Saint and the Fiction Makers Read Free

have the nerve to face the unpredictable, or at least the unlikely. So I think you can relax. You may only make a few millions, but it’s still money.’
    ‘Maybe so,’ Starnmeck said. ‘But this is a cut-throat business, Mr. Templar. Now, did anything occur to you that might make the next picture better still?’
    ‘Well, have you thought about the Unities prescribed by Aristotle for all tragedy?’ Simon suggested, warming to the torment of Starnmeck as he realized that he had indeed lost Carol Henley, possibly for ever. ‘How about them?’
    ‘About what?’ Sternmeck asked.
    ‘Aristotle’s Unities,’ repeated the Saint patiently.
    Starnmeck had begun to perspire noticeably.
    ‘Maybe we’d better discuss this at the party. It’s pretty noisy here.’
    ‘Fine,’ said Simon with a slight bow. ‘Until then.’
    The cool mocking of his eyes was in marked contrast to Starnmeck’s intense humidity, as the producer turned to submerge himself again in the less confusing comments of his own kind.
    Simon started towards the open doors which led to the street, anxious to be out of the press of bodies and the hub-bub of voices, but he was not yet destined to escape. In fact, Destiny, intruding itself again in the form of an insistent tug at his sleeve which stopped him before he could complete his escape, had plans for the Saint which were to seem almost as incredible as the film he had just watched.
    2
    Simon turned, looked down at the long saturnine face, the rapidly blinking black eyes, the perfectly oblong moustache like a strip of furry tape, the damp strands of suspiciously dark hair combed carefully forward over an otherwise vacant dome, and saw that the sleeve-tugger was Finlay Hugoson, the publisher of the Charles Lake books on which the Starnmeck films were based. They had first met that evening at the small and highly exclusive cocktail party, held in a suite at the Dorchester, before the premiere.
    ‘Well, Mr. Templar, I suppose Charles Lake’s exploits are old hat to a man like yourself.’
    The Saint shrugged. He found Hugoson likeable enough and admirably lacking the gaudy and blatantly artificial affectations that marred the personalities of so many of the other guests. But after his initial favourable impression, Simon had been put off by the publisher’s sudden almost frantic reaction when he realized that the Mr. Templar he had been speaking to so chattily was that Robin Hood of modern crime called the Saint. From that moment of realization, Hugoson had lost his casual poise and become nervously inhibited and overly attentive, like a man who had something urgent to say but was afraid to say it. Even when they had been separated to opposite ends of the room, he had felt Hugoson’s eyes continually switching back to him. Now, in the lobby of the cinema the publisher gave Simon a premonition that he was going to be much harder to shake off.
    ‘They’re no more old hat to me than anybody else,’ Simon said in response to Hugoson’s opening remark. ‘We all have fantastic dreams. I happen to have a knack for putting mine into practice. Your author has a knack for putting his on paper. It’s just that paper leaves quite a bit more freedom than real life.’
    Hugoson stuck close beside him as the Saint strolled through the rapidly emptying lobby towards the doors which led to the open area under the marquee.
    ‘You weren’t bored, then?’
    ‘Not a bit. As a matter of fact, I’ve read all seven of the books by your Mr. Amos Klein, and he has an unabashed disregard for probability and the laws of nature that completely intrigues me. Reading him is the next best thing to floating free in space. And apparently several million other people think so too.’
    They stepped out into the wide space between the front doors of the theatre and the street, where a milling throng was gathered in a chaos of blinding lights, cameras, microphones, and departing taxicabs and limousines.
    ‘I’m sure Mr. Klein