by Burl Barer
Simon took the black book from Vi, thumbed through it, and ripped out a page. He also removed one unpleasant negative from Alisdare's collection, kept the plastic bag in which they were contained, and activated the inside trunk release. He stepped out of the car and motioned Vi to do the same. The Duvall air was chilled and moist with the scent of trees. Vi seemed more to fall out of the passenger side than exit gracefully.
"If you think you're stuffing me in the trunk, you're certainly mistaken."
She stood in the damp darkness, her arms folded, her demeanor straining to retain its air of competent professionalism.
"The thought never crossed my mind," admitted the Saint, and he placed some items lifted from Alisdare's safe into the trunk, retained others, handed Vi the keys, and provided carefully worded instructions regarding the balance of the evening's agenda.
A few minutes later, the black BMW slowed to a stop along a single lane road off what passed for the main Duvall highway. Had anyone been watching, they would have seen nothing. The car regained speed and disappeared into the dark. So did the Saint, but he was not in the car.
Simon Templar had every intention of walking up to Alisdare's front door and ringing the bell, but not before ascertaining a thorough understanding of the property's features, structures, and hazards. In crime parlance, he cased the joint.
The wooded property was at least three acres. Set back at significant distance from the secondary road was an older house and two minor secondary structures. One was steel, the other was a nondescript wood shed, both were newer than the house and looked distinctly utilitarian. The shed, surrounded by shrubbery, was not noticeable from the entry road. A miniscule border of light seeped through one small rectangular window.
For anyone to sneak up on the building without stumbling over tree roots, especially in the dark, would be next to impossible. For the Saint, next to impossible was the stuff of his legend. He slithered through the darkness in self-assured silence and positioned himself directly beneath the window. He could hear voices, none of which were familiar, discussing one of his least favorite subjects --chemistry.
"The HCL salt is odorless, colorless, and bitter-tasting and it forms needle-shaped crystals in ethanol," remarked one fellow to another, "Highly water soluble. Less soluble in ethanol. Only very slightly soluble in acetone, toluene, or MEK, more if solvent is hot. Insoluble in ethyl ether."
"Yeah," acknowledged a deeper voice with a world-weary tone, "Methamphetamine freebase is a very pale yellow oil, foul tasting as hell, and alkaline enough to irritate the lungs. We're probably smart to use toluene-- less of a fire hazard."
The Saint, despite a relative ignorance of chemistry, understood that the men were not discussing pickle processing.
He slipped away with the noiseless precision of a military commando and approached the main house from the back side. He could see the outline of three vehicles in a flattened clearing -- a 4X4 elevated by absurdly enormous tires, a nondescript medium sized two-door import, and a Volvo wagon. Simon shot a pinpoint shaft of light from the black flashlight to the wagon's passenger side and a red stick figure's halo winked back at him.
So precise and noiseless were his footsteps than neither leaf nor twig knew of his existence. He moved up along side the Volvo, peered in, and steeled himself for the possibility of bloodstains.
There was no blood, only crumpled wrappers from peanut butter cups. The Saint surveyed the two story house. It was an older Duvall construction with large front porch, a smaller one in back, and a daylight basement. An open shed off to the side contained a wheel barrow, rakes, a cord or two of wood, an axe, and sundry related items. Stretched out on the ground was an extension ladder, the type painters use. Simon considered it for a moment, judged the distance between the ground and second floor window, and decided to leave the ladder untouched.
He crept around the side of the house, his ears straining to catch every sound. Positioned directly under the main floor window, the Saint stole a peek inside and saw Salvadore Alisdare preening in front of a mirror. Out of his suit and into faded denim pants and wide lapeled lavender shirt, he looked like an overdressed duck.
The Saint continued around to the anterior porch, paused to assure himself that he looked his best, and strode up the five steps to the front door with all the affirmative confidence of an old-fashioned bible salesman.
With a smile on his face and every muscle at the ready, Simon Templar rapped a playful rhythm on the door.
