Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

Talon choked.

“And I think the world would be better off without them.”

“You’re kidding.” Talon was incredulously grateful.

“Yes, it’s the Saint to the rescue, Tex. You can’t say I never did you a favor. Someday we’ll drink a mutual toast to justice.”

Talon wheezed out a lungful of relief.

The Saint hung up the phone and sat for a moment in the silence of Alisdare’s office. There were times when he amazed himself.

“To hell with Emelio Hernandez,” he said to no one in particular, “the best actor award goes to Simon Templar.”

He delved back into the safe and pulled out the yellow legal pad on which, in a woman’s fine handwriting, were the essential details of the Costello Treasure. The Saint chuckled to himself softly, retrieved Alisdare’s SeaQue Salvage business card from his pocket, memorized the phone number, and moved over to the desk. He again punched the telephone button for line one and dialed SeaQue. Line three began blinking silently and an answering machine commenced a pre-recorded response.

“Thank you for calling SeaQue,” cooed the unmistakable voice of Diamond Tremayne, “Mr Salvadore Alisdare cannot take your call right now, but if you will leave your name, number, and message at the sound of the tone, he will get back to you as soon as he can.”

While the machine transmitted Diamond’s mylar coated greeting, the Saint traced small wires trailing from the phone jack to an inexpensive answering machine installed as a touch of authenticity should Simon consider calling the number on the card.

Believing that Vi waited impatiently at the corner bistro, he hurriedly pocketed the negatives, microcorder and cassette, slid the little black book into his jacket pocket, tossed the legal pad back into the safe, shut the door, and made sure the black line above the dial pointed to the same digit as when he arrived.

The Saint slid silently past the second floor office area towards his unauthorized point of entry. He froze for a moment when he felt the low rumble of an arriving truck and heard the unmistakable metallic fanfare of the motorized delivery door widening its receptive jaws. Simon Templar banished all thoughts of Talon, Alisdare, and blackmail from his mind — the imperative issue at that exact moment was the Saint’s getaway.

He knew his bearings to the n th degree, and he travelled to his destination with the noiseless precision of a cat. In the near distance he heard the truck’s engine rattle to a healthy standstill and felt the violent vibration as the heavy metal door shook to a secure closure.

The Saint had not only the silence of a cat, but the curiosity as well. His very nature was torn between two opposing, but equally attractive scenarios. One was admittedly more mature and conservative — get out by whatever route was most accessible — the other was more confrontive and daring. There have been infamous incidences among the Saint’s escapades, many of them documented in print and enlarged by legend, during which his most efficient route to freedom was judicious application of unexpected confrontation. On this particular night, and in these specific circumstances, prudence born of experience convinced him that this venture was assuredly not one of those.

For one thing, the identity and purpose of the recent arrivals remained undisclosed. For another, he may not be in immediate danger. The truck’s driver could depart quickly, allowing him delayed but undisturbed egress. However, it was also possible that two or more Emerald City Catering employees would turn on every light in the joint, make themselves a pot of coffee, and spend the next hour or so playing gin rummy.

Artificial illumination instantly flooded the main floor, someone remarked about the imperative nature of coffee, and another insisted upon a new deck of cards.

It could be worse, reasoned Simon. At least he was one dark floor above them where he could tremulously hide in a hutch were he given to such self-protective temerity. The Saint, quickly discarding the option of being cramped in a cupboard, allocated himself a few trim minutes of eavesdropping before searching for the second story eaves.

“I wish Alisdare would score us some free tickets when we did these concert jobs,” said one fellow emphatically, “I’d love to be in the audience instead of just settin’ out cold cuts backstage.”

“Ah, c’mon, Dave,” responded the other, “you mean you really go for those guys? I don’t know how you can stand a bunch of old hippies jumping around screaming. Instead of Grand Theft, they should call themselves...”

His suggestion, while not suited for all audiences, caused Dave to guffaw and snort, an unpleasant auditory experience inexplicably interpreted as an expression of appreciative humor.

“Besides,” he continued, “I think Alisdare saves all the good perks for himself. If the job is lobster and scampi for big shots with big bucks, you can bet the little runt will be licking his fingers all the way to the client’s table. He had one of those today at the Westin. Some movie promotion and they probably spent as much on the food as they did on the special effects. That little goof-ball is probably spending his commission right now shovin’ tokens in the slot at Uncle Elmo’s peep show.”

Dave cut the cards.

“You’re kiddin’ me, Bud. Ya mean ol’ Alisdare hangs out down there?”

Bud laughed as if Dave was ready for his own prime-time comedy special.

“He hangs out there all right. There and that other dive, ‘Chesters,’ in Woodinville. Probably because the cold storage and ice sculpture guy is out there and they got that ‘Brine Time’ pickle business. What a racket,” chortled Bud as he sloshed coffee in his personal World’s Greatest Lover cup, “He makes money on the catering, plus he orders pickles from himself. He got some investor I guess to pump money into his pickle business, but I wouldn’t eat ’em ’cause, knowing him, ya never know where they been. He wanted me to party with him and some pals one night, but that kind of stuff is not my scene. I’d rather watch a ball game or listen to country-western.”

Dave rearranged his cards. It made no difference to the quality of his hand.

“I’d rather be tortured than listen to country-western,” said Dave slyly, and his mind was back at the Seattle Coliseum. “We’ll be back in time for their big encore. We gotta bring plenty of those Brine Time pickles and overpriced sandwiches for the road crew.”

Bud discarded a ten of diamonds.

“Did you catch that blond dressed like a space alien backstage? Boy, she can beam me up anytime.”

Both men laughed because such men laugh at such jokes; the Saint had heard enough. He relocated to the row of windows where his seldom used but never rusty talents as an accomplished second story man were put to immediate use in reverse.

Getting out, Simon discovered, was not going to be difficult. Getting out silently, however, was going to be impossible. He could open a window with only slight opposition, but the building’s ancient nature guaranteed grating screeches equal to Grand Theft’s encore.

The Saint was momentarily perplexed, but only momentarily. Two loud bangs, separated by a one-second pause, suddenly rattled the delivery door as if someone was entreating entry. As two knocks are almost always followed by a third, Simon threw open the window as the third shockwave hit the door. Success.

“What the hell?” Dave tossed his official Emerald City cap on the table next to the discard pile, set down his cards, and headed for the loading dock’s entrance.

“Oh, jeeze, it’s probably some nut,” offered Bud, the older and more experienced of the two. He had been through this more than once.