by Burl Barer
The final thought thrust the immoral man's mind back to unpleasant reality, and Talon's grip tightened around the butt of his weapon. He cursed an involuntary outburst of self-loathing, spewing smoke, phlegm, and weak regrets into the filthy drain grate at this feet.
He wasn't going anywhere and he knew it. He was never going to change his weight, his habits, his passions. He would kill Alisdare, cover his tracks, and return to haunt and hunt his easy prey. He relinquished all illusions and unblinkingly acknowledged his personal identity: a crooked cop and predatory pedophile about to become a cold blooded murderer. And he didn't regret any of it. Not now, not with Salvadore Alisdare standing ten feet away grinning coldly with that sick expression of slimy superiority.
Talon felt bile rising in his throat and the desire to see Alisdare die was almost overwhelming. He didn't know if he would vomit before or after pulling the trigger. Talon swallowed hard, squared his enormous shoulders, and began his final conversation with the man who, with no motive beyond exploitation of another's moral weaknesses, connected him to Little Buzzy and had made him pay and pay over and over again.
Roger Conway and Peter Quentin did not wait to hear the gunshots that punctuated the final unsavory conversation between two equally disgusting men. Those shots, as the next-day's newspaper would dutifully detail, were from a .38 service revolver. They perforated the lungs of an allegedly armed and dangerous low-life miscreant named Salvadore Alisdare and killed him dead. It was, according to Detective Dexter Talon's written report, an act of self defense. In reality, it was an act of justice orchestrated with justifiable pride by Simon Templar, alias the Saint. Far removed from the alley of death, the relaxed and unperturbed embodiment of masculine charm was admiring the Lake Washington view from Dexter Talon's Madison Park condominium.
The Saint had easily entered the high-priced apartment and quickly uncovered the luxurious lair's concealed secrets -- the box of souvenirs, the wall safe, the hollowed out books -- and conservatively estimated the combined value of illicit currency and illegally obtained gems at approximately fifty-thousand dollars. Despite the valuable booty, expensive locale, and expansive view, Talon's secondary domicile reeked of bad taste and unpleasant associations.
The Saint helped himself to a single shot of fine whiskey from the cherrywood liquor cabinet, and settled back into the one comfortable leather-clad lounger.
"I'm betting on the roof," said Simon evenly to the empty room, "I'm wagering on less than ten minutes, and the Saint bids diamonds."
He was, of course, absolutely correct.
Seven minutes later, the first fleeting shadow moved across the outer patio. A single black cord descended to within three feet of the deck, and down it came a comely shape fashioned for adult tastes. The inky figure softly slid aside the patio door and crept cat-like into the room. The night sky's scant illumination silhouetted a sleek feminine form of breathtaking beauty. Her movements, fluid and graceful, primal and elegant, were animated art in three dimensions. The Saint's night vision clearly perceived her outfit's impressive imitation of jet black epidermis, and he suppressed a soft whistle of honest appreciation.
To describe her as draped head to toe in skin-tight fabric would be a reversal of visual reality. It was more as if her alluring curves were lovingly hand ladled into sheer ebony, or a dedicated cadre of classical sculptors concentrated their combined talents in fashioning her perfectly proportioned figure from the finest onyx.
With stealth and self-assurance she removed a slim black flashlight from her waist pouch and triggered a thin beam of illumination. The light shaft slowly swept the room. As it approached the corner where Simon silently sat, he triggered a matching beam of his own.
"My, my, my," murmured the Saint.
"Said the spider to the fly," completed Diamond Tremayne melodically.
Beam to beam they faced each other, two pinpoints of light merging into one. The Saint reached up and switched on a small reading lamp, increasing the room's illumination by enough minimum wattage to further highlight his visitor's enchanting characteristics.
"I'm pleased to see more of you, Ms Tremayne," began the Saint honestly, "and you've never looked better."
"I've certainly seen better," countered Diamond, blinking her eyes into adjustment, "were you anticipating someone else?"
