by Burl Barer
Vi stared out the window for a moment, but she wasn't looking at anything. Simon allowed her the silence. After a moment, Vi purposely decorated her face with an adult smile.
"I meet a lot of angry, confused and vindictive people in my line of work, Simon. Most of them make a lot of noise, and then go home. I've learned to take very few of them seriously. Anyway, when I shared my feelings about Rasnec and Talon's connection to Uncle Elmo's Good Time Arcade, Diamond seemed convinced that she could use her considerable feminine charms to successfully ingratiate herself with the primary suspects and, in her words, make them pay."
Make them pay.
The Saint repeated the phrase almost inaudibly to himself, allowing the implications to percolate in his subconscious. The resultant realizations formed and extrapolated slowly at first, but Simon Templar soon felt a warm glow radiate from the center of his being, rising in increasing calorific intensity until it manifested itself in a grin of near luminescent magnitude.
His bright blue eyes widened as if attempting to absorb a panorama of possibilities. Perhaps, reasoned Vi, he was indulging in the predictable, masculine contemplation of Diamond's ample, tempting lips, or the attractive packaging of her flawless features and statuesque physique.
"I think I'm in love," declared the Saint. And Vi Berkman, to this day, affirms that she actually heard him giggle.
If the Rabbi's wife believed the Saint had taken leave of his senses, she was not the first person to harbor such an erroneous impression. It may be noted, should one be taking notes, that Simon Templar had been considered irrevocably eccentric and decidedly absurd by numerous individuals throughout his distinctively dangerous career. For some, such an appraisal had proven fatal; for others, simply distracting. And were Viola to infer that the Twentieth Century's Brightest Buccaneer had blown a bulb, such an hypothesis would only indicate a failed appreciation for an essential and endearing aspect of the Saint's unique and wondrous personality. Simon Templar had always been his own greatest admirer, but such personal aggrandizement never obscured his appreciation for the accomplishments of others. Among the talents and abilities cultivated within himself was the glorious appreciation of the same light reflected in different mirrors. The dazzling illumination refracted by Diamond Tremayne was, by his appraisal, nothing short of breathtaking.
Although his initial intuitive deduction cleft the veils of conscious reasoning like a comet crashing resistless through the narrow mathematical orbits of logic, his brain had to catch up with it, plodding laboriously over the steps that inspiration had taken in its winged stride. For Simon Templar, such laborious plodding took mere moments, and he promptly offered an adequate, if truncated, explanation for his unexpected excursion into inappropriate jocularity.
"I've been bending my brain into a pretzel attempting to unravel this business with Talon, Alisdare, Buzzy, SeaQue Salvage, and the Costello Treasure," admitted Simon, "and, up to a point, I accepted much of it as an improbable, yet intriguing, interlacing of coincidences. But Diamond crossed the line -- her subtle references were lobbed over Rasnec's head with clear intent. She wanted me to catch each and every allusion. Ever since I walked out of the Harvard Exit I've been asking myself what she was up to and how she knew so much. And then, when you said `make them pay', I realized that she was doing exactly that --making them pay. I bet she's responsible for Alisdare clipping Talon for twenty grand, responsible for Alisdare passing ten of it on to me. It is currently my conviction that the dynamic Ms Diamond is also the author of that outlandish Costello story. No wonder I thought it was a practical joke," exclaimed Simon, remembering his initial impulse to credit Barney Malone, "I was never meant to fall for it in the first place. Alisdare was convinced that I would, but someone convinced him first. The con was a con from the moment of conception."
Vi looked at the Saint with tight jawed intensity.
She had no interest in fabricated treasure stories nor intra-criminal deceptions.
"What Talon did to Buzzy is no practical joke," she remarked ruefully, "We're talking about predators, Simon. These men are life destroyers."
The Saint turned towards her, taking her cool hands in his warm grip. Another bus passed by, but Vi didn't notice the brief blue sparks reflected in her windshield. The blaze of solid determination flaming behind the Saint's eyes transfixed her attention.
