re crossing or you’ll blow us all to kingdom come!” cried Warlock. “And we can’t have the thing sagging like that in the middle.”

The leader went over to the contrivance and inspected it in detail, gave some inaudible orders, and as he turned back towards the house saw Simon and Amity at the window.

“Have you finished?” he asked from below their vantage point.

“Almost,” Simon told him. “We’d like to make a final check before I hand over the plan.”

“Good!” Warlock called back. “That’s fast work, Mr. Klein. I’ve got together all the equipment you suggested. You can give the whole group a briefing when you’re ready. We’ll meet in the planning room.”

Warlock went into the house. While her and Simon’s heads were still out of the window, Amity whispered to him.

“Isn’t there anything we can do to stop this?” she asked.

“I think Hermetico will stop them,” Simon replied. “Our best bet is to worry about escaping from here while most of them are gone tonight. I might even be able to follow them to Hermetico and be sure their plans get upset.”

“What do you think he’ll do to us if we don’t escape?”

“I don’t know... and I don’t like not knowing.”

The van was being moved back behind the garage. Only a few more seconds of whispers beyond the windowsill would be possible.

“How do we escape?” Amity asked.

“If you have any ideas, we’ll dance.” Simon let his voice rise back to normal as he pulled his head into the room. “We’ll deserve a celebration after all this work.”

Simon waited until four o’clock to call for the S.W.O.R.D. briefing. Half an hour later he and Amity were accompanied down to the planning room by Monk and Nero Jones; Monk carried the Hermetico model and Jones carried an armload of papers and rolled maps. In the oak-panelled meeting room Warlock and Bishop and Frug were waiting. A blackboard was set up at one end of the long table. Reddish afternoon sun streamed in through the high windows.

When everyone was seated at the table, Warlock stood and addressed them.

“You are all aware that what we are undertaking tonight is one of the most difficult tasks a group of men have ever risked their lives to accomplish — but the rewards are worth the risk. After the work of this one night none of us will ever need to work again. Of course S.W.O.R.D. deserves to go on, and I hope we — or some of us — will be together on other adventures. However, no one will need to work, so those who want to can reasonably think of tonight as the gateway to an easy and luxurious future.”

Simon, who had no inclination to listen scornfully to praise of adventures and luxurious futures — two things he looked forward to confidently himself — nevertheless was amused by Warlock’s blithe propaganda. It set the tone perfectly for his own lecture which was to follow. The Saint’s plan was to radiate confidence and happy enthusiasm about the whole Hermetico scheme. The less guarded and apprehensive the raiders were, the more likely they were to run into trouble. Simon would mention only the more cheerful prospects, underplaying the dangers and not referring to certain pitfalls that had occurred to him as possibilities which he had somehow failed to include in the plans he was presenting to S.W.O.R.D.

Warlock was continuing his sanguine speech, looking from one face to another.

“I’ve heard you all talk about your ambitions. Now’s the time to keep them in mind. Frug can have that stable of racehorses now. Nero can buy that wicked night club. Bishop can have his yacht. Monk can even have his harem, I suppose.”

There was nervous laughter around the table. Nero Jones licked his pale lips. Frug was clasping his hands so tightly in front of him that his fingers were like white knobby icicles.

“And now, Mr. Klein...”

Simon stood up on cue and went to the head of the table. The plans lay in front of him and the blackboard was behind him.

“You all know already how you’re going to get through the fence and the infra-red beams. There’ll be no problem as long as everybody does his job properly. Judging from the view from my window, the bridge you’ve made works like a charm. The truck will back up to the fence, then Frug will cut the hole, taking precautions to avoid the alarm going off when the mesh is clipped.”

Using the blackboard for illustrative sketches, the Saint showed them how that would be done. He described in detail the extension of the aluminium bridge through the barrier of infra-red beams to the walkway which surrounded the building.

“The circular walk, directly next to the building itself, is unprotected,” he said confidently. “The designers seem to have felt that nobody would ever be able to force his way through the fence and the infra-red mine field. Their next really strong line of defence doesn’t come until the bottom of the elevator shaft — which we plan to bypass completely.”

The Saint held up a chart of the surface area of Hermetico.

