Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

Although Snookums and his compatriots seemed only moderately interested in Simon’s soliloquy, Milo and the two bandaged henchmen crowded in the doorway. At the conclusion of the Saint’s previous paragraph, Milo stretched forth his arm and pointed an accusing finger. Whatever unpleasant and inconsequential utterance he considered appropriate for the audience was, by virtue of Alisdare’s interdiction, relegated to terminal obscurity.

Salvadore, sensing an intermission in the Saint’s presentation, approached the door-way contingent and surveyed them with mild disdain. The overweight man with big beard and bandaged arm was none the worse for his encounter with wayward lead, and the second had suffered no greater indignity than a perforated boot, a heat-seared toe, and minor facial bruises from his encounter with Ian’s anger.

“You said not to kill them,” Simon reminded him, and Alisdare understood that the Saint could have easily killed them had he so chosen.

Salvadore sighed and seemed to slightly sag. The unnatural fuel on which he’d been running for hours was beginning to dissipate.

“You three get to work in the shed. I’m tired, Milo. Get me some refreshment. And here,” he said, handing the empty automatic to Milo, “put this somewhere.”

The three tumbled out the back door and Salvadore turned his attention to his house guests.

Viola, a disheveled mess, sat stern-jawed at the table; Simon Templar, astonishingly self-assured and debonair, stood in the middle of the room as if surveying his dominion; Snookums, Major League, and the other non-descript thug leaned back against the wall. All were looking expectantly at Salvadore Alisdare, and Salvadore Alisdare was not a happy man. Stress and exhaustion seemed to soak him. His dapper shirt was sticking to his back, the collar felt wet against his neck, and his eyes were beginning to ache. The Saint, he decided, was giving him a migraine. Maybe there was a simple way out of all this. Maybe Templar had the best idea after all.

As for the Saint, had Alisdare’s thoughts been spelled out in balloons above his head, they could not have been more easily perceived. Simon turned slightly to Vi, brushed two fingers against his cheek, and raised his eyebrows. She got it.

“Excuse me, Mr Alisdare, but I look like hell and feel worse,” said Vi “may I please...”

Salvadore wiped a hand across his damp face, and felt a twinge of unexpected guilt.

“Yes, yes, certainly... Barry, show the lady where she can freshen up. And let her have her purse, for God’s sake.”

The Saint tossed Vi an inappropriate kiss capped by a wicked wink, and she regarded him curiously.

Alisdare seemed to lose himself in contemplation of the carpet for a moment, then raised his eyes to Simon’s brilliant gaze. The Saint motioned towards the remaining men with a nod of his head, and addressed Salvadore directly.

“Can we talk, just us,” he asked with the slightest hint of secretive advantage, suggesting two great minds merging in private could accomplish more if relieved from the pressure of performing before a studio audience of divided allegiances.

Alisdare, at this point, appreciated any inference of reduced pressure and increased advantage.

“In a moment,” responded Salvadore thoughtfully, and he walked to the beige telephone hanging on the wall near the kitchen. He picked it up, dialed, and easily made arrangements for additional back stage access to the Seattle Center Coliseum.

Replacing the handset back in its silver cradle, he stretched his lips across his tiny teeth and gave instructions to Major League and Nondescript regarding appropriate subterfuge and their mission’s essential purpose — securing little Buzzy.

Major League laughed and snorked.

“Take the car you came in,” instructed Alisdare, “and don’t make a scene. All I want is for you to get her and take her to the Tropicana Motel on Aurora. Take some of the new batch with you, tell her it’s the best batch she’s ever had. That ought to do it.”

Alisdare leaned against the doorway, looked wearily at the Saint, and watched the two men head for the shed before aiming their vehicle towards the Seattle Center. He closed his eyes for a moment as if eight hours of sleep could be compressed into four seconds, then slurred out a conversational question.

“What was this Berkman woman up to? She really is a big, stupid, nuisance.”

“She is neither big nor stupid,” corrected Simon, “for an example of each, look in the shed. No, she is the attractive and adventurous wife of a studious and respected Seattle Rabbi. She is also a trained counsellor and humanitarian comfort to Seattle’s children of the night, and a close confidant to America’s Sweetheart, Little Buzzy. She despises Dexter Talon, had never heard of you until tonight, met Snookums... I mean Barry, when he danced into her office to demonstrate the duplicity two-step, and is only guilty of two things,” elaborated Simon, who was not above taking creative liberties with the realities of a situation, “having an intense and perfectly understandable attraction to your’s truly, and operating a taxi without a license. All she did was give me a lift and then she was supposed to go home. Apparently, her more adventurous nature got the best of her. And,” added Simon wickedly, “before the night is over, I might also.”

Alisdare heart beat a little faster at the thought of such impropriety.

“And how were you supposed to get back to Seattle?”

“I figured I’d ride back with you when you went to meet Talon,” Simon answered honestly, for it was one of his options at the time. “I had no idea you’d object to my brilliant plan of immediate profit sharing — a plan I hope you will seriously reconsider. And, I want you to understand, I had no idea those two boys were your ‘guests’ until I arrived — let’s just say that was an unfortunate coincidence. Also, if I may take a moment to point out the obvious...”

Salvadore granted permission to continue.

“I inflicted no permanent harm on any of your men, and have disarmed myself on more than one occasion for your benefit. Believe it or not, your interests and mine have become intertwined.”

Alisdare motioned for them to be seated, and Simon joined him at the dining room table.

“You see,” continued the Saint affably after looking over his shoulder to confirm that Viola had not yet returned, “Mrs Berkman knew me years ago and has an image of me that’s far more, shall we say, ‘straight laced’ than I have since become. An image, I happen to believe, she would enjoy having displaced by one more in harmony with... well, let’s simply say I think the woman has possibilities, if you catch my drift.” The little man, familiar with immoral drift, smirked an implication of understanding.

“I promised her I’d stop Talon. If you go ahead and meet up with him, and my gang loots his hideaway, and Buzzy agrees to leave you out of it and simply lodge a complaint with the police about Talon’s inappropriate behavior, we’ll all be happy. Talon has nothing on you except maybe your meth lab, and you can have that baby moved to another location in twenty-four hours. I know I can get Berkman to turn a blind eye to your activities because she’s been giving me the glad eye all night, especially if some of Talon’s loot goes to her humanitarian activities.”

Simon, even when fabricating sand castles of improbability, was blessed with every successful salesman’s secret weapon: an absolutely victorious attitude. Alisdare, rattled and weary, was beginning to see radiant light at the end of his alley. What he really wanted to see was Milo returning from the shed with his required refreshments. The Saint, however, was determined to make progress convincing Salvadore of appropriate action before a fresh dose of drugs reactivated the paranoia and devious excitability.