“Because of a hat,” the Saint repeated. “And if that can happen on an innocent visit, think what it will be like when you try to break in...”
Chapter five
How Warlock contributed some science, and allowed others to become physical
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.”