Лесли Чартерис - The Saint

The detective’s pudgy finger poked at a sketch from last year’s heist of the Perrigo diamonds. The mere fact that the Perrigo diamonds were illicit to begin with, and Perrigo himself a notorious diamond smuggler, didn’t alter the illegality of the heist.

“Same chin structure, you notice that?”

He spoke to Inspector Rabineau who, by her own assertion, was one of Scotland Yard’s best trained and most astute detectives. She carefully considered Teal’s observation, then offered one of her own.

“And look at the sketch from the Reuban Graner incident in Tenerife—”

“I thought that was Haiti.”

“No. Tenerife, Canary Islands... same eyes.”

On the opposite side of the glass, Junior Inspector Desmond Pryke arrived in customs with a fresh X ray of the detained traveler’s innards. He held it up to the light.

“If this is the culprit,” said Pryke, “he didn’t swallow the microchip.”

Simon shrugged and stole a glance at the high-contrast display of his gastrointestinal system.

“The salmon mousse looked so much lighter during dinner. Have you quite finished?”

A furrow-browed functionary examined Simon’s authentic-looking but completely fabricated British passport.

“Ian Dickerson...?”

“Yes,” affirmed Simon cheerily. “I was named for the Canadian saint who first imported peanuts to France.”

“That so?” The official, unimpressed, returned the passport.

“Indeed, he eluded the British authorities for decades.” Templar added the irrelevant detail as if attempting to earn extra points on a quiz program.

The three custom officials stared blankly.

Behind the glass, Teal and Rabineau continued consulting their panoply of criminal portraits.

“You know, Teal, this fellow is a dead ringer for the perpetrator behind the Brass Buddha theft, except for the hair and the nose...”

“Did you say ‘and the nose’ or ‘in’?”

The droll Chief Inspector, his round pink face set in its habitual mask of weary patience, transferred a wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other.

He leaned over to take a closer look at the portrait in question.

“Could be, could be. Also a resemblance to the Count of Cristamonte. Damn. Hard to tell.”

Teal unwrapped a fresh stick of spearmint gum.

“I want to be absolutely certain,” he insisted. “We can’t afford to make a mistake, not now. If he’s our man, criminal pride will catch up with him. He’ll think he is immune to capture, get sloppy, give himself away, it always happens sooner or later. It’s as predictable as liturgy... except...”

“Except what?”

Teal frowned gloomily.

“Except right this minute we have absolutely nothing we can pin on him, nothing at all.”

Rabineau, not having the benefit of the commissioner’s briefing, became impatient.

“We could detain him for investigation,” she asserted with insistent passion. “He looks suspect to me, and he could be traveling on a forged or fraudulent passport!”

“I’m not going to endanger potential prosecution by playing a weak card like that,” stated Teal succinctly. “If he doesn’t have the microchip, we can’t take him in.”

She scrunched her nose as if Teal were emitting an unsavory odor.

“Besides,” added the detective for justification, “I’ve received directives from our superiors regarding handling of this matter.”

Rabineau’s jaw tightened and she leaned into her superior’s personal space.

“Am I out of the loop on something here, Inspector?”

Teal sighed. He answered without looking at her.

“Afraid so. Higher-ups sparring with other higher-ups. You’ll get used to it before you get over it.”

He could sense her resentment at being excluded. His attitude softened, for he was, above all, a good man.

“Politics, Rabineau. The commissioner. Sir Hamilton Dorn, Special Branch, MI5...”

He said plenty without really saying anything.

Rabineau smirked.

“Oh,” she said flatly, “I guess that settles that.”

On the other side of the glass, Simon Templar smiled, lifted his luggage, and watched his fellow departing passengers strolling unmolested toward the exit. Among them was the ripe and willing Irena. Bouncing above her ample bosom was the Byzantine locket.

Simon Templar saw both the bosom and the locket again less than an hour later in a plush, deluxe, and dimly lit hotel suite.

Martin de Porres, alias Ian Dickerson, had fully demonstrated the Saint’s technique of hands-on rejuvenation, and Irena was not disappointed. She reclined in repose as Simon gently stroked her shoulders.

“We know you have a choice when you fly,” he murmured affectionately. “So, we thank you for choosing... us.”

Irena laughed easily, and the locket bounced like a tuppence on a trampoline. Templar took it in his hand.

“The locket hangs a bit low. It calls undue attention...”

“To my ‘generous bust’?”

“Generous indeed,” acknowledged Simon.

“Are they out of date? My husband says only small breasts are in these days.”

He examined the bosom objectively.

“Like fins on a Cadillac, a classic style is always appreciated.”

Simon pulled a small penknife from his pants pocket and motioned toward the locket.

“Let me remove a few links for you.”

She obligingly unclasped the necklace and handed it to him before starting toward the bathroom.

“Don’t be long,” called out Irena with a wink, “and I won’t be, either. I’m just going to slip into something less visible.”

When Irena reappeared from the bathroom, she was wrapped in a thick terry-cloth towel showing a perfectly modem hint of cleavage. The man she knew as Martin was not there to appreciate her ample charms. He and the locket were gone.

“Cheat, cheat, cheat,” said Simon Templar to himself as he exited the elevator in the hotel lobby, pried open the locket, and removed the microchip.

He unsentimentally tossed the broken locket into a nearby wastebasket and placed the microchip in an envelope.

It may be said that our Saint of multiple personalities was a man of singular purpose. Having achieved his goal of securing the microchip, all that remained was delivery and payment.

It had been two and a half weeks since the staff of London’s elite Belgravia-Copeland Residence Hotel had seen Mr. Orseolo Bodenheimer. A shy Italian of mixed ancestry, he was an exemplary tenant and true gentleman who paid his rent in advance and never caused trouble.

The moment he stepped from the large black taxi outside the hotel’s beveled glass doors, the lovely Jamaican night manager recognized the shuffling gait of the slightly stooped and studious-looking man who maintained a simple suite on the second floor.

“Mr. Bodenheimer,” she called warmly, “always a delight to see you, sir. I trust you’re well.”

Speaking with a slight Italian lilt, he handed her an envelope.

“Would you please overnight it to Mr. Miyaki at this address in Tokyo?”

She nodded pleasantly as an eager bellhop, new to the hotel, bustled over to grab the resident’s bag. The night manager, knowing their guest’s habits and wants, subtly restrained him and offered a whispered explanation.

“Mr. Bodenheimer was named for a sainted Santa Cruz bibliophile who left his family to pursue a life of solitary contemplation.”

She put the emphasis on solitary, and the bellhop understood her to mean “leave him alone.”

The respected recluse spoke generalized evening greetings in idiomatic Italian, and the bellhop watched his potential tip disappear up the stairs.

Inside his understated Georgian-style suite, Orseolo Bodenheimer’s shuffling gait and stooped posture miraculously disappeared. A few moments later, gone also were the fake eyelids, false nose, and wig-hat. Simon Templar was now simply himself, the one identity with which he was not completely comfortable.