“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.