Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

The detective sucked back more beer before igniting his fix; the Saint sampled the watery brew and found it lacking in both body and flavor.

“You know plenty considering you’re new in town,” began Talon with a trace of sarcasm, “the loser called Uncle Elmo got in deep with organized crime and they bumped him off. It was good riddance. A lawyer buddy of mine and I formed a corporation and bought out the place from his survivors. It was on the q.t., of course, but the criminals got the message — the place is clean, no prostitution, the girls are protected,”

“And you get dates motivated by appreciation and gratitude,” added the Saint.

A slight smile and small shrug from Talon indicated Simon was on the right track.

“Strange, isn’t it Saint, that the best way to put crooks out of work is for cops to take over the business?”

Simon simply raised his eyebrows.

“That’s it as far as Elmo is concerned,” said Talon, “He’s exceptionally dead, and probably the better for it. As for the girl with the horrid haircut,” he added bitterly, “she’s no innocent sweetheart, I’ll tell ya that right now. She may be underage, but what she lacks in years she makes up for in conniving greed and deception. Trust me, Saint,” insisted Talon with obvious anger, “if she was being used, it wasn’t by me. Put make up on her and a pair of heels, and believe me, she looks every inch a woman. I was set up with her by this guy who had become my party buddy. A picture taker who’s now takin’ me to the cleaners. Turns out this street-wise little trollop is in on the deal from the get-go.”

Talon, noticing that his cigarette was about to burn his fingers, set it in the black ashtray and used a previously extinguished fellow to crush it out.

“The Badger Game,” said the Saint, “it’s one of the oldest cons in the book. Except in your case no outraged husband came bursting in at an embarrassing moment accompanied by a camera toting accomplice pretending to be a private eye. Instead, you got the squeeze put on you maybe a day or even a week or two later.”

“Exactly. It was about five days after the girl and I... well, anyway, my ‘good buddy’ comes around and you know the rest, or most of the rest. And there has been some cat following me.”

“You mean cat as in hipster, cat as in feline, or do you mean something else entirely?”

“Maybe it’s an enforcer, maybe it’s someone from the old Uncle Elmo’s crowd, I even thought it might be someone with you. Anyway, I haven’t really seen ’im, but I can tell when someone is following me.”

So could the Saint.

Simon washed down his distaste for Talon and the other principle players in this unsavory game with another swallow of headless beer. As his mind was drifting into considerations of the mystery cat’s identity, he forced himself to re-focus on the most urgent and imperative issues.

“You said your ‘good buddy’, the one you told that I was coming to get him, is an amateur photographer,” said the Saint, “does he have another profession?”

“Ya mean a job?”

Simon nodded.

“Yeah, sure. Something normal, but...”

Simon raised his hand in obvious interruption. “And now, for the jackpot question: does his job have anything to do with seafood?”

Detective Dexter Talon starred at the Saint, a look of begrudging cynical admiration distorting his already unpleasant face.

“Jeeze, Templar, is there anything you don’t know?”

Simon waved a summons to the nearby waiter, addressing him with exultation.

“Bring my friend here another pack of these delicious, nourishing cigarettes,” insisted Simon as he showed the shabby pack to the gaunt, humorless waiter, “and bring us both another round of that yellow water with the suds on top.”

The Saint never tired of intrigue, nor was he distressed by mounting layers of deception. To Simon Templar, they were all part of life’s grand adventure.

“Talon, you slippery old rake, ’tis time for us to conspire together for the betterment of mankind.”

The adipose investigator regarded Simon with renewed suspicion.

“When the beer gets here, you can light up another one of your smelly smokes and tell me everything you know about Salvadore Alisdare. In return, I’ll tell you a little known but absolutely true story about Dolores Costello.”

In the following forty five minutes, Simon Templar inhaled massive amounts of second hand smoke, swallowed minimal amounts of American beer, and absorbed intoxicating information regarding Talon and Alisdare’s symbiotic relationship. Although exceptionally well concealed, the Saint’s disdainful attitude towards both men had not undergone even the most minimal of modifications. While Simon’s external presentation was warmth and accessibility personified, there was ice at the core of his being.

“He’s nuts and dangerous,” declared Talon to a seemingly enraptured Saint, “I never knew what a loose cannon this guy was until he started puttin’ the hammer on me. I ain’t no social worker or a psychiatrist, but the guy is a first class sociopath, if ya ask me.”

Simon Templar, having previously witnessed Salvadore’s dual nature in an unsubtle display outside the Westin Hotel, was not surprised by Talon’s roughly expressed evaluations.

“As for that stupid Costello Treasure nonsense,” continued Talon, “it musta been jus’ some scam to get ya to leave town with him. God knows what would have happened to you if you went with him. He probably planned to give ya da woiks.”

Simon spun his beer bottle slowly on the table.

“Give me the woiks?” the Saint found the phrase more flavorful than the local brew. “That’s the type of expression which proves you’re truly of the old school.”

“Yeah, and I graduated with honors,” said Talon, hacking out a gurgling, alcohol scented guffaw, “You and me, Saint, we both know the good ol’ days.”

Simon smiled with his lips, but allowed his eyes to drift. There was nothing in the two men’s life experiences upon which to base even the most superficial of friendships. To the Saint, they were sworn enemies. And, as did many of his enemies, Talon foolishly assumed the Saint could be played for a sucker.

“Kill him,” said Simon suddenly, catching the detective off-guard. “Kill the little weasel and get it over with.”

The Saint suddenly stood from the table, tossed a few bills down by the ashtray, and made obvious motions to leave.

“What?” Talon’s bulk banged the table as he attempted to rise. “Whatchamean?”

“You heard me,” said Simon as he put a restraining hand on Talon’s shoulder and bent down to speak sotto-voce .

“Listen to me. I gave up the swashbuckling business years ago because I figured it was time to live off my well earned reputation and dubiously acquired fortune. I haven’t been arrested for years, nor had as much as a traffic citation for decades. If a damsel in distress ran in here right now insisting that she was being pursued by a submarine fleet of armed and dangerous romance-starved terrorists, I would gently point her towards the pay phone and, at best, offer her correct change for a local call to the Seattle Police. Maybe you would be the detective assigned to the case. That, dear Talon, is the extent of my involvement with matters of law and justice. For all intents and purposes, I am a well-known has-been — a marketable one, but one none-the-less. As for my ‘gang’ taking care of anybody, my ‘gang’ dissolved so far back that any newspaper clippings they might have saved in their scrapbooks yellowed long ago. If you and I are of the ‘old school,’ I’m afraid that building has been condemned. But,” added the Saint emphatically, “I will give you this one bit of honest-to-God advice: kill Salvadore Alisdare. If he really did set you up, if he really is blackmailing you, I don’t know a cleaner cure. Make it appear an accident, make it appear self-defense, make it whatever you want. I’m not going to do it for you and I’m not going to participate. I am only giving you my opinion.”