There was a moment of predictable trepidation, for the Saint seriously considered the possibility that he could be gunned down there and then. He dismissed the idea, and not entirely by his traditional justification that such an ignominious demise was not in keeping with destiny. If Snookums had been sent to retrieve him, Simon's appearance on Alisdare's doorstep may be a surprise to the domicile's inhabitants but one they were at least partially prepared to deal with.
Salvadore Alisdare casually pulled open the front door as if anticipating visitors, but from the look in his face, he was obviously not anticipating the Saint.
"Sorry to bother you at home, old fruit," began the Simon with characteristic charisma and unflappable effrontery, "but I seem to have misplaced two young men and an ugly station wagon."
4
The Saint strode directly into the room, shut the door behind him and turned the deadbolt before the slack-jawed Alisdare could find his voice-box.
"Now, as the wagon is outside I assume the boys are inside. Would you mind fetching them for me?"
Alisdare's ears resembled two hot-pink flames rising from the side of his head. Sweat ran in rivulets from his temples down the sides of his cheeks, and his little eyes blinked with astonishing rapidity.
"Mr Templar...," Alisdare, torn between an imitation of courtesy and an outburst of anger, almost stumbled over his tongue, "this is..."
"A surprise, an honor, a day for celebration," continued the Saint in his most absurd and irritating manner, "but we must wrap this up quickly as it’s getting late and we need our beauty sleep before we search for the Costello Treasure, don't we Mr Alisdare?"
Salvadore's eyes burned with an unnatural fire, and Simon knew its source was the shed behind the house.
"Yes, the treasure," acknowledged Alisdare, and he struggled to regain his self-control. "Your young toughs are my honored guests. They are in no danger, I assure you. Please make yourself comfortable." He gestured towards a modest yet comfortable living room ensemble, but Simon didn't budge. "Please, we have much to discuss."
"We can discuss how to get more loot from Dexter Talon, for one thing," insisted the Saint with inflection tinged by criminal conspiratorial intentions.
"That's the real treasure and I believe there's enough for both a blackmailer and a pirate. I'm one, you're the other."
"So that's your game," said Alisdare with a sweaty smirk, "I thought...."
"Don't think," interrupted Simon roughly, "You don't have the qualifications." He began to jab his finger into the small man's chest. "Talon told you I was on his side, but you knew that was probably bogus. But you wanted me out of town, out of the game, because you couldn't take the chance that I'd interfere. I loved the Costello Treasure story, I really did. I especially loved the ten thousand dollar cashier's check. If you hadn't come to me with that whopper I wouldn't have seen the photos of little Buzzy until tomorrow morning."
Salvadore turned several lighter shades of beige.
"I'll cut to the chase, Mr SeaQue Salvage. The way I figure it, you've got Talon over a barrel and that barrel is full of cash -- corrupt cash but cash none the less. Someone told you I'd fall for that Costello story faster than a boxer taking a dive. Even if I didn't believe it, my curiosity would compel me to go along for the ride. Whoever it was, they were right, except I bumped my schedule ahead by fifteen hours and this has been a most educational evening."
Alisdare, his piggy eyes wide as dish plates, instinctively and defensively took a step backward with each
of Simon's pokes.
"I've had bad beer with Detective Talon, met Arthur Rasnec and Diamond Tremayne, paid a little visit to Emerald City Catering," continued the Saint with assertive bravado, "and brought back a few souvenirs."
The Saint shoved the photo negative and the torn page from the little black book into the sweat-drenched weasel's face.
"Look familiar?"
Alisdare wanted to throw up. He wished Simon Templar would simply vanish. His heart pounded ferociously and the room swirled around him. He put an arm out to steady himself, but there was nothing within reach. He began to list dangerously to one side, but Simon's strong hand steadied him.
"You can't drop dead on me, my little rodent," cautioned Simon, "we have so much nefarious planning to do, so much wealth to confiscate, so many details to work out."
"Please," pleaded Alisdare weakly, "let me sit down."
Simon plopped the plump lump of agitated flesh into an unpleasantly upholstered armchair and leaned over to squeeze Alisdare's cheeks with his strong brown fingers.
