Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

In the heightened reality of the moment, the Saint choreographed his own counter offensive, still hoping to intersect the Volvo before Dan and Ian were harmed, robbed, or kidnapped.

The bear swung the pipe with a wide round-house right, the type for which any boxer has a professional disdain, and it swished by without impact. It was still in its uninterrupted arc when the Saint launched his jack-hammer fist into the beast’s solar plexus.

In the Saint’s mind, the pipe wielding intruder was already collapsing, devoid of wind and consciousness. In reality, the rocket-launcher impact of Simon’s fist didn’t even slow him down. The Saint found this particularly disconcerting.

Unstoppable as a locomotive, the giant’s bulk sent the Saint sprawling back across the desk, his arm entangled in the straps of Vi’s leather bag, and propelled him over the desk’s edge. Simon’s head banged on the wooden seat of the swivel chair as he, the folder, and the contents of Vi’s purse, spilled over on to the floor.

The pipe again descended, splintering the chair where the Saint’s head had been an only instant before. With his shoulders on the floor and his legs flexed, Simon power-pumped his heels directly into an exceptionally sensitive area of his adversary’s anatomy. Far more effective than the solar plexus punch, the kick inflicted immeasurable discomfort, sent the brute stumbling back against the filing cabinet, and temporarily forestalled a renewed attack.

Three distinct sounds merged in the Saint’s mind — the giant’s animal moan, the clang of pipe dropping to the floor, and cries from Vi Berkman.

“My purse!” screamed Vi, “My purse!”

While a woman’s purse is often considered an inviolable and sacred item, the Saint rightfully decoded Berkman’s high-pitched exclamations as directives rather than admonitions, immediately perceiving two fascinating items among those loosed from Vi’s purse: a small canister and a long, thin, black flashlight. He didn’t have to read the label to know the canister’s contents. He reached for them both, but the canister rolled away under the desk. The Saint clutched the flashlight, spun his body, and kicked the canister across the floor to where Vi stood shrieking.

Before the Saint could stand, the giant’s massive paws grabbed Simon’s lapels, pulled him off his feet, and brutally banged him against the wall adjacent to the window frame.

In the amber illumination streaming through the window, the Saint saw the man’s eyes. What Simon Templar saw in those eyes would not haunt him for years to come, nor would the image visit him unwanted in the midnight hour.

Simon Templar’s instantaneous accurate appraisal of his assailant’s ocular condition was, while not medically precise, operationally adequate. The eyes were wide, wet, and unnaturally dilated. Stripped of prolixity, suffice it to say, the giant’s mental state was as artificially altered as Elmo’s nieces’ measurements.

The beast pinned Simon against the wall, one huge hand wrapped around the Saint’s throat while he pawed at Simon’s jacket with the other.

“Looking for something?” Simon spoke through a constricted larynx.

Slamming the flashlight’s head against the giant’s left eye, Simon fired the high-powered halogen bulb. The beast’s reaction was sudden, violent, and perfectly predictable. He bellowed, recoiled, clutched his head, and turned directly into the path Viola Berkman.

Vi thrust the canister’s nozzle into the beast’s gaping mouth, pumped a stream of lung-scorching Mace down his throat, and stood aside while Simon Templar smashed the giant’s contorted face with his right fist.

The ominous intruder’s head snapped back as if attempting to escape his ham-like neck. Stumbling clumsily backwards, his arms whirling in wild concentric circles, he came to a gagging, choking standstill against the side wall.

It was, all things considered, not a pretty sight.

The Saint immediately turned to the open window, searching for signs of Daniel and Ian.

The Volvo was gone.

Vi, holding the canister at arm’s length in her tremulous hand, kept the nozzle aimed at the intruder’s ugly face as she felt for the light switch. The flash of flourescence further aggravated the incapacitated attacker who stomped his booted foot in an ineffectual protest.

“OK, Snookums,” drawled the Saint.

“You calling me Snookums?” asked Vi incredulously.

“No, my child, Snookums is the term of endearment I have chosen to bestow upon this horrific specimen of modern male fashion and lapsed social graces,” said Simon as he twirled the retrieved pipe as if it were a baton. “Everything about his behavior, not to mention his wardrobe, is blatantly offensive to prevailing community standards, but it’s only fair that we allow him to offer whimpering excuses and pass the blame on to his tailor and whoever put him up to this.”

The man’s chest heaved labored breath as he emitted an unprintable example of his limited, although colorful, vocabulary. Simon came dangerously closer, slapping the pipe against his palm in a threatening gesture.

“Snookums, dearest, I’m afraid you’ve violated the verbal morality code. And in front of a lady, no less.”

The Saint’s tones were silken, but his eyes were chips of iced lapis. The brute hazily gazed into those famous mocking eyes, but he sought neither depth of emotion nor novel metaphor. The beast was picking a target. Had his vision been more acute, or had Simon Templar been six inches closer, the Saint’s hawk-like profile would have been permanently altered. Instead, the beasts fist slammed solidly into Simon’s forehead.

The Saint, to his perpetual embarrassment, never saw it coming. He did, however, see an astonishing array of lovely geometric patterns pulsating in colorful corroboration with the accompanying pain. Vi, equally surprised, failed to fire the canister, and the beast lurched out the doorway heading for the stairs.

Simon Templar’s powers of stamina and recovery, frequently documented and familiar to followers of the Saga, are the stuff of legend, and the Saint was as eager to preserve his image as he was to prevent his attacker securing an easy escape.

The beast had a good lead, but Simon moved with more agility, catching up at the head of the stairs. Vi, brandishing her canister, scrambled after him.

“Don’t go,” called Simon grabbing the back of the giant’s slacks, “we were just becoming disgusted with you.”

The Saint secured his grip on a handful of waistband, braced himself against the rail, and dug in his heels. Simon was rock-solid; the beast was in direct forward motion; the slacks worn by the fleeing adversary, despite the best intentions of their manufacturer, were never designed to withstand such intense amounts of opposing tension. Bare-bottomed and unexpectedly air-born, the beast flew down the flight of stairs, his face kissing the final few before colliding with, and crashing out, the front door. Pulling the back of his sweatshirt down over his embarrassment, he hurried into the First Avenue throng.

It is of minor sociological significance that nothing about his looks, dress, or behavior prompted a second look from any passers-by.

Simon Templar sat atop the stairs holding his head in one hand and a torn swatch of fabric in the other, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Momentarily, he raised his eyes to Vi and waved the pant seat as if it were a checkered flag.

“Snookums escaped by the seat of his pants,” said the Saint with a resigned laugh, “ ‘strong as a racehorse and swift as a rapier’.”

Berkman allowed the canister to hang by her side.

“He was?”

“No, I was, back in the days of my wayward youth.” Simon stood and playfully tossed the torn pant seat at Viola Berkman. She caught it in her left hand. “And our friend Snookums is a pickle packer.”