Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

“We have a gift for you, shortstuff,” announced Peter graciously. He held Alisdare’s micro-recorder lightly in his right palm. “As you’re the rightful owner, it’s only proper for you to keep it close to your heart.”

Salvadore vibrated silently, the serviette’s tail flapping against his chin.

“And we have a charming little tape to go with it,” added Roger, “I previewed side one and discovered a disgusting exchange between Dexter Talon and a certain underage street kid — a conversation custom made for blackmail — and decided you should record an incriminating sequel on side two.”

Alisdare’s pleading piggy eyes begged questions; Peter yanked the gag from the squirming victim’s mouth.

“You’re not gonna hurt me?” Salvadore was near incredulous.

“Heaven’s no,” said Roger seriously as he leaned down into Alisdare’s wet little face, “we want you happy, healthy, and wired for sound.”

Bleary eyes darted back and forth between the Saint’s two elegant henchmen.

“Templar and I...”

“Yes, we know,” interrupted Roger Conway who had located a handy cache of Brine Time Pickles and was crunching his way through a large, flavorful, dill, “you had a deal. You still have a deal. We’re just making sure everything goes as planned.”

“True,” concurred Peter dispassionately, “we strap this recorder to your svelte and alluring self, you get even more incriminating verbiage on tape, plus pocket a few hundred bucks in the process. More power to you, Mr Alisdare.”

Conway, rummaging happily through various drawers and cupboards, retrieved a roll of reinforced packing tape and eyed Alisdare as if measuring him for a new suit.

“Unbutton that unflattering shirt, Alisdare,” prompted Peter. Salvadore, seeing unfettered cooperation as his most viable option, daintily complied.

“Toss me that recorder,” interrupted Roger, “I almost forgot something.”

Alisdare looked nervously at Conway and Roger rolled his eyes mockingly.

“No, I’m not hooking it up to some sort of high-tech detonator so we can blow you and Talon to a billion disgusting bits, although that is a cheery thought,” said Conway, “there is simply a little touch, requested by the Saint, which I almost overlooked.”

With the recorder in his possession, Roger turned his back and slid open the cassette compartment. Alisdare could hear the ripping of hard paper and he wondered exactly what this emissary of Simon Templar was up to.

“There we go,” confirmed Conway as he handed the recorder back to Quentin, “let’s turn this little man into a walking sound studio.”

And that is exactly what they did before the two dapper gents escorted Salvadore Alisdare out the door of Emerald City Catering.

A sharp damp breeze swept up from Puget Sound and swirled the scent of salt and sea through the sullen side streets of Capitol Hill. Alisdare turned up his collar, checked his watch, and stared at his shoes. He desperately wanted this night to be over, or at least fast-forwarded to more enticing interaction at either the Tropicana or a non-descript motel in White Center.

A Camaro rumbled by with its windows down and dance music vibrating its uniframe construction. The rhythms reminded Alisdare of Elmo’s Arcade where dancing girls of limited financial means had unlimited weaknesses for men with adequate money or unending supplies of stimulating chemicals. He found temporary comfort in memories unfit for description augmented by fantasies of getting one up on Simon Templar.

The dark sleek ribbon of Madison Street stretched like an asphalt incision across the belly of Seattle. Alisdare, flanked by Conway and Quentin, wished for daylight. He knew that somewhere under the fleeting cloud cover and erratic nocturnal illumination was Diamond Tremayne. He would have to give her a good talking to, that was for sure.

“Treasure,” muttered Salvadore under his foul breath, and for one fleeting moment he wondered if he had been played for a sap all along.

“Nothing personal, dear fruit,” advised Conway, “but I must confirm that we don’t really like you very much.”

“I’m sure we could have all been dear friends,” replied Alisdare sarcastically, “if Simon Templar wanted it that way.”

Peter tossed a threatening arm around Salvadore’s hunched shoulders.

“The Saint is a most practical pirate,” explained Quentin, “he understands your peculiar talents, sympathizes with your habits, and shares many of your more exciting interests. It is simply that he doesn’t trust you, especially after Snookum’s did his best to cut short Simon’s adventurous career. A silly, useless effort, to be sure.”

Salvadore’s heart almost exploded in his chest, and his knees began to quake. Peter squeezed him comfortingly.

“Now, don’t be concerned. Simon’s fine; Snookums has never been better, and the Saint has no intention of ever telling anyone about your meth lab or anything else. His only concern is that you meet Talon as planned and that you get even more juicy blackmail material.”

The two men guided their reluctant companion towards the brighter lights of Madison.

“There is only one condition upon which we insist,” added Roger emphatically, “and that is that you make no mention of the Saint, Mrs Berkman, or us when conversing with Talon — after all, you don’t want to blackmail yourself, now do you?”

Alisdare wobbled his head in resigned agreement.

“Good boy,” affirmed Conway, “and you can feel confident that we will be keeping close watch on you the entire time. And if you’re worried about Talon, don’t be. We won’t let him do anything to jeopardize our plans.”

As they came close to the designated rendezvous, Peter reached inside the miserable little man’s shirt and activated the recorder, then roughly squeezed Alisdare’s pudgy, putty cheeks. Salvadore flinched and pulled back. The two men stared at him ominously and sent him on his way.

Salvadore Alisdare inhaled Seattle’s mist-washed air and filled his mind with ugly thoughts. Partially due to the disease of conceit, he could convolute any situation’s implications to reinforce his self-aggrandizing perspective. All life’s scenarios spotlighted him at the center of attention, the man in control, the one with others under his thumb. He pictured himself lording it over Talon and, in the final analysis, outwitting the Saint for possession of the Costello Treasure. He even entertained an unmentionable mental illustration involving Diamond Tremayne — the distance between the image and any probable reality was even a stretch for him — but he allowed the fantasy to linger precariously on the ledge of his consciousness while he put one small foot before the other and disappeared forever down the dark alley off Madison.

Detective Dexter Talon of the Seattle Police Department recognized the tell-tale clatter of Alisdare’s tiny shoes echoing off the back street’s graffiti covered walls. He had preceded Alisdare to their oily rendezvous by several minutes, and although well prepared for their planned consultation, he was not thinking about Alisdare — he was thinking about the Saint, and doing so with begrudging appreciation.

Were it not for the Saint, Talon rightly reasoned, he would not be rehearsing murder in his mind, mentally planting a finger-print laden revolver in Salvadore’s limp hand, or preparing an official explanation of how he happened to kill a caterer in self defense. Were it not for Simon Templar’s emphatic assurances that certain incriminating photographs and negatives were destroyed, that the Saint would never lend the weight of his reputation nor the muscle of his rapid-fire mind to any blackmailer’s efforts — no matter how repulsive the victim — Talon would not feel empowered to give Salvadore anything beyond the payoffs and tip-offs the little weasel demanded. Tonight was different; tonight was a night of justice and vindication during which Talon would be released from the little leech with reptile eyes who gorged himself on other’s sins. From now on, thought Dexter Talon to himself, things would be different. Maybe he would leave the force, take his concealed wealth and make the move about which he often fantasized. Perhaps he would quit smoking, lose weight, stop drinking, take a geographic cure by relocating to California, and do something safe, normal, and moral.