"You have a meth lab cranking away out back and protection from a Seattle detective because he is under your thumb. He can't have you busted 'cause you hold all the cards and all the photos. But I'll tell you the one thing you have going for you that I really appreciate even more than your crisp, delicious pickles or your scrumptious lobster."
Alisdare looked up into the Saint's clear blue eyes for a hint of mercy and found only a dangerous mocking humor.
"You have the world by the tail. You really do."
Simon's voice was light and full of admiration while his grip was tight and unrelenting. The trembling blob in the armchair imagined the Saint must be a madman.
"You see, Salvadore ol' pal, I despise Dexter Talon even more than I dislike you. He has nothing going for him except bad habits and part ownership of a sleazy arcade. But those habits and that arcade are earning him payoffs from the old enemies of Uncle Elmo. You remember dear old Elmo, don't you? You must, because I found his name in your little book. You've managed to tap into the easiest flow of money in the criminal kingdom -- extorting payoff money from a corrupt cop. The poor leech is just a conduit of cash. It builds up in his hands and then, after you insist, it moves on to you. So what if you toss ten grand at me, there must be five times that much just waiting to be snared."
Alisdare nodded his head violently in affirmation.
"But you're even more greedy than I am, Salvadore. You had to send your pickle-packing compatriot to get your check back. He failed of course, so he comes back with a gun. Where was your big beast going to take me if I had gone along with him?" The Saint wanted an answer and released just enough tension on Alisdare's cheeks for him to squeeze out words through pursed lips.
"Here. He was going to bring you here. I wanted...I wanted to explain things to you, make you my partner, honest...the Costello story, you're right about that...I figured you were tipped off when you and two of your gang took off for Uncle Elmo's...." Alisdare, babbling foolishly, rambling and stumbling, hoped for an opportunity to make sense, to say something that would make the Saint go easy on him, "We're two of a kind, you and me. We can work together, really we can. You'll see."
The Saint would have laughed out loud but he didn't want to step out of character. He reached back and pulled Snookum's gun from his waistband. Alisdare recoiled in fear.
"Give me your hand," insisted the Saint, and Salvadore held up one weak wet hand.
Simon spun the gun around and slammed the butt into Alisdare's reluctant grip.
"Take it," Simon insisted.
He took it.
"Shoot me," demanded the Saint, and the little man's hand shook violently.
"Pull the trigger!" Simon slapped him across the face. "Pull the trigger!"
CLICK!
The gun was empty.
"Thank you," said the Saint happily and thrust a pen into the gun's barrel and lifted it out of Alisdare's sticky palm. The tremulous blackmailer, immobilized by fear, watched as the dangerous buccaneer pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and deposited the weapon inside.
"I had to shoot a few people tonight and your fingerprints on the murder weapon will be most convenient," stated Simon with a straight face, "Even Talon won't be able to get you off the hook."
Under the circumstances, and despite the absurdity of the Saint's assertion, Alisdare had no choice except to take Simon's word for it.
"Now, let us agree between you and me, that we will have no more secrets," intoned the Saint in the most silken of tones, "I'll tell you right out that I've given my gang the contents of your safe. If you have Talon over a barrel, we have you. But I'm not on Talon's side; I'm not on your side. I'm on my side. It just happens that my side is closer to you than it is to Talon. We both want what Talon's got--money and plenty of it. And together, were going to get it and get it all at once."
Alisdare squeaked out a question.
"All at once?"
"Simple, my little cucumber," intoned Simon as if Alisdare was a complete idiot. "You are going to arrange one of your little meetings with Talon -- a meeting of the minds. Tell him you want to negotiate an arrangement for your long term prospects together. He'll fall for it. All you have to do is keep him busy in a neutral area, maybe by that little bistro on Madison, while I have my gang, including the about to be liberated `young toughs,' ransack his hideaway in Madison Park."
"But," Alisdare began to object, but Simon cut him off with a glare.
