Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

The fire engine clanged undetered towards Duvall’s acre of flames, and the alert firefighters summoned reinforcements when the 4X4 launched itself from the road and disappeared down a ravine.

As for Simon Templar and Viola Berkman, the firefighters were sufficiently occupied avoiding head-on impact with the 4X4 that they never noticed a sleek black import turn casually off onto 173rd, circle the residential cul-de-sac, re-emerge far behind them, and drive away in the opposite direction.

Vi stared out the back window, watching the firetruck’s flashing lights diminish in size and intensity.

“He’s gone. The man in the truck, I mean,” said Vi with amazement and gratitude, “I thought he was going to...” She shuddered and leaned wearily against the head rest.

“He gave it his best shot, so to speak,” Simon commented pleasantly.

Vi looked at him while her mind replayed vivid memories of the evening’s more recent and lurid highlights.

“How can you be so damn calm?” Vi objected with healthy animation, “Crazy people trying to kill us, explosions, fires, gunfights, and you act like were out for pleasant moonlight drive.”

“I find that fact that we’re still alive very pleasant,” offered Simon honestly, “and you must realize that I’ve been in situations similar to this on enough occasions to view them with a certain degree of good natured detachment.”

“Detachment?” Vi was only moderately incredulous. “That nut in the truck wanted to detach your limbs, and there was nothing good natured about the way he was chasing us.”

The Saint easily ascertained Vi’s needs.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I chased myself through the Bavarian hills?”

“Well, considering we have only met twice in our lives, and the first time was when I was a child, and the second time is tonight,” said Vi forcefully, “and you’ve never mentioned Bavaria at all, I shall have to confess that you’ve never told me about the time you chased yourself through the hills of Bavaria. But,” she added, showing her first honest grin of the hour, “I bet I’m going to hear about it now.”

And she did. The Saint spun an astonishing tale of daring do, miraculous getaways, and, in the process, revitalized Vi’s positive, joyous, and victorious attitude. By the time her BMW whipped up to the dual phone booths near the 405 on-ramp, Viola Inselheim Berkman’s emotional condition was back on a solid and self-assured footing.

“We’re really in it now, aren’t we Simon? I mean, are we, that is... will they...”

The Saint smiled compassionately as he set the hand brake.

“No, we’re not going to be arrested. You are not going to jail, and should anyone attempt to link you with tonights festivities, you have an air-tight alibi.”

“An alibi is an excellent idea,” she agreed. “And what, may I ask, is my air-tight alibi?”

“Your alibi,” explained the Saint, “is that you were with me.”

She stared at him, not quite sure if he were having fun or being serious. When she realized he was doing both, she began to laugh. Neither a carefree, melodic manifestation of mirth, nor a tense cackle prompted by nervous hysteria, her weak laughter was born of complete, willful resignation to the improbable and uncontrollable vagaries of the situation. She had asked for big bangs, and the Saint delivered; she summoned the hero of her childhood and he swept her away into the wildest and most exhilarating night of her life — a night she knew was far from over.

“You call Nat and tell him we’re on our way back to Seattle,” instructed the Saint, “while I call your old pal, Dexter Talon.”

“My pal, my...” Vi spat the expletive on the pavement.

Moments later the jingle of falling change rattled the Woodinville GTE phone system to life. Vi assured Nat that all was well; Simon spoke less lovingly to Dexter Talon.

“Howdy, Tex, its your old saddle-pal Simon Templar calling. Listen up, cowboy — before you toddle off to whack Alisdare, I’ve got something important to give you. I know Madison Park, so here’s the plan: sit your bulbous behind down in the bar just up from the corner, guzzle a few beers and smoke three or four packs of coffin nails. Give me forty minutes or so, and by the time your first attack of emphysema kicks in, I’ll be right there to moan and groan over the body. Yeah. Same to ya.” The Saint clanged the receiver back in the cradle, checked the coin return box for change, and whistled his way back to Vi and the BMW.

“Nat was worried as hell,” said Vi, “but he’s calming down. I told him to have a cup of tea and a cinnamon roll.”

“That’ll fix him, alright,” said the Saint.

The black BMW flashed to life, Simon and Vi fastened their seat belts, and the Saint peeled out of the parking lot with all the enthusiasm of an incorrigible adolescent.

“Some men never grow up,” observed Vi, and the Saint was all smiles.

Simon Templar, despite his carefree veneer, was seriously calculating the viability of the evening’s diverse possible scenarios. In mid-thought, a disturbing question came to mind which he asked in a relaxed, off-hand manner.

“Your story about Buzzy at the Seattle Center searching for her long-lost daddy, was that part of your improvisation?”

“No, why?”

“I was rather hoping you concocted that bit of business to throw them off.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, and Simon sensed her embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” sighed Vi. “I was angry and upset. It’s true — she’s convinced that she’s the offspring of a useless ex-groupie and a famous musician — a fantasy shared by about half the girls like her. With fifteen thousand kids at that concert, and considering the security,” she added hopefully, “do you really think those men could ever get their hands on her?”

Simon prefaced his answer by increasing pressure on the accelerator.

“What was it Alisdare said? ‘Knowing that little brat, she’ll have no trouble getting backstage’?”

Vi’s throat felt dry.

“Yeah. That’s what he said, alright.”

Simon changed lanes, aiming for the 520 interchange. Vi noticed a fleeting expression of displeasure momentarily cloud his countenance.

“Midnight mayhem and daredevil rescues are my meat and potatoes,” declared the Saint, “but the thought of suffering through three minutes of Grand Theft is almost enough to turn me into a vegetarian.”

Vi eyed him with renewed wonderment.

“And that, of all things, is your main concern?”

In truth, the Saint’s mind was not totally untroubled. Talon, Alisdare, and Little Buzzy were not entirely peripheral, but his concentration was keyed primarily to the cryptic comments and buccaneering bravado of Diamond Tremayne. Viola Berkman gazed at the serene skyline of the Queen City — an appreciative appellative bestowed upon Seattle by virtue of Queen Marie of Rumania’s historic visit several decades earlier — and watched one of Boeing’s signature homegrown aircraft arc across the starlit sky.

Seattle, seen from heights of freeway overpasses or aerial overviews, appeared as a pleasant mix of modern technology and small town warmth. For thousands of residents, such was the reality of life in the Pacific Northwest. If she could turn a blind eye to the pain of exploited children, the city would seem perfect. She knew better. For some, there was little or no justice.

Every city needs a saint, and all saints supplicate for assistance. Vi’s supplication brought her Simon Templar, and he had given his assurance that before the sun rose over the Cascades, there would be justice.