Free Saint and the Fiction Makers by Leslie Charteris

films.’
    Simon bowed his thanks.
    ‘I hope I’ll be half as delighted when I find out why you gassed and kidnapped me.’
    Warlock looked hurt. His jowls sagged.
    ‘I wish you wouldn’t look at it that way, Mr. Klein. It seemed to me that since you were understandably dubious about my original offer, I must use unorthodox methods … for the good of both of us. I trust you’ll soon forgive me when you hear my plan.’
    ‘I don’t have much choice at the moment,’ said the Saint.
    Warlock gave a deprecating wave of his hand, as if pretending not even to hear such an unworthy remark.
    ‘Now, Mr. Klein, please come in, won’t you? This is your planning room. You’ll recognize it, of course.’
    Simon accompanied Warlock across the thick carpet, glancing at the beamed ceiling, the high windows which allowed a view only of the sky, and the walls lined with books, maps, and graphs.
    ‘I do recognize it,’ Simon said. He had decided to bring a little more of the overawed author into his characterization. ‘It’s hard to believe. A perfect replica of the S.W.O.R.D. planning room.’
    Warlock rubbed his hands delightedly.
    ‘Not a replica,’ he said. ‘This is the S.W.O.R.D. planning room—the only one on earth. Not in your mind, not on paper, not on film, but here, in reality!’
    ‘And you’ve done all this yourselves?’ Simon asked.
    ‘I have done it,’ Warlock said. ‘These gentlemen by the table were chosen after the building was completed. It has been absolutely guaranteed that my interests are theirs. Their loyalty is beyond question. You’ll recognize them, I think? You created them.’
    Warlock stood happily by while Simon inspected the troops, who stood in varying postures of respectful unease on either side of the table.
    ‘Bishop,’ Simon said to the one who had come to the cottage door as P.C. Jarvis.
    Bishop, whose chin displayed a dark bruise where Simon had hit him, forced a smile. He was no longer in uniform but like the other men wore a conservatively tailored suit.
    ‘Mr. Klein,’ he said politely, by way of acknowledgement.
    ‘Feeling chipper this morning, Bishop? That’s good.’
    Simon moved on to the giant who had accompanied Bishop in the impersonation of police constables.
    ‘Simeon Monk, as I live and breathe. Do you really bend railroad irons with your bare hands?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Simeon Monk succinctly.
    ‘Better have that throat looked after, Sim. Sounds as if you’re talking from down in a barrel.’
    Simeon rubbed his throat and looked confused.
    ‘He always sounds that way,’ Warlock explained unnecessarily. ‘Remember, in Volcano Seven, you described …’
    ‘Right,’ the Saint agreed. ‘He’s perfect. And this handsome fellow here will be … don’t tell me, let me guess … Frug!’
    The word ‘handsome’ had probably never been applied to Frug before, even as a joke. He would have been more aptly described, by a speaker less sardonic and more brutally honest than the Saint chose to be at the moment, as an ugly little shrimp. Opposite the huge Neanderthal called Monk, he looked even shorter and more shrimpy than he was, the perfect caricature of the chain smoker who spends his afternoons at the racetrack and his evenings in a billiards hall.
    ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Frug said deferentially.
    ‘And who is this?’ Simon asked. ‘As if I didn’t know.’
    He was inspecting the last member of the quartet, a moderately tall man of almost albino colouration. His hair was white, he seemed to have no eyebrows, and his eyes themselves were the palest of milky grey. He seemed to have more difficulty looking either cordial or respectful than any of the others.
    ‘Nero Jones,’ he said.
    The Saint turned back to Warlock.
    ‘At least I can’t find fault with the casting,’ he remarked.
    ‘I am so pleased you think so,’ Warlock replied. ‘I do think our group here is much more true to life—’ he laughed and interrupted himself