"I did have a momentary twinge," confessed Simon as he stood and approached her, "that some unexpected secondary character would come crawling out of the heat ducts dripping with unrevealed associations and hidden motives."
"You've read too many mass-market paperbacks, Mr Templar," she said conversationally, and her smile was exceptionally inviting. "In real life, women such as myself are consistently guilty of being as clever as we seem."
The Saint found her more than attractive. In fact, she was beginning to manifest positive perfection. Simon gestured toward the liquor cabinet, offering her refreshment.
"No thanks, I never drink when I'm working,"
"You appear dressed for play, if you ask me," observed the Saint, "and I believe you're not the least bit surprised to find me waiting for you.
Diamond cocked an irreverent and questioning eyebrow at her debonair host.
"Your perfume entered the room well before you," explained Simon. "Were solitude your honest expectation, the thought of daubing pulse points with pheromones would never occur to you. What's the fragrance, Midnight Marauder?"
Tremayne slid her sleek physique to the long couch and curled up in the corner as would a petulant school girl.
"No," she replied with criminal pride, "Grand Theft."
She was good. Very good. Simon Templar had known women of all calibers on both sides of justice, and the delicious damsel calling herself Diamond Tremayne ranked right alongside such assertive heroines and lawless ladies from his notorious past as Jill Trelawney and "Straight Audrey" Perowne. The Saint regarded her with iron sight before sitting down and leaning dangerously close. She slowly uncurled, stretching her long legs languidly as would an awakening cat.
"You're name is not Diamond," he said smoothly, "and unless this adventure has more coincidences than even I can accept, you are also not a Tremayne."
"No? And would that be because one of your early friends -- one of that dedicated band of reckless young men so brilliantly led -- was named Dicky Tremayne, later husband of the notorious Audrey Perowne, alias Anusia Marova, who, along with her beloved, fled to South America oh so many years ago?"
Simon knew she was toying with him, demonstrating a detailed scholarship of his personal history thorough enough to rival even the encyclopaedic erudition of Daniel and Ian. He found her easy familiarity oddly endearing and peculiarly affectionate. She searched his eyes for reaction and found gleaming chips of sapphire tinted encouragement.
Pleased, she laughed aloud while tossing back her luxurious hair and raising her rib cage provocatively, which is not to say that provocation was her intention, but rather Simon Templar's involuntary reaction.
"Coincidences are always coinciding," she teased, "it is one of their peculiar attributes."
The Saint patiently waited for her laughter to subside, which it did momentarily before beginning again. At length, her excursion into humor fulfilled, she admitted the falsity of her moniker.
"I chose the name `Tremayne' especially for your benefit," she confessed easily, inching slyly in his direction. "Because of the association with your past, I figured you'd spot it as an alias immediately, especially with `Diamond' stuck on the front. And you must admit," she continued moving closer, "dreaming up that Costello Treasure scenario was a stroke of genius, and I happen to be the strokeable genius of whom I am speaking."
The previous sentence was spoken by lips no more than a sweet-scented breath away from those of Simon Templar. Her seductively libidinous inclinations thus succinctly telegraphed and aromatically augmented by the near intoxicating impact of her liberally applied attar, a moment of lithe silence suspended their interaction in soft, mus
k-laden limbo.
The Saint could feel the heat and pulse of her, and it is no detraction from his pre-ordained role as our story's stalwart and uncompromising hero to affirm his response as decidedly and thoroughly human.
"Were I a younger man of easy virtue..." began Simon, but the pearls of his utterance remained unstrung.
"Were you a younger man of easy virtue," completed Diamond Tremayne, her lips touching his as she spoke, "I would not be doing this."
It will no more surprise readers of this saga than it did Simon Templar that she kissed him passionately, and with honest, vigorous enthusiasm. The Saint, forever the gentleman, returned the favor with equal ardor, commensurate ebullience, and consummate skill. Whether from years of experience, or simply by virtue of the situation's electric spontaneity, it must be said that what he did, he did quite well.
