Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

Barney Malone was no longer seated before the remains of his scrumptious salmon. He was dancing on deck, striking a great, joyous, and exuberant profile.

After the hub-bub concerning the clandestine tape recording of Dexter Talon terminating the existance of Salvadore Alisdare quieted down, Surush Josi eventually noticed and retrieved the tiny piece of paper from the morgue’s floor, examining the rough-edged rectangle carefully. It was torn from sturdy stock typical of high society invitations. The embossed design was familiar, meaningless, and identical to the stick-man character decorating a certain Volvo wagon seen on his way to work. At the end of his eventful shift, the scrap of paper traveled home in his jacket pocket. A few days later, Surush inadvertently rediscovered it while enjoying a reunion dinner with his cousin, Suniel, at Portland’s stately Benson Hotel.

The little stick figure also meant nothing to Cousin Suniel, but both agreed that someone more knowledgeable of the peculiarities of Western popular culture could explain the logo’s significance. Someone, perhaps, such as the handsome gentleman with tanned piratical features and brilliant blue eyes treating a certain witty scriptwriter to the promised dinner of her choice.

“According to Box Office Magazine, The Pirate just replaced Until Death as the number one movie in America,” commented the Saint, amazed at the cinema habits of the American public. He was about to offer further insights into art, literature, and politics when he was interrupted by a rather rotund Nepalese gentleman who looked vaguely familiar.

“I saw this design on a car and then I see it on this, but I don’t know what it is,” said Josi plaintively, holding the scrap out for investigation.

The Saint was honestly surprised.

“Where did you find this?”

“I found it on the floor at work,” replied Josi, “I think it means something, yes?”

Simon’s female guest looked at the logo and made an amusing face which the Saint ignored.

“What do you do for a living?” asked Simon Templar.

“I work at the Seattle Morgue,” Josi answered proudly.

The Saint smiled and shook the man’s hand.

“And I’m sure you do a fine job with the deceased,” intoned Simon, “I promise to send you all my business.”

“Everyone says that,” responded Surush undeterred, “you know what this is or not?”

“Its called the Sign of the Saint, and it stands for a certain brand of justice. You don’t see it as much you used to, but it is a powerful talisman.”

“Talisman?” Cousin Suniel did not know the word.

“Good luck,” explained Surush, and they both smiled.

The two related Nepalese thanked the handsome couple and headed happily for the cash register. Simon Templar could not resist one last parting bit of advice, calling out in a happy, melodious voice.

“Watch for the Sign of the Saint. He will be back.”

They nodded; the Saint laughed, and his dinner guest rolled her eyes.

Barney Malone joined them for coffee a few minutes later, and drew Simon’s attention again to the rewarding box office figures of The Pirate.

“You realize what this means, Simon,” enthused Malone, “The Pirate II looms on the horizon. There is a clause to that effect in the contract, and the sooner the better. You better ask the hotel if they have a typewriter you can borrow and then pray for inspiration.”

The Saint’s eyes danced with mischief.

“I’m not the least bit concerned about inspiration,” he asserted confidently, looking past Barney’s shoulder at the familiar form of an auburn haired woman of astonishing beauty striding gracefully across the Benson Hotel lobby towards the registration desk. She caught sight of him as well, flashing a smile warm enough to increase his tan.

“I have all the inspiration a man could need,” said the Saint, “In fact, I can see the sequel from here.”