Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

“It’s for you, Boss. It’s Diamond.”

Alisdare was so stunned by Barry’s indiscretion that he literally listed back on his heels. Tipping back to proper balance, Salvadore peddled across the rug and snatched the phone away.

“Why don’t you just tell Templar and this woman everything, you idiot! No, Diamond, I wasn’t calling you an idiot. Yes, you heard right — we have company here tonight: Simon Templar and a lady friend of his who’s also tight with Buzzy. Now, calm down... let me explain...” Alisdare pressed the phone tight to the side of his sweat-drenched head and pulled the long coiled cord with him into the small alcove around the corner from the dining room. He spoke sotto-voce , but the alcove’s acoustics and Salvadore’s emotion made it possible for Simon to discern almost every nuance as the little man recounted each aspect of the night’s cavalcade of circumstances from his unique perspective.

At length, Alisdare stopped talking and started listening. He paced nervously back and forth, in and out of the room, his eyelids flapping wildly and his face occasionally turning the color of beet borscht. The entire time, he obsessively wrapped and unwraped the coiled phone cord around his finger.

“Templar and I have everything worked out,” Simon heard him say, “but yes, it would have been better if he spent a relaxing night in his hotel room and simply showed up at the airport in the morning.”

Vi looked dismayed and confused, Snookums appeared unamused, and the Saint, having adjusted his hair, was absolutely perfect.

“You want to what?” Alisdare was incredulous. “You can’t be serious. Yes, he wants Talon, but we made a deal, he and I. And this Berkman woman...” Diamond cut him short, and he stammered for a moment. “If you think that’s smart, but I think its crazy. OK.”

Alisdare stopped pacing, came out of the alcove, held the phone down to his side like a vanquished warrior, and reluctantly held it out towards the Saint.

“She wants to talk to the famous Simon Templar,” announced Salvadore, and it was obvious that he was not impressed.

Simon strolled lazily to Alisdare and cheerfully took the call.

“Good evening, Ms Tremayne,” he began chattily, “did you enjoy La Vaca Espana?”

The warm breathy laugh on the other end of the line conveyed more than amusement.

“I’m rather surprised to find you there, Saint. I need you well rested.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t you guess?” chided Diamond, “I’m part of the search party. In fact, I’ve made reservations for you and me at the most delightful bed and breakfast in Neah Bay. A friend of mine owns it — he owns a lot of valuable real estate all over Washington.”

“I think I’ve met him,” responded the Saint airily.

“I’m sure you can take care of yourself and Mrs Berkman without hurting innocent people,” she put the emphasis on innocent, and Simon was aware that all eyes in the room were on him.

“You’re not as predictable as I imagined, Saint. You’ve moved farther on the game board than I anticipated. But you always were the best of the buccaneers.” Her inflection was an aural caress.

“Am I giving you a run for your money?” asked Simon.

The laugh on the other end of the line was almost intoxicating.

“Its not my money you’ve got to run for, at least not yet,” and she phrased the final four words as if they were puzzle pieces. And then she was gone.

The Saint gave no indication of a severed connection, continuing with pleasant, if one sided, banter.

“Yes, Alisdare and I have become closer than Hart, Shaffner, and Karl Marx. We had a meeting of the minds and half of them showed up, so I have a half a mind to spend the evening carousing with Salvadore and dancing with Dexter Talon to Grand Theft’s Greatest Hits. Yes, I’m sure what Salvadore and I have planned will bring documented performance. Well, you have a good night too, Ms Tremayne, and we’ll all dream of Dolores Costello.” Alisdare stared at him intensely.

“What the hell was that all about?”

Simon raked him with a mocking glance, but spoke in tones completely non-threatening.

“She’s beyond my comprehension,” said the Saint, and he wasn’t being facetious. “I don’t know how you managed to get her on your side, but she certainly wishes us all the best.”

Perhaps, in retrospect, Simon Templar may confess that his choice of words at that moment was ill-advised, but as he had taken advice from no one concerning those words, any attribution of error must be firmly placed at its point of origin. Something Simon said pushed an unpleasant button deep in the convoluted consciousness of Salvadore Alisdare, and the Saint realized it immediately. There were no verbal outcries from the tiny fellow, neither insults nor sarcastic remarks, but a stiffening of posture and tightening of the jaw, not dissimilar to the physical changes Simon witnessed outside the Westin Hotel, were sufficient indications of Alisdare’s anger and internal agitation.

Salvadore’s face flashed with the crimson insistence of a railroad crossing. Vi looked at Simon, Simon looked at her, and Snookums looked larger and more dangerous than ever.

It was Simon who confronted the atmospheric instability head on.

“Is there a problem of which we are unaware?”

“No,” responded Alisdare evenly, “not at all. I think everything will proceed perfectly, or at least passably. You’ve already seen the upstairs rooms, Mr Templar. I assume one of them will allow you and the lady to have your private moments before you leave. Barry will make sure you’re taken care of, won’t you Barry?”

A tingle of apprehension crawled up Simon’s spine and spread its tendrils along his scalp.

Salvadore walked to the front door and stopped momentarily to issue one last instruction to his oversized henchman.

“The boys will call from the Tropicana. We may want to move farther from the Seattle Center and more towards... the other.”

And then he was out the door, down the steps, into the late model sedan, and driving off down the black top driveway towards the secondary road. Barry watched the two red taillights grow dim in the distance before turning from the window.

Simon was gathering up the wine bottle and two glasses, giving every indication that he and Viola were about to slip upstairs for private romance.

Snookums squared his shoulders and gave loud voice to a concern obviously harbored in silence for some time.

“Ya broke my nose, and she sprayed something horrible down my throat.” It was as much threat as it was statement of fact.

“Yes, we recall that quite well, Barry. It was one of the highlights of the evening,” said the Saint pleasantly as he placed himself between Vi and the giant “but we all decided to be friends and not kill each other any more, remember.”

“You’re part right,” agreed Barry as he began to walk toward them, “Alisdare can’t stand the thought of seeing people get killed.”

“And what’s the other part?” Asked Simon as would a disinterested third party.

“I kill ’em so he don’t have to see it.”

“How thoughtful of you,” admitted the Saint, “I’m sure the sight of Uncle Elmo with a plastic bag over his head would have distressed him no end.”

The giant stopped in his oversized tracks.

“Hey, even Alisdare doesn’t know I’m the one who did that. It was a contract job, pure and simple. How did you know?”

“Just a lucky hunch. Now, if you don’t mind, all this talk of murder is infringing upon our previously established mood of conviviality.”

Barry glowered at the Saint, and Simon placed the wine bottle and glasses back on the table.

“Listen Snookums,” said the Saint as if reasoning with a ten-year-old, “if you plan on killing me, or her, or both of us, I have a favor to ask first.”