Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

Alisdare, who now seemed to be vibrating in rhythm to an unheard aggregate of drummers, stared intensely at Vi’s beeper.

“Talon’s got one of those too,” he remarked incongruently.

“Well, this one isn’t his,” Vi clarified, “Its mine and that’s my husband calling.”

Salvadore turned to Simon as if only someone in a similar mental state could offer relevant advice.

The Saint, now projecting an aura of near overwhelming energy, began pacing the floor in an impersonation of Alisdare which, in a previous age, would have qualified him for top billing in any vaudeville revue.

“No problem at all, ladies and gentleman. The young lady simply uses your cute little beige telephone, calls hubby, and tells him that she is at a wild party of rampant immorality with a man called the Saint,” said Simon, and his amplified frivolity was joyously contagious. “Here,” the Saint held out the phone to Vi and his voice softened, “call your beloved and tell him you’ll be home in an hour or so.”

Alisdare started to become tense and his face revealed renewed disorientation.

“Its OK,” Simon reassured him gently, “you don’t want her spending the rest of her life in your dining room, and I already told you that she’ll play ball. Isn’t that right... sweetheart?” Simon gently pulled Vi close to him in a manner surprisingly romantic and she realized that the Saint was about to kiss her. For the briefest micro-second, she was unsure what response he expected. When their eyes met, she knew the game.

It looked impassioned and genuine from a distance, as did her initial reluctance to respond and her eventual overtly enthusiastic submission to what Alisdare and Barry interpreted as drug inspired activation of Simon’s libidinous nature.

The stage kiss complete, Vi clung to the Saint while she dialed her home number.

“Hi, honey,” said Vi, looking into the Saint’s eyes and doing her best to stay in character and ignore the stares of Alisdare and Barry. “Oh, I’m just fine. I’m with the Saint.”

As Vi held the phone to one ear, Simon appeared to be nibbling the other and whispering sweet nothings. Alisdare, delighting in the display, suppressed a giggle. The Saint, however, was not nibbling anything, nor were his whispers tinged with off-color implications.

“How about we blow this entire place to hell?” murmured the Saint seductively, and Vi nodded at him in complete agreement.

“I think he want’s me to do something with him for a while, honey, then I’ll be home,” intoned Vi distractedly, seeming far more interested in planting cold but convincing kisses lightly on the Saint’s cheek.

“Nat wants to speak to you, Simon.” She handed him the phone but did not loose herself from the Saint’s embrace.

“Hullo, Rabbi, how’s everything biblical?”

“Vi sounds strange, she’s not making any sense.” answered a concerned Nat, “I told Vi that she just had a call from someone named Diamond Tremayne, and she put you on the phone. Where are you anyway?”

“That’s a swell idea, Nat. A late night cheesecake sounds wonderful.”

“You can’t talk, can you?” Nat was now becoming agitated.

“Of course not, but think nothing of it, honestly. We’ll all be together soon. Vi is even going to let me drive her BMW,” Simon punctuated his last sentence by giving Vi an obvious squeeze for the benefit of Alisdare and Barry.

“Tell me the truth, Saint, is everything alright? Are you in control of the situation?”

“Absolutely, positively, beyond the shadow of a doubt,” confirmed Simon. “We’ll see you later.”

The Saint hung up the phone with one hand and held Vi close with the other.

Alisdare stared at the couple, a stupid grin adorning his flushed face. Snookums, perhaps feeling left out, pulled his stiletto out of the wall, folded it up, and put it away. He then ambled off into the kitchen to see what was left in the white triangle of paper.

Simon, with Vi as an inseparable attachment, walked over to Salvadore. Vi leaned her head dreamily against the Saint’s strong shoulder. Whatever he was up to, she was with him all the way.

“Listen, Salvadore, I’m sure you understand the situation,” advised the Saint with a confidant’s smile.

Alisdare didn’t understand much of any situation, but he nodded.

“So, let’s do exactly as you planned — you call Talon or beep Talon or whatever you do to get hold of him and arrange to meet him at 14th and Madison. And you’re right, Salvadore, we want to catch him before he makes a play for Little Buzzy.”

Before the little man could recall exactly who suggested this plan in the first place, or unravel the reasoning behind it, he was making a call.

Simon sat down at the table and poured himself a glass of wine. Vi sat on his lap, feigning near adolescent affection. She nuzzled his neck and offered a whisper of her own.

“If he pulls out a camera, I could be blackmailed,” growled Vi with plucky derision. “But at least I can find out something I always wanted to know.”

“What’s that?” asked the Saint, watching Barry lick the remaining vile powder from the white triangle. Viola reached up and playfully tousled Simon’s hair.

“Gee,” she giggled girlishly to mask her anxiety, “you can have a hair out of place.”

Simon, although appearing engrossed in Vi’s displays of affection, was focusing is entire attention on the behavior of Salvadore Alisdare.

The phone was jammed tight against one wet, red ear, and his shoulders were hunched. He spoke in staccato rhythms through clenched teeth, and Simon had to strain to make out the essence of the conversation.

“Oh, but I do insist,” hissed Alidare, “and bring an extra five hundred dollars while you’re at it, unless you want an eight by ten full color photo of you and your under age paramour on the front page of the morning Post-Intelligencer.”

Salvadore hung up the phone, drew another deep breath, and came over to the table to pour himself a drink. He stood, glass in hand, with a faraway look in his shrunken eyes until Simon’s wink caught his attention.

“You’re good, Mr Alisdare. Positively the best. I wish you and I could have teamed up years ago.”

Alisdare re-focused on Simon and Viola intertwined and seemed unsure of his next move.

Realizing that this lesser mind of crime was becoming progressively derailed from his train of thought, Simon unwrapped himself from Vi’s elaborate embrace and came over to give Alisdare’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. It was the consistency of damp putty.

“Thanks to you, Talon is right where we want him,” delineated the Saint, “Buzzy is on her way to where you want her, and...” Simon smiled smarmily, “I’ve got a woman here who wants me.”

“Obviously,” Alisdare noted with a light laquer of envy.

“So, how about you allow the lady and me a private interlude while you head back to Emerald City. By the time you step out the door to meet Talon at 14th and Madison, she’ll be on her way home and I’ll be looting a condominium hideaway belonging to a nonexistent Tex Nolan. We can re-convene at the Tropicana, split the loot, re-fuel, and you can show me what there is to Little Buzzy besides that silly haircut.”

Salvadore seemed to regain a sense of purpose, and began glancing nervously around the room.

“My keys,” stammered Alisdare, “where did I put my keys.”

Simon seemed to pull a set out of the air and jingled them next to his ear.

“I was holding them for you,” said Simon truthfully, and Alisdare eyed him as if he wasn’t quite sure if he was being given the bum’s rush or a supportive send-off.

Alisdare gulped down his warm wine, pulled a light jacket out the hall closet, and was about to recap his understanding of upcoming events when the bell inside the beige wall phone pealed out an auditory interruption. Snookums, being closer, grabbed the receiver in his meaty paw and barked out an unpleasant hello before extending the receiver to his smaller superior.