Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

Once outside the East entrance, the crowd poured left while Major League and his limp burden turned to the right, heading towards the dark service lane running along side the Coliseum. The weak waif stirred to consciousness, and he brought her down on her rubber soled but wobbly feet. Gripping her arm tightly, he pushed her ahead of him.

The night breeze carried the prepatory aura of oncoming rain, the silent signal of short downpours for which the city is renown. The brisk evening air chilled Buzzy’s once-warm tears; blood caked around her nose and mouth, and she squinted painfully to see where she was going. Devoid of reference points and still suffering pain from the cruel blow to her fragile features, she struggled to make sense of her surroundings. She soon understood that she was being propelled toward a bright set of headlights. She recognized the car’s grill and knew it belonged to the same creep digging fingerprints into her arm. Another man in Emerald City Catering garb leaned nonchalantly against the idling auto. Oblivious to the first large drops of rain, he was reading the evening Seattle Times.

“Stop readin’ the goddam paper,” snapped her abductor, not understanding why a semi-illiterate fool would suddenly be interested in the Seattle Times, “let’s get the hell out of here.”

The accomplice stood firm, for as any astute follower of these chronicles can surmise, the accomplice was non-compliant for the simple reason that he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, in league with Major.

“If the truth be known,” commented Simon Templar dryly, “I much preferred you as a minor character.”

Major League’s expletive laced response has no place in a moral and uplifting story such as this.

“I’ve got the girl,” insisted the thug.

“You’ve got the gall,” corrected Simon.

Buzzy, weeping, said nothing.

“Alisdare, Barry, Milo, and the rest of your little playmates have gone to their eternal lack of reward,” said the Saint conversationally as he un-zipped and stepped out of the uniform, kicking it aside, “And it’s a good thing for you, too. Ol’ Salvadore told you not to make a scene, remember? Were that pink-eared pervert alive today, he’d roll over in his grave if he had one, but I believe they’re still digging bullets out of him at the morgue.”

Major League involuntarily gasped.

“One more thing,” added the Saint as he snapped open the newspaper, “don’t expect your almost-as-ugly buddy to scamper out here and jump behind the wheel — he suffered a tragic neck injury about the same time he relinquished the car keys.”

The Saint leaned back against the grill and turned his attention to the front page, scanning the headlines as if waiting for Metro Transit. Major League tightened his grip and Buzzy sobbed harder. As the Saint spoke again, a limousine’s V-8 engine roared to life in the distance and a police siren wailed.

“Three inch bold type headlines, old boy, right here next to the wedding picture of Judge Crater and Amelia Ehrhardt. ‘Bad Guys Dead — You May be Next.’ I’m speaking in potentialities, of course, although every unpleasant person in this adventure has met a quite timely demise, except for you and Talon, but these piffling details can be wrapped up in a postscript attached to the final chapter.”

The Saint tossed the newsprint prop aside and spread his hands wide in a gesture of finality. “I’d say throw in the towel, but the tender child with whom you’ve mopped the floor is hardly made of terrycloth. She’s a flesh and blood human being, and a young one at that, short eyes.”

Major League blanched at the term “short eyes,” knowing it was prison slang for child molester, the one appellative guaranteed to assure early death or worse from those awaiting you behind bars. Even a false accusation could destroy a man, and a true accusation followed by incarceration would prove deadly.

“You don’t understand, Templar,” objected the man who understood full well that the Saint understood everything.

“I understand that you are going to let the girl go because you have no where to take her and nothing to do when you get there,” explained Simon.

“You ain’t no cop,” insisted Major League, as if that made a difference.

“Which is precisely why I can kill you and not be concerned about paper work,” responded the Saint honestly. Despite being woefully bereft of anything lethal in his possession, the power of his intention, so clearly and flatly stated, made the threat seem terrifyingly viable and immediately eminent.

Buzzy whimpered, and the Saint began walking towards the man and his underage captive.

Major League looked around desperately. With fifteen thousand people within one city block, the three of them were ominously alone.

“Don’t come any closer, Templar,” insisted the aggravated hoodlum, “just step away from the car.”

“I have stepped away from the car. Now, you step away from the girl. I’m not going to bother reading you your rights because (a) I’m not the law, and (b) you have no rights.”

“But I got Milo’s .38,” countered the thug.

The Saint walked to the right of the headlights while the villain and his victim circled to his left. They were fully illuminated, Simon was now back-lit at best.

“I know you do, Cueball, I gave it to you myself.”

Major League yanked the weapon from under his shirt with his free hand while digging his fingers even harder into Buzzy’s soft flesh.

Simon, not about to credit Buzzy’s captor with enough prescience to reload Milo’s weapon, laughed derisively.

“And whom do you plan to shoot? The girl? Me? Perhaps yourself?”

The Saint stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, wrapping the broad rubber band from Alisdare’s kitchen around the first two fingers of his left hand and easing out several tacks with the other.

“You have neither bullets nor options,” explained Simon happily, “but hopefully, an ear for classic music hall compositions.”

The Saint, it must be admitted, broke into song. And while the tune was that of a well-known standard, the lyrics were modified especially for the occasion.

Viewed from a distance, the trio seemed to be either performing a lackluster number from an off-Broadway musical, or reviving an ancient human sacrifice ritual with a four cylinder sedan as centerpiece.

Buzzy’s improved vision and comprehension coincided with Simon’s resonant baritone and the increased frequency of rain drops splashing on her with mounting rapidity. The rain was a dark night’s cold shower, and her awareness was on the rise. The relevant high points of the scenario in which she found herself were easily grasped — one rough and ugly man had bloodied her nose and kidnapped her; a smooth and handsome man, currently singing a song with her name in it, wanted to rescue her. Her sympathies and support were certainly not for the former.

Simon ceased his vocalizing and slowly backed up, altering his position as Major League inched closer to the car’s driver’s side.

“I’m surprised the young lady is still standing,” called out the Saint, “considering how hard you hit her, she should be down or dead.”

Buzzy, despite her beating or because of it, read the Saint’s message as if it had been projected in paisley with full illumination by the Retina Circus. She understood completely and complied immediately, throwing herself at the wet pavement behind the car’s fender. Major League’s grip was too tight to release, the sudden drop pulling him off balance and sending him stumbling stupidly after her until his revolting face was well-lit and perfectly positioned in the headlight’s blinding glare.