A period of interaction devoid of dialog interrupted the adventure's narrative until such time as her soft cheek rested on his shoulder and one black sheathed calf twined around his perfectly tailored trouser leg.
"I love poetry," she intoned softly, wistfully.
The Saint could not resist such an obvious opportunity.
"There was a young lady from Exeter,
and all the young boys wanted..."
She pushed him roughly off the couch and snapped a caustic jest regarding male sensitivity and chivalrous romanticism. They laughed at the absurdity of the moment.
Diamond Tremayne, from Simon's vantage point on the carpet, appeared delightfully disheveled for a cat burgler. He took hold of her right foot and massaged the arch. She purred, squirming in her Danskins.
"Now, Ms Tremayne," said Simon Templar as if interviewing her for a potential position in the secretarial pool, "tell me where you fit in this puzzle of evil predators, pickle packers, real estate attorneys, and drug crazed caterers."
"Really, Saint, do you mean to tell me that the 20th Century's Brightest Buccaneer hasn't deciphered all the clues?"
"I've never claimed a degree in detection," stated Simon as he increased pressure on the ball of her well-formed foot. She resisted his touch slightly by pulling her leg up, but he coaxed it back down. "It's apparent that you know almost everything about me there is to know, have been tracking me since the moment I arrived in Seattle..."
"Before Seattle," clarified Tremayne with a podiatristic wince, "I've been either right behind you or two weeks ahead of you for over six months. I was inventing the Costello Treasure story Alisdare told you long before the hydrofoil docked from Vancouver, and when you met Olav Lunde for lunch in Ballard..."
The Saint, impressed, increased his pressure on the reflexive sensitive pleasure-centers as he interrupted her explanation.
"And what do you know about Olav Lunde?"
"He's a Krigsseiler -- Norwegian Seaman War Veteran intimate with every detail of the USS Amber, aka the Polaris. In 1930, his father was employed by John Barrymore and Dolores Costello. That's why you had lunch with him, Saint. You were after the real Costello Treasure the minute you came to town, which is exactly the reason I convinced Alisdare to pitch you on recovering it. I knew you would smell more than lobster fra diavola, and jump into the fray like a trouper."
"My outlaw's intuition told me I'd entered a play that was already in the third act," admitted the Saint, "playing my part as close to someone's imagined script as possible. Am I that predictable? "
Diamond smiled with as much compassion as good humor.
"Well, you're the Saint. When I made my career choice, you became the object of my living masters thesis because you are the living master."
"That sounds half-esoteric," noted the Saint sarcastically, his strong fingers working the area between her toes.
She loosed a short laugh and quick gasp as he pressed a tender spot.
"Really, you are the original modern-day Robin Hood, the headache of cops and crooks alike."
"You forgot to say `the devil with dames."
And with that, she was on him. It was a fluid pounce worthy of the finest female panther. In truth, he saw it coming and did not resist. She sat astride his chest, her knees atop his shoulders, her exquisite features and full red lips precariously close to his own.
"Considering they call you the Saint, you sure don't act like one."
"Perhaps I dropped my halo behind the couch," suggested Simon. He could have tossed her off with no difficulty, but he rather enjoyed her playful one-upmanship. Besides, he wanted answers. An illusion of ascendency may be the position most conducive to truth-telling. As usual, his intuition was right on target.
"I made a complete study of you, Simon Templar. Every caper, every crime attributed or undeniable. I've examined your methods, both mercurial and predictable. But most of all, I've scrutinized your motives.'
"Please, go on"
"Justice -- the best beloved of all things in your sight is justice," insisted Tremayne.
"Well, I've also had a fond appreciation for precious gems and negotiable currency," added Simon.
She shook her head. She was astonishingly beautiful.
"You've had enough loot to last anyone several lifetimes -- at least you would have if you didn't keep giving the bulk of your booty to charity. No, despite whatever crazy concepts of adventure got you into this game, you've become the man of your own legend, the embodiment of your own image, private enterprise personified with a heart of gold."
