gorilla in formal dress.
“I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you, but I am surprised,” Simon remarked. “We were just watching you smash up somebody on television. How did you get dressed and down here so quickly?”
Kalki’s reaction immediately made it plain that he had at least one weakness commensurate with his size. He puffed up visibly with pride, glanced at Tammy to make sure that she was paying attention, and looked back down at the Saint.
“It was me you saw on the television,” he said self-importantly. “On tape. I made that show last week.”
“How about that?” Simon commented to Tammy. “We’re house guests of a celebrity. Look where ambition and hard work will get you.”
“It’s gonna get you a fancy funeral,” Shortwave said viciously. He planted himself in front of the Saint with a piece of rope in his hand. “When I get through with you, you’ll wish you’d never seen me except on television.”
“Talking of television,” Simon said with impeccable good humour, “how does that come through on your chromium plate? Do you receive the picture as well, or only the sound effects?”
Shortwave glared at him with red eyes and raised the rope, but Kalki stopped him magisterially, taking pride in his own massive self-control.
“Not now,” he said magnanimously. “I do not like the lady to see you hit a man who cannot fight back. Wait until Fowler comes, and if he says so, you can do what you like-for as long as you like.”
The fairly efficient trussing to which Simon had been subjected was not enough to suppress the raising of an eyebrow.
“Fowler?” he echoed. “Who he?-if I may use the idiom.”
“You will find out,” Mahmud said, pushing Tammy into another chair.
“Let me do some more guessing,” Simon said. “He’s the great White Wizard who’s doing so much for you poor benighted victims of race prejudice-and making a nice profit for himself, of course. He also has a useful-sized pleasure boat registered with the Thames Conservancy, but also perfectly capable of running downriver and out to sea to make pick-ups. There can only be two or three locks between here and tidewater … And this is where the immigrant cargo can be landed and wait to be tidily dispersed. Not exactly Ritz accommodation, but I can see you’re working on that … I didn’t notice the boat, though. Could it be somewhere down the Thames Estuary right now, picking up more passengers?”
Mahmud impassively finished tying Tammy’s hands together in front of her. Stubbornly pretending not to listen, he betrayed his tortured anxiety about what he was hearing.
“Not like that,” Shortwave said irritably. “Behind her.”
Kalki intervened, happy to display his authority again.
“Do as you are,” he said to Mahmud. “The lady will be very well.”
“Oh yes, the lady will be very well,” Tammy sighed. She looked utterly defeated, too disheartened even to be frightened any more. “What are you going to do with us?”
“You wanna hear?” Shortwave asked as he got up from tying the Saint’s feet. “It might take me a couple of hours to tell you.”
Kalki gave a leviathan shrug.
“Do not worry about it,” he pontificated to Tammy. “You were expected to be dead now, so no matter what happens this is all extra time. Enjoy it.”
“Thanks so much,” Tammy sighed. Then she suddenly stared at Simon. “They wouldn’t really do it, would they?” she asked in a tone of horrified realisation. “I mean kill us? I didn’t mean anything like that. I just wanted a story.”
“You wanted to see us in prison,” Kalki said without any overt hostility. “You wrote bad things. We warned you.” He twitched his jaw to one side in a c’est-la-vie mannerism that produced a quivering of his black whiskers and a sound of lightly grating teeth. “So.”
The abrupt, formally regretful “so” was self-explanatory enough for Tammy, who shivered as if she had suddenly been touched by a
“I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you, but I am surprised,” Simon remarked. “We were just watching you smash up somebody on television. How did you get dressed and down here so quickly?”
Kalki’s reaction immediately made it plain that he had at least one weakness commensurate with his size. He puffed up visibly with pride, glanced at Tammy to make sure that she was paying attention, and looked back down at the Saint.
“It was me you saw on the television,” he said self-importantly. “On tape. I made that show last week.”
“How about that?” Simon commented to Tammy. “We’re house guests of a celebrity. Look where ambition and hard work will get you.”
“It’s gonna get you a fancy funeral,” Shortwave said viciously. He planted himself in front of the Saint with a piece of rope in his hand. “When I get through with you, you’ll wish you’d never seen me except on television.”
“Talking of television,” Simon said with impeccable good humour, “how does that come through on your chromium plate? Do you receive the picture as well, or only the sound effects?”
Shortwave glared at him with red eyes and raised the rope, but Kalki stopped him magisterially, taking pride in his own massive self-control.
“Not now,” he said magnanimously. “I do not like the lady to see you hit a man who cannot fight back. Wait until Fowler comes, and if he says so, you can do what you like-for as long as you like.”
The fairly efficient trussing to which Simon had been subjected was not enough to suppress the raising of an eyebrow.
“Fowler?” he echoed. “Who he?-if I may use the idiom.”
“You will find out,” Mahmud said, pushing Tammy into another chair.
“Let me do some more guessing,” Simon said. “He’s the great White Wizard who’s doing so much for you poor benighted victims of race prejudice-and making a nice profit for himself, of course. He also has a useful-sized pleasure boat registered with the Thames Conservancy, but also perfectly capable of running downriver and out to sea to make pick-ups. There can only be two or three locks between here and tidewater … And this is where the immigrant cargo can be landed and wait to be tidily dispersed. Not exactly Ritz accommodation, but I can see you’re working on that … I didn’t notice the boat, though. Could it be somewhere down the Thames Estuary right now, picking up more passengers?”
Mahmud impassively finished tying Tammy’s hands together in front of her. Stubbornly pretending not to listen, he betrayed his tortured anxiety about what he was hearing.
“Not like that,” Shortwave said irritably. “Behind her.”
Kalki intervened, happy to display his authority again.
“Do as you are,” he said to Mahmud. “The lady will be very well.”
“Oh yes, the lady will be very well,” Tammy sighed. She looked utterly defeated, too disheartened even to be frightened any more. “What are you going to do with us?”
“You wanna hear?” Shortwave asked as he got up from tying the Saint’s feet. “It might take me a couple of hours to tell you.”
Kalki gave a leviathan shrug.
“Do not worry about it,” he pontificated to Tammy. “You were expected to be dead now, so no matter what happens this is all extra time. Enjoy it.”
“Thanks so much,” Tammy sighed. Then she suddenly stared at Simon. “They wouldn’t really do it, would they?” she asked in a tone of horrified realisation. “I mean kill us? I didn’t mean anything like that. I just wanted a story.”
“You wanted to see us in prison,” Kalki said without any overt hostility. “You wrote bad things. We warned you.” He twitched his jaw to one side in a c’est-la-vie mannerism that produced a quivering of his black whiskers and a sound of lightly grating teeth. “So.”
The abrupt, formally regretful “so” was self-explanatory enough for Tammy, who shivered as if she had suddenly been touched by a
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