Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

Simon Templar knew he was taking risks, but risks were as much part of his arsenal as they were a fact of life. Of all the risks he had taken this evening, the next was the most tenuous.

“We both know you gave me $10,000 advance to search for the Costello Treasure. What did you really have planned for me, Mr Alisdare? Why did you give me $10,000, and how does Diamond Tremayne fit into all of this?”

Salvadore’s tiny eyes became two squinted Chiclets before he gave reply.

“In a way, if you must know, you’re ruining everything. You’re a fool. You could have had more than ten thousand dollars if you stayed out of this Talon business,” said Alisdare dispassionately. “Hell, you probably would have stolen the whole thing yourself, taken Rasnec to the cleaners, and run off with Tremayne, knowing your reputation.”

Simon was mystified by Alisdare’s comments, but found them fascinating.

“In order to steal the whole thing, and take Rasnec to the cleaners,” improvised the Saint, “I would need to know more than I know now.”

“That’s why you’re such a fool,” insisted Salvadore flatly, “We gave it to you on a silver platter.”

“That’s consistent with your catering background,” admitted the Saint, “but what exactly did you give me?”

Alisdare opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when Snookums and Viola returned from down the hall.

Vi Berkman looked surprisingly fresh, and only her tattered nylons referenced any previous unpleasantness. She noticed the men’s attention drawn to her hosiery, and looked askance at Barry before she muttered a muted, sarcastic request.

“How about a few bucks for a pair of panty hose.”

Alisdare, curiously chagrined, put his head in his hands as Barry fished a handful of crumpled ones out of his pocket and offered them to Viola. She took them, without so much as a thank you, and stuffed them in her bag.

The back door loudly banged and Milo the gap-toothed gimp limped into the kitchen, sat at the table, and summoned his superior.

“Excuse me,” said Alisdare, and he stood to exit.

“Uh, Salvadore,” interrupted the Saint, “may I?”

The implication was obvious — Simon wanted a taste of Alisdare’s refreshments. Surprised, Salvadore, for the first time that evening, honestly smiled.

“And how about a drink for the lady,” added Simon with a grin.

“Yes, of course. Barry, get out a bottle of wine and some glasses from the cabinet.”

Alisdare stopped momentarily at the doorway, and turned back towards the giant.

“Be a gentleman, Barry. The nature of our relationship with these people is undergoing a profitable transformation.”

Vi stared in disbelief as Simon trotted into the kitchen after their little host, and Barry began fetching glasses and a bottle from a small liquor cabinet. Vi noted the white handled stiletto was still stuck in the wall, serving as grim reminder of the evening’s earlier festivities.

In the kitchen, Milo cringed when he saw the Saint standing above him. To put the fellow at ease, Simon spoke words of reassurance.

“Don’t worry, old chum,” said the Saint, “I’ll forget about you strangling that boy if you can forgive me knocking you down the stairs.”

“Buh wuh abou’ muh tee’h,” objected Milo.

“Oh, we’ll find them in the morning,” replied Simon jovially, “and whack ’em back in with a hammer.”

Milo cringed again.

“Please, Mr Templar,” interrupted Alisdare, “Milo was only doing his job, a job that comes with certain risks, right Milo?”

There was no further comment from the scrawny fellow who excused himself after unfolding a triangle of white paper on the kitchen table. Alisdare sat down on a green plastic covered chair and bent over to examine the contents. Simon did likewise. It smelled strongly of ammonia, strong enough to make Simon involuntarily shake his head. Alisdare laughed.

“Cry baby,” said Salvadore with a malevolent chuckle.

“Cry baby?”

“Burns like hell,” said Alisdare with pride, “but works so well.”

And with that comment, he stuck his finger into the yellowish powder, pulled it out, motioned for Simon to do the same, thrust the finger into his absurdly small right nostril, and sniffed as hard as he could.

What transpired next was something Simon Templar considered penultimate testimony to the remarkable ability of human beings to inflict pain and discomfiture upon themselves in pursuit of transitory pleasure.

Alisdare burst bolt upright from the plastic chair with a yelp of agony, threw himself against the white Kelvinator refrigerator and, while hitting his forehead with his hands, stomped his foot loudly on the floor.

Vi jumped from her seat in the dining room, but Barry held up one huge hand. She sat back down.

Alisdare was now squirming against the refrigerator, tears streaming from the corners of his scrunched-up eyes.

Simon quickly tore the corner off a nearby napkin, dumped a major portion of the remaining powder into it, folded it tightly, placed it in his pocket, and began a thoroughly believable mimicry of Alisdare’s demonstrative behavior.

When Snookums and Viola dared peek into the kitchen, they saw two men bleating, wailing and stomping like wounded water buffalo. As Alisdare’s outcries began to subside, Simon allowed his to do the same.

“Oh, jeeze, that hurts,” wept Alisdare, “it’s like pouring Drano down your sinuses.”

Simon moaned believably and smashed his hand against the kitchen wall as if it could beat back the pain racking his head.

Alisdare watched Simon through misted eyes, and laughed through his own pain.

“Good stuff, right?” Alisdare was actually bragging.

“Oh, yeah,” agreed Simon with appreciative but winded enthusiasm.

Barry poured Vi a glass of wine and muttered under his breath.

“Stupid, if ya ask me,” confided the bent-nose Snookums as he set the bottle on the table, “I put it in my coffee and be done with it. Only show-offs do it like that. Who wants pain, anyway?”

Not wanting to engage the giant in a philosophical conversation, Vi simply sipped her off-brand wine and admired the Saint’s wondrous abilities. Every psychological ploy, educated gambit, and proven technique for bonding with the damaged and distressed — methodologies she learned at great cost and expense at an East Coast University — were being deftly implemented, layer upon layer, by the amazing and mercurial Simon Templar. The Saint, of course, did not acquire his insights by long hours in a collegiate study hall, nor were they honed to a master’s perfection after repetitive hours of role play or respectable residency at an accredited clinic. The major portion of the Saint’s insight into human behavior was purely intuitive, and the balance was based upon years of interaction with those of diverse thoughts and devious temperaments. As for Simon’s seeming indulgence in dangerous drugs, Vi did not doubt for a moment that it was an act, and one worthy of a sold gold statuette and international accolades.

And then a beeping began to be heard. A tiny, insistent beep coming from the depths of Viola’s large black bag.

“Wassat?” Barry demanded, looking around as if expecting an invasion of flying saucers, “Wheredat comin’ from?”

Alisdare, still wiping his tear-soaked eyes, rolled into the dining room like a wind-up duck.

“Who’s beeper is that?”

Viola began digging through her bag and pulled out the small black device which had interrupted Salvadore’s absurd indulgence. She pressed a button and the beeping stopped, then she examined the newly illuminated numerals.

“My husband,” she explained apologetically, “he probably wonders where I am and what I’m doing. I usually check in with him by now.”