Capture the Saint

by Burl Barer

  Simon drummed his fingers on the table as if translating the message into Morse Code.

  " What does that mean and what does it have to do with me?"

  Small beads of perspiration appeared on the swarthy forehead of Salvadore Alisdare as he leaned across the table. "It means an immediate ten thousand dollars to you if you will accompany me to Neah Bay tomorrow and twenty percent of whatever is recovered of the Costello Treasure. The Polaris sank there in 1953 and..."

  "And why do you need me?" interrupted the Saint, "why doesn't SeaQue simply salvage the Polaris and find these gems of inestimable value?"

  Alisdare stared at Simon Templar as if the Robin Hood of Modern Crime was dense beyond compare.

  "Publicity, Mr Templar, publicity", explained Alisdare with drawn-out, almost insulting emphasis, "In case you don't recall, you are the Saint. There may be nothing down there but a boat load of dead salmon. Varnes' code could be the his way of disguising a penchant for bad prose," Alisdare’s voice, having jumped an octave with each successive sentence, now squeaked like a squeezed balloon. "The point is, SeaQue wants some high-profile publicity in the maritime community of the Northwest, and the publicity of the Saint being part of this effort is worth the ten thousand dollar advance and the twenty percent commission."

  The General Agent's eyes rotated in their sockets as if taking in an astonishing panorama of possibilities.

  "Imagine the headlines", implored Alisdare," consider the feature stories on the evening news, `The Saint joins SeaQue search for Costello Treasure'."

  Noisily sucking air while gritting his teeth, the agitated little fellow forced himself to assume a stiffened posture of affected control.

  "Now do you understand?"

  The Saint understood that Alisdare's story, riddled with enough holes to sink the Polaris several times over, was a hastily constructed ruse devised to lure him to Neah Bay. The reason eluded him, but Simon had no intention of allowing the ten thousand dollar cashier's check previously discovered in Alisdare's wallet to go uncashed.

  Alisdare reached in his pocket, pulled out the billfold with which Simon was already familiar, and placed the check on the table.

  "Proof of my sincerity, Mr Templar". Alisdare rapped the check with his knuckles. "Ten thousand dollars. Yes, a cashier's check payable to you from SeaQue Salvage is right here, right now, only awaiting your agreement to accompany me to Neah Bay first thing in the morning. The same press people you impressed earlier will be notified immediately. No doubt reporters will be hounding us when we arrive, which is exactly the idea. Well?"

  Simon Templar stroked his chin, appearing to battle the allure of ten thousand dollars. The Saint silently complimented himself on having the good sense to return the wallet, and picked up the check as if seeing it for the first time. It was the one authentic item in Alisdare's presentation, and it also smelled of seafood.

  The Saint's intensive deliberations were cut short by the arrival of a polite and efficient waiter.

  "Excuse me, Mr Templar, you have a call on the courtesy phone."

  Simon sighed, begged Alisdare's indulgence, and pocketed the cashier's check before excusing himself. The pre-arranged interruption arrived precisely on schedule.

  4

  Simon threaded his way through the swelling evening crowd to the white courtesy telephone where, on the other end of the line, waited Barney Malone.

  "Simon Templar speaking".

  "No kidding. Am I rescuing you from that woman? I thought she was an old friend of yours."

  "Different situation entirely". Simon glanced back towards the expectantly waiting Alisdare. "I think I'm having an adventure."

  "I think I'm having dyspepsia," countered Malone, "the lobster dish was awfully rich and seafood has a way of putting its claws into me."

  "Where did it come from?" asked the Saint.

  "They usually inhabit the ocean."

  "The catering service, Barney. Was it the hotel's?"

  "Don't know. I'm the producer, not the public relations director. Ask whatshername the publicist Now, please excuse me but there is a Republic Pictures Film Festival on channel 13. They are about to show 1949's `Post Office Investigator'; a full length feature film with a total running time of fifty-nine minutes, counting the credits."

  The Saint allowed himself to laugh out loud, something he had wanted to do several times during his conversation with Mr Alisdare.

  "One more thing, Simon. You have a couple of `fans' waiting outside your door."

  "Thugs or thrushes?"

  "Thrushes? You’re getting old, Templar. Neither. They look to be post-pubescent collegiate types intent on an autograph."

  "Swell. Thanks for the warning. I'll talk to you later."

  "Simon...", Barney allowed a semi-serious note to play along the rough scales of his voice. "If you are having an adventure, please stay out of jail and out of the morgue. You have a personal appearance in Portland in 48 hours and you will be there even if I have to prop up your bullet riddled body."

  "No problem," agreed the Saint, "you can always keep me fresh in one of those haloed ice-sculptures. I'll call you from my room."

  "And interrupt ‘Post Office Investigator’?"

  Simon, having already returned the phone to its cradle, did not hear Malone's plaintive objection. The Saint's mind was unconcerned with cinematic curiosities, circa 1949. Salvadore Alisdare's Costello Treasure was curious enough.

  Less than ten minutes later, Simon Templar stood in the cool night air outside the Westin Hotel watching the light rain slick the artificially illuminated streets. Having returned from the courtesy phone, Simon informed Alisdare that the call contained a terse reminder of a previous appointment. Simon expressed regret that their enjoyable time together had come to an abrupt conclusion, but assured the General Agent that the allure of the ellusive Costello Treasure was too much to resist. SeaQue, Templar insisted, could count on the Saint.

  Salvadore Alisdare, turned up the collar of his ill-fitting coat against the night's chill, shook Simon's hand, and glanced uneasily towards the Gray Top cab easing Northbound down Sixth Avenue and turning into the Westin's taxi zone.