"I know what these men are, and they disgust me," insisted Simon. "They don't deserve to be called men at all, because they're lower than animals. Trust me, Vi. I've vowed that Talon will not escape justice, and the same goes for Alisdare and the whole damn bunch. If Rasnec's dirty, I guarantee you that he's going down too."
Vi's own grip tightened as if drawing strength from a dynamic electric current.
"But we're not alone in this," continued the Saint seriously, "There is more going on with Diamond Tremayne than either of us fully understands. Each of us has met the woman only once, but from what she said tonight, I believe she's working both sides of the game, raiding the hulls of two different ships, and is either smart enough or crazy enough to point it out to me. But that is a deadly and dangerous game to play."
Vi loosed her hands and lowered her head.
"I don't know, Saint. What kind of woman would ingratiate herself with the likes of those men?"
Condensation clouded the BMW's windshield; smeared light seemed to run in rivulets across the tinted glass. Seattle, blurred and augmented by mid-town metropolitan drone, could have been any city of neon, nightlife, and too much traffic. The Saint thought of New York.
"Either a woman of purpose, or a woman without one," answered the Saint.
"Really, Simon, a woman wielding influence over a pedophile?"
"Diamond was playing hip accessory to Arthur Rasnec, not Dexter Talon,” Simon reminded her, "and an opportunistic hedonist like Alisdare would gleefully accept entrepreneurial guidance from anyone projecting an air of malicious intent, especially one..."
"Who's drop dead gorgeous?"
"I was going to say `exceptionally clever'," said Simon, and they both knew he wasn't going to say that at all.
"It is one thing to be a mocking desperado, it is quite another to be in the hands of one," said the Saint wisely. "It recently occurred to me that I may be attempting to capture a galleon already boarded by another buccaneer."
"What do we do now?" Asked Vi.
"We?"
She laughed nervously, relaxing somewhat from her previous pitch of keyed tension.
"You're going to sample an Italian soda at that little bistro," he stated pleasantly, "while I burgle Emerald City Catering."
"Going after seafood?" She attempted regaining her sense of humor. "Absolutely not," said the Saint. "This story has enough red herrings already."
2
Twenty minutes later, Viola Inselheim Berkman sat sipping an Italian cream soda in the cozy bistro. The warm aroma of baking pizza permeated the air, relaxed conversations and occasional laughter drifted in from neighboring booths, and the dark wood bench upon which she sat seemed solid and reassuring. Simon Templar was also solid and reassuring, but he had merged into the night's darkness some time ago armed, to her knowledge, with only a slim black flashlight.
She would wait; she would think; she would watch the traffic. She imagined the Saint sneaking into Emerald City Catering by violating whatever security existed for such establishments, and returning filled with self-satisfaction and pertinent information.
Vi swirled the cream around the ice cubes in her tall class, checked her watch, and glanced out the window. A sleek black Jaguar XKE pulled up along the bistro's west side, stopped momentarily and moved on. She looked at her watch again and realized the hands had moved only one tiny increment since her previous examination of the dial.
She gave the ice cubes another ride around the glass. They slowed in their gradual spin and settled precariously, one atop another. She held the glass in her right hand and raised it to her lips. At that precise moment she saw an Emer
ald City Catering van turn the corner and head directly toward the old, dark building where Simon Templar was breaking and entering.
The glass stopped mid-motion and the ill-concealed shaking of her hand caused the weary cubes to collide in a wet, muted clatter. She delicately placed the glass on the table, resolutely rose, and walked out into the night with hell-bent determination and iron-willed resolve. Viola Inselheim Berkman would never allow the Ungodly to capture the Saint.
Simon Templar hated fighting in the dark. He calmly despised the entire scenario of dodging bullets, hiding behind makeshift shelters, and anticipating a sudden, shattering end to his carefree lawless career. He felt much the same about the intellectual equivalent. The Saint never fancied himself following in Bulldog Drummand's footsteps; he preferred leaving dogmatic detection to plodding, patient, meticulous clue collectors and masters of deductive reasoning. Simon Templar's mental gymnastics were, if one must invoke stereotypical geographic references, more conceptually Eastern. Jigsaw puzzles were neither his forte nor had he ever selected them as a pleasurable pastime. He could, if requested, successfully assemble the pieces, but gleaned no enchantment from the process nor completion. He was simply a big picture thinker.