"But that would kill your golden goose? Too bad. I'll split the loot with you, fifty-fifty. Or maybe sixty-forty, depending on your degree of cooperation. You see, I'm only in town for a day or two so raiding the hen house instead of waiting for eggs doesn't bother me a bit. You should just be happy I don't kill you right here, right now. I could, you know. I've done that sort of thing before."
Alisdare considered the Saint's notorious reputation and Talon's previous threats. He bought it.
"You do what I say and I won't do a thing to harm you, your meth lab, or your pickle business," growled the Saint, "Cross me in any way and I'll smash you and everyone associated with you."
Salvadore Alisdare wished he had never heard of the dangerous rogue who held him captive with nothing more than attitude and inflection. The same dashing gentleman who listened so patiently to the Costello Treasure story now intimidated him with wholesale threats and an awe-inspiring presence that gave even the unimaginative Alisdare images of india-rubber, freshly lubricated lightning, and high explosives. The little man was afraid, and nothing fuels hatred faster than fear. The Saint watched the animosity boiling in the whites of Alisdare's eyes.
"You know, I get the feeling you don't like me," said Simon with a slight pout. "You don't want your partner to feel unappreciated, do you?"
Alisdare, convinced that Simon was both deliberately dangerous and decidedly insane, did his best to humor him.
"No, no. I appreciate you, I really do. After all," insisted Salvadore, " you are the famous Saint. Everyone knows you; everyone marvels...."
Simon cut the absurd flattery short.
"Enough!"
The Saint pulled Alisdare roughly out of the chair.
"We are not going to be the best of friends, but we will certainly pretend we are. Before you offer me your comraderie and fellowship, I suggest you reunite me with my youthful gang members. Then we will all sit down together for some delicious Brine Time pickles and discuss the limited financial future of Dexter Talon."
Alisdare's eyes darted nervously towards the back door.
"Oh, yes," added the Saint, "when your chemistry class is dismissed and the kids come home from school, feel free to introduce me as your long-lost Auntie Ethanol. You can doubt me if you wish, but I assure you it will be fatal. Now, where are the boys?"
The little man wiped a sleeve across his dripping brow and raised his eyes.
"Upstairs." The reply was without enthusiasm.
Simon threw a muscular arm
around Alisdare's hunched shoulders and squeezed him as if they were dear old pals.
"C'mon, let's go liberate the youths, and don't even think of pulling a fast one or tipping off your Bunsen-burner buddies. That one gun may be empty, but I'm a walking arsenal," lied the Saint, "I've got more firepower on me than you can imagine."
As Alisdare could imagine extensive firepower, he trembled in acquiescence as the two men traipsed up the curved stairway to the upper floor. Simon paused to offer a critical commentary on Alisdare's choice of lime green shag carpet, but the words washed over Salvadore like sea water over the sunken Polaris. Lost beneath the waves, Alisdare was in no mood for interior design consultation.
Beneath the Saint's surface, he was neither as buoyant as he behaved nor as malevolent as he appeared. Simon enjoyed being back in action, but that was his choice. Dan and Ian, however, were simply fans whose admiration and eagerness merited fellowship and an autograph, not kidnapping and captivity. He had blithely sent them on their way, entrusted with a few simple errands designed to give them an exaggerated feeling of adventurous involvement, never imagining he was consigning them to even the most minimal degree of danger.
The Saint had earlier categorized the night's priorities. Now that Dan and Ian were located, the first task was to assure their freedom. Beyond such immediate concerns, there were other matters occupying Simon's thought processes. He fully grasped the methods and motives of Alisdare and Talon, despite their mutual antagonism, but the exact roles of Diamond Tremayne and Arthur Rasnec remained enigmas. As mysteries go, she was the more captivating of the two. Simon trusted time, fate, and the gods of adventure would assure complete disclosure of Ms Tremayne and her Costello Treasure. As Diamond had manipulated Salvadore Alisdare into revealing himself to the Saint, she was obviously on Simon's side. But the Saint knew from experience that sides can be characterized by slippery borders and abstract boundaries.
