Free Saint and the Fiction Makers by Leslie Charteris Page A

‘—I should say, true to fiction, to your books, than the cast in the motion pictures. I want you to understand that from the very beginning I’ve tried to depend on your books entirely and to ignore the films, so as to be as faithful as possible to your own ideas. I can’t deny being influenced by the films, but I’ve tried not to be unduly influenced. It was your ideas I was interested in, and a lot of other writers messing about with them could easily spoil the whole thing.’
    ‘What whole thing?’ Simon asked impatiently.
    ‘I don’t blame you for being puzzled,’ Warlock answered. ‘Here. Please. Sit down at the head of the table, the place of honour, the place of the leader. I’ll explain everything.’
    He ushered Simon to the high-backed chair. Galaxy remained decoratively in the doorway.
    ‘You may go now, Galaxy,’ Warlock said. ‘Mr. Klein won’t need you for a while, will you, Mr. Klein?’
    ‘Not for the next minute or so, anyway,’ Simon said fondly.
    ‘Good,’ Warlock continued. ‘Galaxy, go see that Mr. Klein’s, er, acquaintance is being well taken care of.’
    Galaxy left, closing the double doors behind her, and Warlock looked at Simon.
    ‘The lady is your …’ He paused, questioningly.
    ‘Associate,’ Simon said, with a vagueness he thought should cover any story Amity Little might have come up with.
    Warlock produced the knowing smile of a man who did not really know much about such things but wanted the world to think he did.
    ‘Understood, Mr. Klein, understood. And now, let’s get down to business, shall we?’
    ‘Fine,’ the Saint said bluntly. ‘I’m a prisoner, is that the idea?’
    Warlock looked mildly pained.
    ‘Only in the most technical sense of the word,’ he said. ‘You were brought here involuntarily, true, but I’m sure that when you hear my plan you’ll be very happy that you came. Remember, Mr. Klein, you are the leader. You are the father. We are your brain children.’
    The Saint sat back in his chair and surveyed the other men—Warlock facing him from the other end of the table, the others seated along either side.
    ‘And what do I do? Play cops and robbers with you children in this gigantic dollhouse? I feel as if it and all of us were cut off the back of a box of breakfast cereal.’
    For the first time the man who called himself Warlock lost his composure. It was only a momentary loss, but it showed the ugly strength which lay behind the jovial surface. Veins bulged and pulsed at his temples, and his black eyes seemed distended in their sockets. But self-control was re-established in a few seconds. His face recovered its normal flaccid pallor as his blood subsided.
    ‘Mr. Klein,’ he said softly, ‘this is no child’s game. It is not a joke. All this has been done for a practical purpose—a most eminently practical purpose: the purpose of making money. What I have done here is build a business organization and a headquarters for that business. The business is called S.W.O.R.D. and it was conceived by you as well as christened by you. I have made it a reality for the simple reason that it works.’
    Simon looked soberly at Warlock.
    ‘You mean you’ve planned to put an organization like S.W.O.R.D. into actual operation?’
    Warlock leaned forward.
    ‘S.W.O.R.D. is in operation,’ he said. ‘It was quite efficient in bringing you here. The Secret World Organization for Retribution and Destruction is no longer just a fiction. It exists.’
    ‘And Warlock has come to life to be its boss,’ Simon said.
    Warlock sat back in his chair, looking pleased with himself once more.
    ‘Oh, no, Mr. Klein. I’m not the boss. You are. The ingredient that makes S.W.O.R.D. unique is the unique brain of a creative genius—your own remarkable brain. Without that, S.W.O.R.D. would be only a body without life, a machine without fuel, a … a weapon without a finger to pull the trigger.’
    ‘Before you drown us with metaphors, Mr. X, let me be sure I