Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

Her figure and features were undeniably attractive, and even a man as potentially jaded as Simon Templar found himself unabashedly fascinated. The knowing curve of her smile communicated a degree of familiarity to which even the Saint was unaccustomed from a stranger, and her eyes’ unalloyed alertness was almost tangible.

The woman did not exactly stop moving upon joining the all-male trio, but rather softly undulated herself to the side of Rasnec where she continued the most subtle hints of suggestive motility. Despite the encircling of her waist by Rasnec’s arm, her luminous gaze did not shift from the face of Simon Templar.

“So you’re the Saint. Nice to see you in a social environment. Call me Diamond,” said the vision, with a hint of humor. She offered Simon her hand as if proffering a gift to a king. He accepted the benefaction, giving it a proper conventional squeeze before bestowing an unconventional second press of measured lingering intensity.

“Social environment?” Simon anticipated a humorous reference to the illustrious illegality of his notorious past. The expectation of his anticipation was misdirected by several decades.

“I recognized you ‘window shopping’ downtown earlier this evening,” stated Diamond pleasantly, her oblique reference to Uncle Elmo’s did not pass undecoded by the Saint. “Are you a fan of the performing arts, Mr Templar?”

“The art is in the performance,” said the Saint, and he noticed an encouraging increase in her smile. There was more to Diamond than glitter, and more than Simon’s interest was piqued by her telegraphed inferences of privileged knowledge and laser insight.

Rasnec, giving Diamond’s waist a possessive squeeze, interrupted the one-to-one atmosphere with exclamatory verbal intrusion.

“Yep! Diamond’s going to be star alright. Look’s like one doesn’t she? We’re going to put her on the big screen in one of Karl’s films. Isn’t that right, Krogstad?”

All eyes swiveled to the red-faced director who loosed another trademark guffaw and nervously hid his hands in his pockets.

Diamond, as if mocking herself rather than the self-conscious director, batted her luxurious lashes and dropped her voice to a throaty resonance. “Do you have an authentic casting couch?”

“No, but we have seats waiting for us,” recovered Karl, gesturing toward the auditorium, “Shall we?”

The timing was perfect. A short bald man with an impressive moustache was about to address the crowd, detail merits and shortcomings of the upcoming feature, explain why he selected it for viewing, and announce the annual anniversary showing of his personal favorite, Casablanca.

“You kids go ahead,” said Simon. “I have an imperative appointment with my caterer.”

Rasnec’s plasticine smile never wavered, Diamond pursed an impressive pout, and Karl seemed relieved.

“And good luck with your movie career,” added the Saint, making the word “your” inclusive of all three.

Diamond posed majestically as Simon moved towards the double exit doors.

“My parents named me Diamond because I am a gem of inestimable value,” she declared, “but I am destined to become...”

The Saint, in a flash of both recognition and precognition, discerned her surprising allusion to Dagfinn Varnes’ alledged memoirs, and knew exactly what she was about to say. She said it.

“...the new Dolores Costello.”

Stepping out onto Harvard Street, his mind swirling in response to Diamond’s blatant references to Salvadore Alisdare’s suspect Costello Treasure scenario, Simon Templar walked briskly southbound, cut across the A&P Market’s illumined parking lot, emerged one block east, and secured a Jet City taxi near the corner of Broadway and Denny.

“Take me to 14th and Madison, if you don’t mind,” instructed the Saint.

“And if I do mind, what am I supposed to do?” countered the crabby cabbie from beneath her Seattle Mariner’s baseball cap, “Take you some place else?” She had used this line so many times that it was part of her nightly repertoire.

“I’ve been some place else already, and this will be a new experience for me,” Simon stated casually. He glanced out the cab’s window towards Ernie Steele’s Checkerboard Room, wondering if Detective Talon was still sucking smoke and swallowing beer.

A familiar object, and a familiar face slid between Simon’s view and the bustling sidewalk. Inching in the opposite direction was Viola Berkman in her black BMW. Their eyes locked in recognition, and each quickly lowered a window.

“I’ve been circling this block forever,” admitted Vi with sheepish enthusiasm, “I’m dying of curiosity about your meeting with Talon.”

Simon considered transferring to Vi’s vehicle mid-street, but the taxi’s rear view mirror reflected the driver’s preemptive look of disapproval.

“14th and Madison. Meet you there.” Simon added a circular hand gesture indicating she should reverse direction.

The driver, pleased at not losing her fare, stopped scowling and wiggled her abundant eye-brows.

“That your girl friend or your wife?”

“Neither,” clarified the Saint, as if she was entitled to a clarification.

“Yeah, well I figured she looked a little young for you anyway,” the cabbie asserted emphatically. She retrieved a battered 8-track tape from the glove box and slammed it into the aged player.

“I like music while I drive,” she announced as if declaring a political conviction, “I play Grand Theft and I play it loud.” The final five words were stated with the implied conclusion: “And there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

The Saint, forever the essence of courtesy, offered one delicately phrased observation.

“It is traditional to torture the hero when he is in the hands of villains, not while he is in transit.”

The driver cranked up the volume and tossed back a retort over the cacophony of screaming guitars. “Who said you was the hero?”

“I’m the last hero you’ll have in this taxi,” muttered Simon, and the vehicle’s aural atmosphere was submerged in a deluge of reverberating electronic feedback.

Crowbar Schwartz, lead singer and rhythm guitarist for the power trio Grand Theft, was really named Crowbar Schwartz. The circumstances surrounding his distinctive appellative were the stuff of contemporary urban legend: while rushing his ever-loving spouse to the maternity hospital, the senior Mr Schwartz — a virtuoso Chicago musician with several tiresome compositions to his credit — lost control of his pristine Falcon Futura and wrapped it around a lamp post.

Trapped in twisted heavy metal, the laboring Mrs Schwartz — a beauty specialist and personal grooming consultant — remained miraculously unharmed. Her talented husband, dazed but uninjured, used a crowbar to free his wife at the exact moment their infant son emerged. Mr and Mrs Schwartz, perhaps still suffering from shock, agreed that the boy should be forever known as Crowbar Avon Schwartz.

While psychologists and sociologists later quibbled in print over the name’s influence on his career choice and lifestyle, Crowbar achieved considerable wealth by dedicating the fruit of his musically predisposed genes to replicating screeching tires, broken glass, and crashing metal on his guitar. As for stage make-up, Crowbar gratefully acknowledged his mother’s loving, professional, color-coordinated guidance. None of this, of course, was of particular interest to Simon Templar. His exposure to the atonal caterwaulings of Crowbar, despite their international and relentless air-play, was limited to this particular cab ride on Capitol Hill. Thankfully, as Broadway Avenue’s boutiques and restaurants gave way to the more educational trappings of Seattle University, the 8-track player devoured the tape.