Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

She banged her fists on the table and fought back a fresh flood of tears. The air nearly crackled with emotional energy, but Alisdare and his men seemed immune to its influence. There were a few uncomfortable snickers from Snookums and Major League, but Salvadore stared at Vi as if reading hidden words.

“The Coliseum,” said Alisdare succinctly, “she is at the Seattle Center Coliseum. And knowing that nervy brat, she’ll have no problem doing whatever it takes to get backstage after the show to...”

“Have her heart broken and her illusions shattered,” completed Vi angrily.

“Or run off with the band,” laughed Major League.

“Or the road crew,” added Snookums.

“Or better yet, the caterer,” completed Salvadore with a smug grin. “Thank you, Mrs Berkman, for solving the mystery of the missing Little Buzzy. As Emerald City has the contract for tonight’s event, a simple phone call will put two more of my men backstage — men more concerned with grabbing Buzzy than serving cold cuts.”

Vi drew breath to empower an insult, but it was the Saint who spoke. His voice was a whip-crack of assured authority, drawing all attention unto himself.

“You should thank Mr Alisdare, Viola. If you understood what he was doing, you’d clasp him to your bosom. Of course, you’d have to lift him up to do it.”

Vi reeled as if slapped in the face with a wet towel. She turned to stare at him, and Salvadore, Snookums, and the other two men stared as well. Simon Templar was leaning back in his chair, his polished footwear propped upon the table. As he spoke, he nonchalantly pared his nails with the bright blade of Snookum’s stiletto.

Alisdare’s eyes almost shot from their sockets; Snookums lodged an expletive in Simon’s general direction.

The Saint swung his long legs to the carpet and stood up. Balancing the blade on the tip of his index finger, Simon Templar addressed the diverse denizens of Salvadore Alisdare’s dining room.

“It’s all about balance, Vi. Even something sharp and deadly, handled correctly, can become a plaything. Correspondingly, a plaything like Little Buzzy can be deadly to one’s career if allowed to get either out of hand or into the wrong hands.”

“How did he get that knife?” Alisdare demanded of Snookums, but the giant had no answer.

“Oh, be easy on the poor fellow, Salvadore. I lifted this lovely item during a brief game of shove and swear on the way into the house. You didn’t even miss it did you, Snookums?”

“The name is Barry,” interjected the giant.

“Your’s or mine?”

Barry grunted.

“Well, you’ll always be Snookums to me,” sang the Saint.

Viola watched the Saint stroll about the dining room, the bright razor-edged blade perpendicular to his outstretched finger.

“As I was saying,” continued the Saint, “It is all about balance. Everything in Alisdare’s life, until recently, seemed perfectly balanced. He was a respected event planner for a prosperous catering company, he had a fun and rewarding social life involving a variety of party girls and high-level party pals, plus two semi-lucrative side-lines: legal pickles and illegal drugs. And then he added two more volatile element to the mix: blackmailing Talon over his immoral relationship with Little Buzzy, and a platonic yet perdiferous relationship with an intoxicating beauty named Diamond Tremayne.”

Alisdare, fascinated by the Saint’s behavior and well-delineated narrative, held up his hand as warning for his men to not interrupt.

“And what do you know of Miss Tremayne?” asked Salvadore calmly.

“Only enough to be entranced,” responded the Saint honestly, “and while I assume that she’s in this soup up to her rather attractive cheekbones, we have more immediate concerns.”

Simon noticed Alisdare’s ill-concealed relief at the setting aside of any further discussion of the enigmatic Ms Tremayne.

“You see, Vi,” continued the Saint, “everything was fine for Mr Alisdare and his rather boisterous companions here until someone started throwing around the name ‘Simon Templar.’ Then things began to tip,” Simon tilted the blade precariously as he spoke, “suspicions became aroused, plots began to be hatched, threats were made, and all the while the real Simon Templar was simply doing his best to promote a Hollywood film. And then...” Simon propelled the stiletto straight upward. It turned sharply in mid-air and descended point first. He caught it deftly by the handle, spun on his heels, and sent it flying with astonishing speed and precision. The point buried itself into the wall only inches from Major League’s left ear. “The Saint steps in: you beg me to save Little Buzzy from Dexter Talon and the creeps who are exploiting her. I agree. Alisdare comes to me with a story about the treasure of Dolores Costello, wanting me to leave town at the same time I’m supposed to meet you. I agree, and see you tonight instead. Detective Talon, not to be left out, requests a heart-to-heart over a filthy ashtray and a bad beer. One thing leads to another, and the next thing you know, everyone is all in an uproar, people are pulling guns and... oh yes,” the Saint paused as if he suddenly remembered something important. He reached back and pulled a .45 out of his waistband and tossed it to the dumbstruck Alisdare.

“I think it fell out in the BMW while we were driving in,” offered the Saint innocently, “but who knows where the clip is?”

Salvadore stared at the empty automatic and looked up blankly at the Saint.

“But even if he had the clip,” continued Simon pleasantly to Vi, “Alisdare is not in the business of killing people. In fact, the thought of his property being littered with bodies strikes him as overwhelmingly distasteful. He only wants to blackmail Talon and have us all leave him alone to do it. But I won’t, Vi, and he knows it. We discussed this situation before your arrival. Remember, our host is no dumbbell,” and the Saint said it as if he were affirming an historical fact, “he didn’t achieve his position of power and influence, especially among men as bright as these, by accident.”

Alisdare puffed up like a blowfish, held the empty .45 at his side, and centered his concentration on the Saint’s monolog.

“He wants to get his hands on Buzzy for at least two good reasons, if you discount a third distasteful one. First: to save her life.” Simon allowed reason number one to hang impressively in the air. Alisdare was as surprised to hear it as was Vi, but he nodded in complete agreement.

“He knows that Talon may decide that one more dead streetkid is safer than one live child to testify against him if she ever gets up the nerve, or if Salvadore’s more detailed photos ever become public. Talon knows that the game is on, and he could get to her backstage at the coliseum as easily as if she was in the backseat of his car.”

Vi knew Simon was not rattling this off for her benefit, and if it was part of a Saintly scheme, it was currently beyond her ken. It didn’t matter. She trusted him.

“Oh, I see,” said Vi thoughtfully, and she convincingly added a tinge of appreciation to her tone.

“Reason number two,” elaborated the Saint, “is that Buzzy can be easily manipulated via the application of the proper condiments. Were Salvadore to assure Buzzy of complete protection should she come forward against Talon, and pressure her to do so if Talon stops the cash flow, he could make sure that his name and endeavors were absent from the minutes of the meeting. In fact,” added Simon with an appreciative glance at Alisdare, “he may have lodged these concepts into her little mind already on more than one occasion. Perhaps another crank-fuelled reverie tonight would only reinforce her allegiance and obedience.”