Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

Staring up into the night’s soft darkness beyond the blaring neon of a nearby cocktail lounge’s battered service entrance, he saw himself in sunnier southern climes, a hundred pounds lighter, clean and sober, happy and smiling, cheerfully opening a school bus door, greeting the children one and all as they clamored aboard chattering of classes and carrying their lunch pails. He sensed the redolence of inexpensive perfumes and colognes mixed with scents of hairspray and skin cream — obligatory olfactory identifiers of energetic adolescents, children Buzzy’s age, the age of his own daughter when he committed that which repelled and revulsed her, denying him her affection forever.

The final thought thrust the immoral man’s mind back to unpleasant reality, and Talon’s grip tightened around the butt of his weapon. He cursed an involuntary outburst of self-loathing, spewing smoke, phlegm, and weak regrets into the filthy drain grate at this feet.

He wasn’t going anywhere and he knew it. He was never going to change his weight, his habits, his passions. He would kill Alisdare, cover his tracks, and return to haunt and hunt his easy prey. He relinquished all illusions and unblinkingly acknowledged his personal identity: a crooked cop and predatory pedophile about to become a cold blooded murderer. And he didn’t regret any of it. Not now, not with Salvadore Alisdare standing ten feet away grinning coldly with that sick expression of slimy superiority.

Talon felt bile rising in his throat and the desire to see Alisdare die was almost overwhelming. He didn’t know if he would vomit before or after pulling the trigger. Talon swallowed hard, squared his enormous shoulders, and began his final conversation with the man who, with no motive beyond exploitation of another’s moral weaknesses, connected him to Little Buzzy and had made him pay and pay over and over again.

Roger Conway and Peter Quentin did not wait to hear the gunshots that punctuated the final unsavory conversation between two equally disgusting men. Those shots, as the next-day’s newspaper would dutifully detail, were from a .38 service revolver. They perforated the lungs of an allegedly armed and dangerous low-life miscreant named Salvadore Alisdare and killed him dead. It was, according to Detective Dexter Talon’s written report, an act of self defense. In reality, it was an act of justice orchestrated with justifiable pride by Simon Templar, alias the Saint. Far removed from the alley of death, the relaxed and unperturbed embodiment of masculine charm was admiring the Lake Washington view from Dexter Talon’s Madison Park condominium.

The Saint had easily entered the high-priced apartment and quickly uncovered the luxurious lair’s concealed secrets — the box of souvenirs, the wall safe, the hollowed out books — and conservatively estimated the combined value of illicit currency and illegally obtained gems at approximately fifty-thousand dollars. Despite the valuable booty, expensive locale, and expansive view, Talon’s secondary domicile reeked of bad taste and unpleasant associations.

The Saint helped himself to a single shot of fine whiskey from the cherrywood liquor cabinet, and settled back into the one comfortable leather-clad lounger.

“I’m betting on the roof,” said Simon evenly to the empty room, “I’m wagering on less than ten minutes, and the Saint bids diamonds.”

He was, of course, absolutely correct.

Seven minutes later, the first fleeting shadow moved across the outer patio. A single black cord descended to within three feet of the deck, and down it came a comely shape fashioned for adult tastes. The inky figure softly slid aside the patio door and crept cat-like into the room. The night sky’s scant illumination silhouetted a sleek feminine form of breathtaking beauty. Her movements, fluid and graceful, primal and elegant, were animated art in three dimensions. The Saint’s night vision clearly perceived her outfit’s impressive imitation of jet black epidermis, and he suppressed a soft whistle of honest appreciation.

To describe her as draped head to toe in skin-tight fabric would be a reversal of visual reality. It was more as if her alluring curves were lovingly hand ladled into sheer ebony, or a dedicated cadre of classical sculptors concentrated their combined talents in fashioning her perfectly proportioned figure from the finest onyx.

With stealth and self-assurance she removed a slim black flashlight from her waist pouch and triggered a thin beam of illumination. The light shaft slowly swept the room. As it approached the corner where Simon silently sat, he triggered a matching beam of his own.

“My, my, my,” murmured the Saint.

“Said the spider to the fly,” completed Diamond Tremayne melodically.

Beam to beam they faced each other, two pinpoints of light merging into one. The Saint reached up and switched on a small reading lamp, increasing the room’s illumination by enough minimum wattage to further highlight his visitor’s enchanting characteristics.

“I’m pleased to see more of you, Ms Tremayne,” began the Saint honestly, “and you’ve never looked better.”

“I’ve certainly seen better,” countered Diamond, blinking her eyes into adjustment, “were you anticipating someone else?”

“I did have a momentary twinge,” confessed Simon as he stood and approached her, “that some unexpected secondary character would come crawling out of the heat ducts dripping with unrevealed associations and hidden motives.”

“You’ve read too many mass-market paperbacks, Mr Templar,” she said conversationally, and her smile was exceptionally inviting. “In real life, women such as myself are consistently guilty of being as clever as we seem.”

The Saint found her more than attractive. In fact, she was beginning to manifest positive perfection. Simon gestured toward the liquor cabinet, offering her refreshment.

“No thanks, I never drink when I’m working.”

“You appear dressed for play, if you ask me,” observed the Saint, “and I believe you’re not the least bit surprised to find me waiting for you.”

Diamond cocked an irreverent and questioning eyebrow at her debonair host.

“Your perfume entered the room well before you,” explained Simon. “Were solitude your honest expectation, the thought of daubing pulse points with pheromones would never occur to you. What’s the fragrance, Midnight Marauder?”

Tremayne slid her sleek physique to the long couch and curled up in the corner as would a petulant school girl.

“No,” she replied with criminal pride, “Grand Theft.”

She was good. Very good. Simon Templar had known women of all calibers on both sides of justice, and the delicious damsel calling herself Diamond Tremayne ranked right alongside such assertive heroines and lawless ladies from his notorious past as Jill Trelawney and “Straight Audrey” Perowne. The Saint regarded her with iron sight before sitting down and leaning dangerously close. She slowly uncurled, stretching her long legs languidly as would an awakening cat.

“You’re name is not Diamond,” he said smoothly, “and unless this adventure has more coincidences than even I can accept, you are also not a Tremayne.”

“No? And would that be because one of your early friends — one of that dedicated band of reckless young men so brilliantly led — was named Dicky Tremayne, later husband of the notorious Audrey Perowne, alias Anusia Marova, who, along with her beloved, fled to South America oh so many years ago?”

Simon knew she was toying with him, demonstrating a detailed scholarship of his personal history thorough enough to rival even the encyclopaedic erudition of Daniel and Ian. He found her easy familiarity oddly endearing and peculiarly affectionate. She searched his eyes for reaction and found gleaming chips of sapphire tinted encouragement.