“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 attaché 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.
“They can’t hear us now,” he whispered. “You’re doing fine. That was a convincing display of jealousy you put on a minute ago. Nobody would ever guess we met for the first time last night.”
“I’m glad you approve,” she said acidly. “I must be a born actress.” She tilted her head back so that her eyes could meet his. “Really, Simon, what are we going to do? Are you really planning to co-operate with this maniac?”
The conversation continued in undertones, Simon trying to move his lips as little as a ventriloquist.
“He’s as mad as a hatter, of course. But that doesn’t make him a joke. Far from it. We’ve got to take him as seriously as he takes himself. Don’t argue. We may not be able to talk long. We’ll try to get out of here tonight. What are some of the things you invented to keep prisoners from escaping from headquarters?”
“Do you think this idiot playing Warlock really built them?”
“Very probably. There’s an electrified steel fence all around the grounds, right?”
“Yes,” she said, “and guards with dogs. In fact, take a look right now.”
Simon led her past the open window. Across the green sweep of the lawn walked a hefty man in boots and jacket, a shotgun under his arm, a pair of Dobermanns snuffing at his heels.