“Briefly, when you’ve crossed the bridge, you go around to the left until you come to these two large ventilators. One is the intake and one is the extractor. The fan of the extractor is above the surface here, in the neck of the duct. You’ll cut the duct right at the ground level, below the fan, without severing the wiring...”

Warlock held up his hand politely.

“The key to the operation,” he interrupted, “is not to disconnect anything that might set off an alarm.”

“Right,” said the Saint. “But there’s nothing to worry about, really, since we’ve pinpointed all the danger spots already. In case an alarm should be set off, Nero will be staked out with a machine gun covering the front door. He should be able to keep the opposition inside until you can get away to the van.”

“What about other doors?” Bishop asked uneasily.

“There’s only one other door, here on the left side. You’ll pass it on your way to the ventilators. From where Nero will be, he can get an angle on both doors. Remember, this place was built strictly with defence in mind. It’s made to withstand bombs and full-scale invasions. There’s just no way for the defenders to get out and mount an offensive.”

Bishop and the others looked satisfied, and Warlock looked downright smug. It was Simon’s own business if he did not share their lack of respect for Hermetico’s architect. The defenders did not need to mount an offensive. A close study of the plans had led him to believe that a series of very small square openings around the upper part of the dome of the otherwise windowless structure were intended for use as gunports. The guards could lay down a deadly barrage without leaving the protection of the building. They could not see the area immediately next to the building but anything near and beyond the perimeter of the outer fence was at their mercy.

“After the ventilator is opened,” Simon continued, “Frug will be lowered down it on a harness. He’ll arrive at the main vault, which he’ll be able to see through a large grating. He’ll knock out the two guards who’re stationed in the vault by shooting them with drugged darts. Then he’ll take off the grating and Bishop will join him in the vault. The object then is simply to take over the whole place. Using keys they’ll take from the vault guards, Frug and Bishop will get out of the vault and make a sneak attack on the control centre. Then they can shut down the alarm system, and the rest of you can simply walk in the front door...”

Frug did not look at all pleased with the plan.

“Why not just hoist the gold and stuff up the ventilator shaft?” he asked.

“We thought of that,” Simon answered. “But the vault is three hundred feet down, and you’d spend all night getting out just a fraction of the loot... assuming you had all night, and nobody discovered you in the vault. I think you’ll be much safer getting command of Hermetico in one quick stroke, then using their facilities for moving the heavy stuff up to the van.”

Warlock nodded approvingly.

“It’s true,” he said. “It’s the only way.”

“It is unless you’re just after a few souvenirs,” the Saint added. “As I understand it, you intend to empty the place.”

“Exactly,” said Warlock.

Bishop was wriggling in his chair.

“What about guards up top?” he asked.

“There’ll probably be one in a booth by the elevator on the ground floor,” Simon said. “But before he knows you’re in the building you’ll have taken control of the alarm and defence system, so it shouldn’t be much of a problem to handle him. We can go into details about all these things in a minute. There’s also a sleeping room for guards just off the entrance alcove. Probably there’ll be half a dozen men in there. The Hermetico defence plan seems to depend almost entirely on automatic devices for warnings of trouble. Most of the guards can sleep, since they don’t actually have to stand guard, but they do constitute a kind of defence force that can be called on by automatic or manual alarms at any second.”

The conference went on for over an hour and then, when Simon had answered every objection and explained every detail of the operation, moved to the basement laboratory and store rooms. There, for another hour, Warlock’s men brought together various pieces of equipment and discussed and tested them. Warlock, having followed the formation of the Saint’s and Amity’s plan on television, had foreseen most of the needs of the expedition and made certain they were on hand earlier in the day.

“Everything seems to be in order,” he said finally. “We’ll eat in a while and get some rest. Then we’ll have some rehearsals with the equipment at nine o’clock before we load it in the van. The last thing we’ll do is test all the weapons. We’ll leave for Hermetico before midnight.”

“And what do we do?” Amity muttered to Simon in the midst of the clatter and talk at the meeting’s end.

“We’ll just relax here with our window open and listen for explosions off in the direction of Hermetico...”

4

But for once the Saint underestimated fate’s fondness for involving him in adventure — in this case adventure within adventure. He was not to be allowed to sit quietly in his room listening for the explosive demise of Warlock and his doughty band, nor even to spend the night engineering his own and Amity’s escape from S.W.O.R.D. headquarters. An explosion took place, and it involved Warlock, but it occurred in Simon’s own room.

