Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

“There,” declared the Saint, “you can tell your friends I treated you exactly as if you were dear old Claude Eustace Teal of Scotland Yard himself.”

The youth, obviously delighted, perseverated the phrase “thank you” as if it were his mantra.

“As for you, kiddo,” continued the Saint, turning his attention to the tall one, “How did you locate my room? For that matter, if you didn’t have an invitation, how did you know I was in this hotel?”

The long-legged lad suddenly spoke with an adult self-assurance and sense of personal assertion which caught Simon up short.

“Kiddo? Mr Templar, I happen to be the same age you were when you deserted the Spanish Foreign Legion. I have a degree in marine biology, and am hardly your stereotypical fawning fan. In fact, we happened to be in the hotel, believe it or not, for reasons having nothing to do with you. We were helping prepare for the Maritime Issues Forum being held here starting tomorrow. Of course,” he admitted, softening in tone, “once we found out you, the Saint, were here, or was here...” his voice trailed in self-conscious embarrassment.

“That’s when we became stereotypical fawning fans,” explained the pudgy one with an honest and infectious smile, still delighting in Simon’s treatment of his tummy.

The Saint originally intended disengaging from this fan club duo when reaching the lobby, but Simon Templar was never one to argue with fate and opportunity. It may have been the strong, assertive nature of the marine biologist, the mention of the Maritime Issues Forum, or the Saint’s pleasure in performing for a favorably disposed audience. Then again, Simon’s decision to include these two characters in the adventure’s next phase may have been simply prudent strategic planning.

“So tell me, my nefarious new accomplices,” asked the Saint, “what are we driving?”

Simon’s new friends, identified in an earlier conversation not quoted verbatim as Daniel and Ian, gleefully responded in near unison as they led the Saint out of the Westin.

“The Saintmobile.”

The Saint opted for optimism. Walking eastbound up Olive Avenue, his eyes scanned the curbside for a restored Hirondel, Desurio, Furillac, or Bugatti 41 Royale. He saw no vehicle which would induce any sane individual to name it The Saintmobile, especially not the half-primer, half painted metallic copper Volvo GL station wagon, complete with luggage rack.

“We read in one of the books that you drove a Volvo,” offered the tall Daniel, “and we figured we could really spiff this up and make it Saintly, for example...”

The Saint, conscious of time and appointments, cut Dan off while scooping the keys from his hand.

“Putting me behind the wheel will add a touch of authenticity,” insisted Simon as they climbed aboard. A throaty roar, a cavalcade of rattles, and a lurching gear-catch later, Simon and his couplet entourage were on their way to the Sanitary Market Building. A glance at his watch assured him that he was running right on schedule. A quick phone call to Vi Berkman from his hotel room had rescheduled their meeting from morning to immediate. As he told her at their conversation’s conclusion, “I might have to kill more than one man tonight after all.”

“The difference between crime in fiction and crime in real life,” explained the Saint to his enraptured passengers as they threaded through Seattle’s downtown traffic. “is that writers give more thought to the structure, motive, and execution of crimes than do criminals, insisting every plot twist be logically motivated; every detail painstakingly dove-tailed. From my experience, which we can all agree is extensive,” Simon elaborated as he slowed down the windshield wipers to match pace with the diminishing rain, “the ungodly are too self-centered to seriously consider the contingencies, conditions, or coincidences destined to rip their little webs to pieces. Take, for example, a peculiar little liar I encountered only this evening...”

The Saint amused Dan and Ian with essential exposition of the story thus far, concluding with a demonstration of his astonishing ability to parallel park a Volvo wagon in a space intended for an Izetta.

Vi Berkman arrived only moments earlier, stilled the ignition of her BMW, and waited behind secured doors and smoked glass for signs of the Saint. Even in the acoustically engineered silence of her vehicle’s interior, she heard the distinctive cry of metal in despair as the Volvo braked without pads.

Viola Berkman emerged from the German import, hailed the Saint with a friendly wave, and shook her head in amusement. Simon waited while the exhaust system sputtered itself to a shaking expiration before pulling on the doorhandle.

“Hi, Vi,” said the Saint cheerfully. He threw open the door, swung his feet to the wet pavement, and stood gentlemanly erect. “These two are Dan and Ian, the lost boys. I commandeered their car and dragged them along in a swaggering tribute to their swashbuckling fantasies. Besides,” explained Simon, slamming the Volvo door behind him, “I felt less conspicuous driving Seattle’s most common vehicle of choice than if I hailed a cab or wandered about the Westin’s parking garage searching for my rented Chevrolet.”

“Less conspicuous?” Vi giggled, pressing finger tips to lips. “Look at the...” momentarily silenced by mirth, she delayed the sentence’s conclusion, “passenger side.”

Simon raised an accusing eyebrow at the two young men starring sheepishly at their shoes. The Saint circled the vehicle, and espying the impetus for Ms Berkman’s amusement, covered his eyes, moaned, and peeked warily through his fingers.

The boys, abashed, remained in apologetic silence. Summoning his resolve, the Saint dropped his hands and stepped back to more fully appreciate the artistry of the large decorative addition to station wagon’s passenger door: an iridescent red stick-figure topped by a rakishly tilted halo. Above it, equally iridescent and no less irritating, was painted the designation, “The Saintmobile.”

“Simply displaying my initials on the license plate would have sufficed.”

“We thought of that,” admitted Ian proudly, his intended elaboration curtailed by a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“Even without this four-wheeled billboard,” admitted the Saint, “it is only prudent to assume we’ve been followed.” True concern captured the features of Viola Berkman, and a more subtle expression summoned the Saint to her side.

“Some material may not be...” Berkman trusted Simon knew the phrase.

“Suitable for children,” completed the Saint, “but Daniel Long Noodle is a full grown marine biologist,” he reasoned aloud, “and the other one,” Simon realized he had no clue as to Ian’s career, “eats peanut butter cups for a living.”

“I heard that,” said Ian, “and it’s an avocation, not a vocation. But how did you know?”

“Candy wrappers in the car, chocolate smudges above your pockets,” the Saint recited the litany’s balance without emotion, his iron sight scanning intersections and alley entrances. Vi Berkman crossed to her car, removed a hefty black leather purse, and locked the BMW.

“C’mon,” said Vi, “it’s time for your lesson in contemporary street reality.”

The lesson began with a quick tour of Seattle’s First Avenue in the vicinity of the Pike Place Market. It was nothing that the Saint had not seen before in Times Square or Soho, except on a more confined scale. The unescorted women, underdressed and overly made-up, attempting conversation with passing males; irrational street people babbling beside overstuffed shopping carts; vacant eyed men waiting at bus-stops but never getting on board; children too young to be out alone stepping into cars with strangers.