Yet, here he was, performing one of his least favorite functions -- breaking, entering, and searching for puzzle pieces. In the Saint's intuitive and highly refined consciousness, he knew an absence of hard facts left drastic gaps in this adventure's logic. The logical adventure was itself a rarity, but no more so than an uncritical publisher or an unblemished bootlegger. Criminals were seldom the masterminds portrayed in paperbacks, nor were they as successful in their complex conspiracies as best-seller hardbacks would have their readers believe. But greed and selfishness, coupled with an indiscriminate longing for excess wealth, had driven small time hoods to the big house, and bigwigs of industry to small cells in multi-tiered institutions. One man's political indiscretion, the Saint once noted, was another man's prison sentence. And while blind justice often peeked, Simon Templar preferred putting a thumb's pressure on the scales of equity. At this exact moment, however, the Saint was applying his thumb and forefinger to the combination lock found on Salvadore Alisdare's personal safe in Emerald City Catering.
Simon Templar burgled the building in record time, surveyed the basic layout of the enterprise, briefly admired the two gleaming stainless steel kitchens, located Salvadore Alisdare's unimpressive office, riffled through every item on or in the cluttered desk, and set about unlocking whatever secrets were concealed behind tumblers and steel.
So advanced was he at the art of safecracking that he mastered the combination with minimal effort and a minor narrowing of concentration. Actually, to be perfectly frank, Alisdare's investment in personal security was not up to industry standards. Perhaps had he been general manager rather than an opportunistic event planner with added responsibilities in cold storage and shipping, Alisdare could have procured a more complex and inviable system. In the deft and dazzling hands of Simon Templar, however, it would have made no difference whatsoever.
The safe's door swung open, and the black flashlight's intense shaft of precision illumination highlighted the contents. There was not much to highlight -- a nefarious black book of names, numbers, and addresses, a yellow legal pad, a loose audio cassette tape, a battery powered micro-cassette recorder, and a small packet of photo negatives. The tape was labeled "Talon #1"; the negatives were similar in content, albeit more detailed, to the snapshots in Vi's folder.
"Why, Alisdare, my dear, you are a thorough little blackmailer," murmured Simon as he poked through the safe's contents, "And you thought these would be more secure here than at home."
A cursory examination of the black book revealed curious and incriminating annotations, women's names with little stars drawn next to them, a cryptic ledger, a list of chemicals, and a thought provoking addendum under the name Dexter Talon: a.k.a. Tex Nolan. The address was a prestigious high-rise condominium complex on the 2000 block of Madison Park's 43rd Ave. East. The phone number was not the one at which he had reached Talon earlier.
Enveloped in the cloak of darkness, peering into Alisdare's collection of incriminating evidence, Simon had a bright idea. It was one of those wild, reckless and impertinent actions for which the Saint had been both roundly criticized and deservedly admired. He swiveled to the black business phone on Alisdare's desk and dialed the fictional Tex Nolan's unpublished phone number.
There was, of course, the distinct possibility that Talon was still ensconced in the smoky environs of Ernie Steele's, cruising for adolescent company along First Avenue, or at his respectable address of record. Possibilities, however, seldom deterred the Saint from following inspiration's prescient tickles.
"Hullo?" It was Talon answering, his voice rasping of bad beer and harsh tobacco.
"Sorry to bother you, Tex," chirped the Saint affably, "but after I walked out on your alter ego, I decided to discover a few facts."
"Saint! How did you..."
"Perfectly, the same way I do everything," admitted Simon, "but in the joy of the moment, I couldn't allow myself to forget you."
Talon, shocked at receiving a call from Templar on his most secret of lines connected to his most secret of lives, was momentarily nonplussed but allowed his deepest fears to find voice.
"You're working with Alisdare, aren't you," barked the detective, "he must have given you this number. I'll get you both!"