She kissed him again, and while it is not germane to the plot, it is a fact that he kissed her in return.
"You forgot to mention that I'm a published author and frequent guest on America's most asinine talk shows."
She smirked and continued her lecture.
"I always wanted to be just like you, but not make the big mistake you made."
The implication that he had made a big mistake dampened any enthusiasm for an immediate return to kissing volleys.
"Mistake?"
"Leaving that silly stick man logo all over the place in the old days."
"It’s now a registered trademark," added the Saint.
"You couldn't resist being the famous Simon Templar."
"And obviously," countered the Saint, "neither could you."
"Touché," she said, and stood up. "There were pirate women who sailed the seas, Simon, many of them as keen, crafty, and adventurous as any parrot-toting brawler with a peg leg."
"Knock on wood," agreed Simon, pegging her legs as those of a dancer.
She regarded him seriously for a moment.
"You're very charming, Mr Templar, but I didn't come here for a high-school date. Besides, this place gives me the creeps. Where's the loot?"
The Saint politely gave her the guided tour of Talon's lair, concluding with a full inventory of cash, gems, and less attractive elements of the detective's life-style.
"We both came here for the same reason, Saint," stated Diamond with near corporate inflection, "and I hope we have the same plans for Talon's ill-gotten gain."
Simon divided the booty in half on the kitchen table.
"Ten percent for me, ninety percent becomes an anonymous donation to Viola Berkman's humanitarian efforts," explained the Saint, "I'll trust you with half and expect that you'll do the same."
"Something along those lines," responded Tremayne slyly as she filled her black bag with booty.
She turned towards the patio door as if she could exit as enigmatically and unhindered as she arrived. The Saint seized her arm firmly, but not roughly.
"I believe I'm entitled to a few more answers," insisted the Saint, but he let loose her arm lest she fear his intentions.
She smiled with pride and studied his face for some time before responding.
"If you really want the complete story, keep that appointment at the Islands Airlines counter at Sea-Tac at 10am. Neah Bay is lovely this time of year."
Simon was not about to be put off. For all he knew, Diamond Tremayne would never be seen nor heard from again.
"I'm taking a chance l
etting you leave as it is," said the Saint, and everything about him confirmed that he was certainly capable of restraining her, and that was not lost on Ms Tremayne.
"You're simply not used to friendly competition," said Diamond, "and it was not even really competition. I needed you to arrange the one part of this caper that I couldn't do myself -- the one part I knew the Saint would handle perfectly, as I am sure you will. As I also wanted the opportunity to, shall we say, make your acquaintance, it was killing two birds with one stone."
The Saint understood.
"The two dead birds being Talon and Alisdare."
She nodded.
"At least those two, if not more. I could do everything else -- manipulate, infiltrate, investigate, influence who got invited to your media party and even suggest the caterer -- but wooing and winning, cajoling and controlling, is not the same as killing. I was after Talon and Alisdare with a vengeance."
"What about Rasnec?"
She chuckled.
"He's a sweetheart, with the emphasis on sweet, if you get what I mean. I made perfect window dressing for his personal life. Smart when it comes to real estate investment, dumb as a post when it comes to who he allows to be in business with him. The only real interest he has in Chesters or Elmo's is the monthly profit and loss statements and how soon he can do something respectable with the property. He may put a good portion of his wealth in Karl Krogstad's latest venture, among other things."
"Lucky Karl," murmured the Saint.
"The crooked real estate investor is one cliché you won't find in this story, Simon."
He regarded her thoughtfully, glanced at the clock above Talon's television, and realized they didn't have much time. Diamond shifted her weight and stepped closer to the patio.
"Alisdare believed I was going to keep you away from Berkman and Talon," continued Tremayne, "He also believed there really was a valuable Costello Treasure, which, of course, there is. He was clueless about the name SeaQue -- he wouldn't know that you would recognize the name-- so he went right along with my plan. But you and I know that the treasure isn't in Neah Bay and there are no gems of inestimable value aboard the sunken Polaris."
