Free Saint and the Fiction Makers by Leslie Charteris Page B

understand the facts; you’ve kidnapped me so that I can be the badly needed brain behind this organization. Together, I take it, we’re going to become multi-billionaires, put the Mafia out of business by beating it at its own game, and even manipulate governments from behind the scenes—small governments at first, and then work our way up to the really big ones until we control the world.’
    Warlock’s eyes glowed like cinders under a bellows.
    ‘You do understand, Mr. Klein! I knew you would. Nero! The attache case.’
    The near-albino rose from his chair and went to fetch the case from a table behind him.
    ‘This will help convince you of our sincerity,’ Warlock continued. ‘Once you come to trust me, I’m sure you’ll agree that a life of real action, a life in which one lives his art rather than merely dreaming it—I’m sure you’ll agree that such a life and its rewards are far preferable to fiction and fantasies.’
    ‘But not necessarily more profitable,’ Simon said.
    ‘This should convince you even more. Nero, if you please.’
    Nero set the attache case on the table in front of the Saint and unlocked it. Simon opened it himself. Inside were tightly bound stacks of ten-pound notes.
    ‘That’s certainly quite an argument,’ the Saint admitted.
    He had decided that his best tactic was to play along, for the moment, until he found out just how far Warlock’s well-heeled madness would go. He tried to look like an author who, even though rich from his writing, was not above being impressed by such quantities of money.
    ‘And that’s only half,’ Warlock told him. ‘Fifty thousand pounds. Remember my offer in the post? Fifty thousand now and another fifty thousand after two months, at the successful conclusion of our first major project.’
    Simon Templar tried to look as flattered, intrigued, and seriously tempted as an imaginary Amos Klein might have looked.
    ‘What might that be?’ he asked. ‘This major project.’
    ‘We are going …’ Warlock began, and then he paused for effect as he put his hand on the table and took a deep breath. ‘We are going to rob the largest storehouse of treasure on this side of the Atlantic. We are going to empty it of gold, platinum, and diamonds worth more millions of pounds than I can ever estimate.’
    ‘We are?’ Simon asked solemnly, building up his part.
    ‘We are,’ Warlock said. ‘And your brain is going to tell us how it can be done.’
    ‘Do you think I could? Even if I …’
    ‘I know you can,’ Warlock said flatly. T know you will.’
    ‘All right,’ said the Saint. ‘Where is this king-size piggy bank?’
    CHAPTER THREE
    HOW WARLOCK MADE HIS PITCH, AND SIMON TEMPLAR TOOK A WALK
    1
    ‘It’s called Hermetico,’ Warlock said. ‘Have you heard of it?’
    ‘No,’ Simon lied.
    He knew of the existence of the place, but until now he had taken no special interest in it. He relaxed in his chair as Warlock took charge of a small table draped with purple velvet which had been rolled over next to the long conference table. Out of the corner of his eye Simon noted the strained, attentive faces of the other men. Their tension made for interesting speculation. Had Warlock, who apparently had money in large supply, not only gained their loyalty by paying them plenty, but possibly by recruiting them from prisons whose wardens had viewed the men’s departure with surprise and alarm rather than that warm satisfaction which comes of seeing the regenerate and rehabilitated outlaw leave for a better life at the end of a fully served term? If that were the case, then well-justified fear, if not gratitude, would considerably enhance their devotion to S.W.O.R.D. and its leader.
    ‘This is a model of Hermetico,’ Warlock said.
    Frug, the more skimpy but most intelligent-looking of Warlock’s minions, lifted the purple covering from the table, revealing a monolithic white building surrounded by fences.
    ‘There’s not much to it, is there?’