"Relax, Tex," advised the Saint, "Alisdare is your problem, and I suggest you take my initial advice. I have no more love for him than you do. He didn't give me this number, nor did he reveal your secret identity. Let's just say I'm not such a slouch at detective work myself. I don't know everything, Talon," Simon lied convincingly, "but enough to know Alisdare is up to his little red ears in more than seafood and serviettes. I've found a delightful stash of photo negatives..."
Talon choked.
"And I think the world would be better off without them."
"You're kidding." Talon was incredulously grateful.
"Yes, it’s the Saint to the rescue, Tex. You can't say I never did you a favor. Someday we'll drink a mutual toast to justice."
Talon wheezed out a lungful of relief.
The Saint hung up the phone and sat for a moment in the silence of Alisdare's office. There were times when he amazed himself.
"To hell with Emelio Hernandez,” he said to no one in particular, "the best actor award goes to Simon Templar."
He delved back into the safe and pulled out the yellow legal pad on which, in a woman's fine handwriting, were the essential details of the Costello Treasure. The Saint chuckled to himself softly, retrieved Alisdare's SeaQue Salvage business card from his pocket, memorized the phone number, and moved over to the desk. He again punched the telephone button for line one and dialed SeaQue. Line three began blinking silently and an answering machine commenced a pre-recorded response.
"Thank you for calling SeaQue," cooed the unmistakable voice of Diamond Tremayne, "Mr Salvadore Alisdare cannot take your call right now, but if you will leave your name, number, and message at the sound of the tone, he will get back to you as soon as he can."
While the machine transmitted Diamond's mylar coated greeting, the Saint traced small wires trailing from the phone jack to an inexpensive answering machine installed as a touch of authenticity should Simon consider calling the number on the card.
Believing that Vi waited impatiently at the corner bistro, he hurriedly pocketed the negatives, microcorder and cassette, slid the little black book into his jacket pocket, tossed the legal pad back into the safe, shut the door, and made sure the black line above the dial pointed to the same digit as when he arrived.
The Saint slid silently past the second floor office area towards his unauthorized point of entry. He froze for a moment when he felt the low rumble of an arriving truck and heard the unmistakable metallic fanfare of the motorized delivery door widening its receptive jaws. Simon Templar banish
ed all thoughts of Talon, Alisdare, and blackmail from his mind -- the imperative issue at that exact moment was the Saint's getaway.
He knew his bearings to the nth degree, and he travelled to his destination with the noiseless precision of a cat. In the near distance he heard the truck's engine rattle to a healthy standstill and felt the violent vibration as the heavy metal door shook to a secure closure.
The Saint had not only the silence of a cat, but the curiosity as well. His very nature was torn between two opposing, but equally attractive scenarios. One was admittedly more mature and conservative -- get out by whatever route was most accessible -- the other was more confrontive and daring. There have been infamous incidences among the Saint's escapades, many of them documented in print and enlarged by legend, during which his most efficient route to freedom was judicious application of unexpected confrontation. On this particular night, and in these specific circumstances, prudence born of experience convinced him that this venture was assuredly not one of those.
For one thing, the identity and purpose of the recent arrivals remained undisclosed. For another, he may not be in immediate danger. The truck's driver could depart quickly, allowing him delayed but undisturbed egress. However, it was also possible that two or more Emerald City Catering employees would turn on every light in the joint, make themselves a pot of coffee, and spend the next hour or so playing gin rummy.
Artificial illumination instantly flooded the main floor, someone remarked about the imperative nature of coffee, and another insisted upon a new deck of cards.
It could be worse, reasoned Simon. At least he was one dark floor above them where he could tremulously hide in a hutch were he given to such self-protective temerity. The Saint, quickly discarding the option of being cramped in a cupboard, allocated himself a few trim minutes of eavesdropping before searching for the second story eaves.
"I wish Alisdare would score us some free tickets when we did these concert jobs," said one fellow emphatically, "I'd love to be in the audience instead of just settin' out cold cuts backstage."
