Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

His compatriots in the Denny’s booth waited several minutes for Simon Templar to stop laughing.

“Wait a minute, Saint,” interrupted Ian, “what about the Costello Treasure?”

“Which one? There are two Costello Treasures,” explained Simon, “one of them has been in my hotel room since about one o’clock in the afternoon, the other has yet to be revealed, although I know exactly where it is.”

Dan and Ian looked at Simon incredulously; Peter and Roger, used to such shenanigans, didn’t bat an eye.

“Finish your pie and follow me back to the Westin for a sneak preview of the Treasure of Dolores Costello, then I must get my beauty sleep — I have an important 10 a.m. appointment.”

“That means a woman,” explained Peter in case the boys were bereft of understanding.

“What’s her name again, Simon,” chided Roger Conway, “Tiffany? Ruby? DeBeers?”

“This week she calls herself Diamond Tremayne. Next week, I haven’t the slightest idea,” acknowledged the Saint. “I can’t wait to see the name on her airline ticket.”

At ten o’clock the following morning, Simon Templar kept his appointment with Diamond Tremayne. She arrived dressed in a conservative business suit, white blouse, dark hose, matching black mid-heel pumps, and her luxurious hair in a lovely French braid.

“Disguised as a librarian?” asked the Saint.

“Librarians can find anything, Mr Templar,” she answered, “even treasure.”

Tremayne, to Simon’s surprise, did not arrive alone. Accompanying her were Arthur Rasnec and Karl Krogstad. Everyone was cordial, but only Simon Templar was ignorant of the exact nature and purpose of the excursion. The Saint did not earn his nickname solely on the basis of patience, although under the circumstances, he was entitled.

As Diamond promised, Neah Bay was beautiful that time of year, and Arthur Rasnec certainly owned a charming Bed & Breakfast. In fact, he owned far more than impressive overnight accommodations. He also held title to a spectacular piece of rustic property, once utilized as a summer camp, now perfectly suited as a retreat, artists colony, or both.

“The way I see it, Mr Templar,” explained Rasnec with professional expertise and remarkable human warmth, “this facility would be the ideal locale for the educational and moral rearmament of displaced street kids such as Little Buzzy. Privately funded, professionally staffed, dedicated to healing, training, and nurturing via an arts based curriculum.”

Krogstad was smiling broadly, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

“And get this, Saint,” added Karl, “you know today’s kids are crazy about media and movies. We’ll set up a complete film and video workshop, teaching them hands on techniques in editing, lighting, scriptwriting, drama, the works. We’ll actually produce original material created by the kids themselves — marketable, of course, and once a year, right here, we’ll have that International Independent Filmmakers Conference and Competition I told you about at the Harvard Exit.”

Karl obviously secured his investor, but it was Diamond Tremayne who put the humanitarian spin on concept and realization. Simon was impressed.

“There are also employees of other enterprises in which I own significant interest,” added Rasnec, “who are most interested in training for new careers and pursuing optional avenues of employment.”

“And what exactly do you want from me, Mr Rasnec?” asked the Saint politely.

“I’m donating the property and substantial funding, but Diamond has also made a generous contribution to the initial start-up of the project, and we were hoping...”

Our penultimate pirate’s bright blue eyes were glorious beacons of supportive assurance.

“The Simon Templar Foundation would be proud to participate,” confirmed the Saint, “and I know a firm named SeaQue will be similarly inclined. Do the Berkmans know about this?”

“I had a chat with Vi this morning,” answered Tremayne, her countenance glowing with an aura of charitable victory.

Diamond, Rasnec, and Krogstad took turns shaking Simon’s hand.

“What exactly is your position, Ms Tremayne?” the Saint later asked, the Neah Bay afternoon sun bathing his private room in warm golden hues.

“I raise collateral,” replied Diamond playfully, kicking off her pumps and wiggling her toes, “it is also my obligation to receive extensive foot massages from notorious and dangerously handsome men.”

To dispel any doubts as to the identity of her notorious man of preference, she reclined demurely on the sofa and stretched her exquisite legs across his lap. Simon’s strong fingers applied appropriate and anticipated pressure.

“Perhaps your little feet are weary from standing on such high moral ground,” commented the Saint.

“I told you I learned from the best,” she said, “As for morality, the world has too much rhetoric and not enough action. Most problems could be simply solved if people actually acted in conformity with their words. Some talk; some actually do.”

“And you, Ms Tremayne, are exceptionally versatile.”

“Mere conjecture, Mr Templar. And as much as you detest playing detective,” continued Diamond, her unbraided auburn hair cascading luxuriously around her shoulders, “I think this caper calls for increased personal investigation.”

“Shall we investigate how much of your story about having a cousin corrupted in Seattle is true? Shall we question how it is that you and Rasnec know each other, and for how long? Shall I raise the possibility that going after Talon was Arthur’s idea in the first place, not yours? Would it be wise to surmise that you have been many things in life before becoming the world’s most attractive midnight marauder, including a dancer with less than professional credentials?”

Diamond Tremayne carefully watched the Saint’s face as he spoke, searching for signs of judgement or condemnation. She saw neither.

“If all I’m raising is questions,” she answered coyly, “then I will pose a few of my own: what’s your mother’s maiden name? Do you have brothers and sisters?”

Simon Templar smiled.

“To appreciate a rose,” agreed Simon, “you inhale its fragrance, not sniff the soil from which it grew,”

Diamond swiveled her long legs from his lap and leaned in to him.

“Let us agree that you are the Saint and I am Diamond Tremayne,” she suggested in a secretive whisper, scrunching her adorable eyes into cute little squints and moving her dangerous lips close to his, “and, for the sake of discussion, let’s accept that characters such as myself sometimes simply appear full blown and fully grown.”

“You certainly fit the criteria,” said the Saint, the rest of the sentence and the balance of the chapter silenced by demonstrations of appreciative affection.

Barney Malone eyed Simon suspiciously before tapping the long white ash from the end of his aromatic cigar and turning his gaze to the serulian blue waters of Lake Washington.

“How much of that story has any association with reality?”

“Why? Do you want to buy the movie rights?”

“I’m not sure I buy much of it at all,”

“Mr Malone,” protested the Saint, feigning affront, “do you honestly believe that I would lure you out here on such a beautiful day to pull your leg — especially one as aged as yours?”

To validate his truncated version of the preceding narrative, the Saint handed Malone recent editions of Seattle’s two daily newspapers.

“Criminal Caterer Killed in Alley,” recited Malone aloud, “Detective Indicted in Downtown Slaying,” “Rabbi to the Rescue,” “Duvall Drug Deal Explodes.”