Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

“So tell me how you are going to make me an even richer man than I already am,” prompted Simon as he dipped the tips of his Nikko chopsticks into the steaming sukiaki.

The little man’s cheeks flushed as he toyed with his tempura broccoli.

“Mr Templar, have you ever heard of the Costello Treasure?”

The Saint had never heard of the Costello Treasure and to the best of his knowledge, neither had anybody else.

“As in Abbot and Costello?” Asked Simon casually.

“Er, no. Mr Templar,” The little man seemed dissapointed with the Saint’s response. “The Costello Treasure is named after Dolores Costello, the famous actress. She was the wife of John Barrymore — the brother of Lionel and Ethel Barrymore.”

Simon Templar forced himself to suppress an outburst of laughter.

The Saint, having listened to all manner of nonsense in his life, would be willing to wager that the entire Costello Treasure myth, whatever it may be, was fabricated by the fun loving imagination of Barney Malone. The Saint had been an easy target of Malone’s harmless and amusing humor before, and this little diversion was perhaps Barney’s best yet.

Simon leaned across the table and spoke sotto voce . “Have you ever heard of a man named Barney Malone?”

“Who?” The lobster-scented General Agent, appearing confused, shook his head in slow negation. The highly suspect man from SeaQue was honestly ignorant concerning Mr Malone.

“Please, Mr Alisdare,” the Saint waved his chopsticks as if chasing away his previous question. “Tell me absolutely everything about the famous Costello Treasure and your irresistible, lucrative offer.”

The diminutive dinner guest recited the dramatic history of the Costello Treasure while Simon Templar, finding the inventive exposition fitfully enthralling, deftly trapped and devoured rectangles of tofu.

The narrative’s essentials concerned the sea-going saga of Dagfinn Varnes, a Norwegian cryptologist who’s antipathy towards the Axis manifested itself in covert activities on behalf of the Allies.

“In the latter days of World War II, Varnes was aboard the U.S.S. Amber guarding the entrance to the Strait of Juan de Fuca from Neah Bay to Port San Juan on Vancouver Island”, said Alisdare as if making a major revelatory pronouncement. He tilted his head to one side, stared expectantly at Simon Templar, and awaited an appropriate indication of unabashed fascination from his elegant companion.

“Where the lovely Miss Costello,” remarked Simon, “fleeced the crew at five card stud and stashed her winnings in the engine room.”

The Saint regretted the jest the moment it left his lips. Alisdare dropped his fluttering hands to the table and appeared to demonstrably deflate.

Simon apologized for interrupting, attributing the imperative nature of doing so to the call of nature itself. Alisdare winced when Simon affectionately squeezed his shoulder while leaving the table.

The only nature summoning Simon Templar was his inherent Saintly nature responding to intuitive trumpets, and his appetite for honest information outweighed any proclivity towards culinary indulgence. The Saint also preferred a main course of facts before swallowing fancy. Hence the wince-inducing squeeze delivered to the diminutive prevaricator masked the deft lifting of Alisdare’s wallet from the opposing pocket of his dinner jacket.

In the tiled isolation of Nikko’s spotless washroom, Simon Templar carefully scrutinized the billfold’s diverse contents. Having learned illuminating details about his dishonest dinner guest, Simon took a circuitous route to his table via the hotel’s courtesy telephone. En route, the Saint debated whether or not to return the errant wallet. As much for the sake of fun as for expedience, he wanted to keep it. But risk outweighed amusement, and Templar performed another successful slight of hand.

Seated and smiling, Simon convivially encouraged Alisdare to proceed with his story.

“Where was I?” asked Alisdare.

“Lying off the coast of Vancouver Island”, said the Saint with a slight hint of questionable inflection.

Salvadore’s ears turned red, he cleared his throat, and continued his recitation.

“After the Navy’s massive shipbuilding program had gotten into full swing, ships such as the Amber were no longer necessary. After the war, it was decommissioned and became property of Alaska salmon packers. Her name became the Polaris and her history became temporarily obscure — temporarily because recently SeaQue became privy to some rather astonishing passages from the papers of Dagfinn Varnes.”

Alisdare poured emphasis on “astonishing”, bathing it in unmistakable importance.

“And how astonishing is it?” asked a wide-eyed Simon Templar.

“Quite. Quite indeed. Portions of his personal papers were cryptologicaly encoded, and even after being decoded were somewhat, er...”

“Vague?”

“Um, perhaps metaphorical would be more appropriate.”

The Saint gently pursed his lips, suppressing the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I never metaphor I didn’t like,” deadpanned Simon.

With a weak sigh, the General Agent dug into his pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of typing paper, and asked Templar to listen carefully to Varnes’s decoded references to the Costello Treasure.

“Amber equals Polaris. Multi colored fish. Dazzling gems of inestimable value. Infanta. Murals of beauty, rich beyond measure. Lost beneath the waves of Neah Bay, awash in gray, the treasure of Dolores Costello.”

Simon drummed his fingers on the table as if translating the message into Morse Code.

“What does that mean and what does it have to do with me?”

Small beads of perspiration appeared on the swarthy forehead of Salvadore Alisdare as he leaned across the table. “It means an immediate ten thousand dollars to you if you will accompany me to Neah Bay tomorrow and twenty percent of whatever is recovered of the Costello Treasure. The Polaris sank there in 1953 and...”

“And why do you need me?” interrupted the Saint, “why doesn’t SeaQue simply salvage the Polaris and find these gems of inestimable value?”

Alisdare stared at Simon Templar as if the Robin Hood of Modern Crime was dense beyond compare.

“Publicity, Mr Templar, publicity”, explained Alisdare with drawn-out, almost insulting emphasis, “In case you don’t recall, you are the Saint. There may be nothing down there but a boat load of dead salmon. Varnes’ code could be the his way of disguising a penchant for bad prose,” Alisdare’s voice, having jumped an octave with each successive sentence, now squeaked like a squeezed balloon. “The point is, SeaQue wants some high-profile publicity in the maritime community of the Northwest, and the publicity of the Saint being part of this effort is worth the ten thousand dollar advance and the twenty percent commission.”

The General Agent’s eyes rotated in their sockets as if taking in an astonishing panorama of possibilities.

“Imagine the headlines”, implored Alisdare, “consider the feature stories on the evening news, ‘The Saint joins SeaQue search for Costello Treasure’.”

Noisily sucking air while gritting his teeth, the agitated little fellow forced himself to assume a stiffened posture of affected control.

“Now do you understand?”

The Saint understood that Alisdare’s story, riddled with enough holes to sink the Polaris several times over, was a hastily constructed ruse devised to lure him to Neah Bay. The reason eluded him, but Simon had no intention of allowing the ten thousand dollar cashier’s check previously discovered in Alisdare’s wallet to go uncashed.

Alisdare reached in his pocket, pulled out the billfold with which Simon was already familiar, and placed the check on the table.