He and Amity were at the dining table finishing off their meal with fresh cherries and peaches when the door burst open and Warlock sailed towards them like an apoplectic dirigible.

“Well, Mr. Simon Templar!” he shouted.

He was waving a magazine, but the dramatic effect of his entrance and gestures was ruined by the fact that he had begun to quiver all over. Simon looked at him with bland puzzlement.

“I thought you were rehearsing a raid, not Uncle Tom’s Cabin, he said.

Frug and Nero Jones flanked Warlock menacingly. Galaxy stood triumphantly behind them. The magazine appeared several inches in front of the Saint’s nose.

“Try to talk your way out of that!” Warlock bellowed.

“Try to hold it steady enough for me to see,” the Saint replied mildly.

He took the magazine and saw what he expected to see: his own picture.

“Well?” Warlock shouted.

“Very handsome,” said the Saint.

He glanced at the cover of the magazine. It was one of those sensational movie journals with which Frug was occasionally seen enriching his mind. The magazine was two weeks old, and it had a spread on the then forthcoming premiere of Amos Klein’s Sunburst Five. Under Simon’s picture — taken during his attendance at some other gala occasion he could no longer remember — were the words: “Real life Charles Lake expected at premiere. Simon Templar — better known as the Saint — is among those invited. Don’t shove, girls! You might find a date with him about as relaxing as a ride on a tiger shark... and he’s not talking about his romantic enthusiasm. The legendary Robin Hood of Modern Crime has probably survived more narrow escapes than even Charles Lake.”

“Well?” Warlock demanded again.

“The prose is lousy and the quote’s a pure fiction. Otherwise...”

He shrugged and passed the magazine to Amity.

“You tricked me!” Warlock raged.

“You kidnapped me,” said the Saint.

“You let me believe you were Amos Klein. You insinuated yourself into my organization — probably with the intention of destroying it. You haven’t succeeded yet, and you won’t! I’ll see you both dead for this!”

Nero Jones looked excited by Warlock’s last statement, and his fingers caressed some solid object in his jacket pocket. Amity Little put the movie magazine on the table.

“What have we done?” she asked. “Except to try to go along with your crazy ideas?”

“And who are you? Warlock asked her furiously.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” she said.

“An accomplice,” Warlock stormed. “Otherwise why would you have co-operated in this masquerade?”

Simon had been thinking at racecourse speed, and he had decided that the best way to protect Amity was to let Warlock know her true identity.

“In spite of your archaic diction, I think you have a brain under those layers of baby fat and romanticism, so I’ll let you in on something,” Simon said to the tremulous Warlock. “This lady is Amos Klein.”

Warlock’s safety valve went with a wheeze of rage, and his square hand swung towards Simon’s face. The Saint did not move from his casual position in the chair. With a slight tilt of his head he avoided Warlock’s slap, caught the square hand, continued its motion further than its owner had anticipated, and sent Warlock sprawling on his face on the carpet.

The solid object which Nero Jones had been handling so affectionately inside his pocket openly revealed itself as a snub-nosed revolver, and Frug snapped out a six-inch switchblade. Simon did not move except to shake his head warningly at Amity as Warlock floundered first to his knees and then to his feet.

“You’ll pay for that too,” he said, his face livid with fury. “For tripping me and for insulting me with idiotic lies about this... this woman of yours!”

“But it’s true,” Amity said. “I wrote the Charles Lake books. My real name is Amity Little, but my pen name is Amos Klein.”

“So you see,” Simon joined in, “S.W.O.R.D. got a real bargain. Two brilliant experts on crime for the price of one.” He gave Warlock a winning smile. “We aren’t even charging you double. For a mere hundred thousand pounds you’re getting not only a master plan for cracking Hermetico, but also the delightful company of two celebrities in your own home. Why, you’ll be the envy of the neighbourhood, Warlock, old son of a witch.”

The man who called himself Warlock, surprisingly, did not erupt again. Instead, a strange unnatural calm regained control of his quivering bulk that was far more ominous and blood-chilling than any of his outbursts. It reminded the Saint suddenly and startlingly that the house and the organization around him, the whole set-up and everything that had gone before, preposterous and fantastic as they were, were not figments of delirium but had been put together with cold and patient practicality.

“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.”