  "You have the cashier's check I gave you, don't you Mr Templar."

  "Oh yes", Simon patted his heart, "I always keep track of significant amounts of money."

  "And you will meet me tomorrow morning, at ten o'clock, the Islands Airline counter, Sea-Tac airport?"

  "I meant what I said," confirmed Simon with a clear conscience, "recovering the Costello Treasure takes precedence over minor social obligations."

  "Very well," the little man smiled and began moving towards the cab. "Have a good evening, Mr Templar."

  "Wait," Simon smiled and held out a twenty dollar bill.

  "Let me take care of the cab."

  "No, no," Alisdare refused and instinctively felt for his wallet. He felt nothing. He felt harder. It wasn't there.

  The Saint, by supreme will, kept the corners of his mouth from drifting upwards. Simon had been anticipating this moment since the two men exited Nikko's where, in the crush and hub-bub of the crowd, a second liberation of Alisdare's billfold proved irresistible.

  "Problem?"

  "Uh....." Dismay was quickly giving way to disorientation and undignified panic. Mr Alisdare was, in the vernacular, coming undone.

  "My wallet. I can't find it," babbled the little man, spinning about as if performing an ancient agitated circumambulatory ritual.

  "Calm down, my friend," spoke Simon in the most soothing of tones, "you must have dropped it in the restaurant. You get in the cab and I'll run in for a quick look."

  Before Alisdare could squeak out another word, Templar disappeared back through the doors of the Westin. Once inside, the Saint silently and insincerely scolded himself for this episode of mischief, and made the missing wallet scenario even more believable by removing all negotiable currency.

  Simon Templar emerged from the hotel a few minutes later with a look o
f comforting triumph gracing his tanned features and a miraculously recovered billfold held aloft as would be the spoils of war. "You are a very lucky man," insisted the Saint, "it was just turned in to the front desk. At least you weren't the victim of a professional pick-pocket - your credit cards are intact - but whatever money you had is no longer yours."

  Alisdare snatched the billfold from Simon's hand with more anger than appreciation, examined it briefly, and thrust it into his coat. Had he been in a cartoon instead of a cab, steam would have issued forth from his collar. As his wallet turned up missing while in the presence of the Robin Hood of Modern Crime, Salvadore Alisdare now harbored the most accurate and unerring of suspicions.

  Simon again proffered a twenty dollar bill.

  To document the array of emotions playing across the visage of Salvadore Alisdare would require an elaborate system replete with cross-referencing index. Pleased to have enlisted the famous Simon Templar in the quest for the fabricated Costello Treasure, furious with the disappearance of his wallet, and peeved at the possibility that Templar was toying with him, Salvadore Alisdare gave Simon Templar a look which revealed far more than did the contents of his billfold. The glare from Alisdare's eyes dripped with implications and intentions so venomous and vile that Simon was, for a second's fraction, frozen where he stood. It was as if the Saint had witnessed the transformation of a benign and buck-toothed bunny into a fanged and coiled cobra.

  An intense chill crossed Simon's shoulders and slid down the length of his spine. With one hand raised to shield his eyes from the rain, and the other resting on his hip, the Saint felt strangely akin to his icon's icy replica.

  The windshield wipers of the Grey Top cab slapped a sloshy rim-shot rhythm as the taxi began its crawl into the line of downtown traffic. Through the fogging window Simon discerned Salvadore Alisdare mouthing unfavorable epithets regarding the Saint's matrilineage and personal proclivities. Whatever amusement Simon Templar had derived from his brief yet profitable interaction with Mr Alisdare seemed suddenly shallow and distasteful. The little man, at best, had appeared peculiar, eccentric, dishonest, possibly delusional, but decidedly harmless. The Saint's opinion had, in the course of the last few minutes, shifted by seismic degrees.

  Simon glanced at his watch, made a few quick calculations of time and distance, turned briskly on his heels, re-entered the hotel, and made a direct path for the elevator. Crossing the lobby, the Saint sighted writer K.K. Beck making her way towards the hotel's southwest exit. Simon caught Beck's eye, veered off in her direction, and motioned hurriedly for her to meet him mid-lobby.

  The Saint appreciated Kathryne's witty and lighthearted fiction, and was especially pleased with her shooting script for ‘The Pirate’. The last in a trio of hired writers, the tall and talented K.K. Beck was the only one who actually read his book before attempting an adaptation.

  Similar in temperament to Simon Templar, Kathryne Beck shared any intelligent person's disdain for cocktail parties, but resigned herself to the practical necessity of such self-aggrandizing promotional events as the recently concluded media reception. The Saint admired the way she and director Karl Krogstad worked the room like troopers, all the while amusing themselves with in-joke references to their divergent personal interests -- Krogstad's affection for surrealism, and Beck's encyclopedic knowledge of seafood acquired during her years as associate editor of a prestigious trade journal dedicated to edible items from the briny deep.

  "Kathryne, I have something suspicious I want you to smell," declared the Saint as if offering her the opportunity of a life time.

  "I beg your pardon," Beck pulled back slightly, "If I had the desire to smell something suspicious there are containers in the back of my refrigerator which could offer ample opportunities."

  Templar, aware that Beck's reputation for Nordic tidiness almost exceeded that of her award-winning prose, doubted her assertion.

  "This will only take a moment and will be dazzling testimony to the trained discernment of your olfactory senses," explained the Saint, fishing into his pockets.

  "Close your eyes and open your nose."

  Beck laughed, lowered her eye-lids, lifted her chin and flared her nostrils.

  Simon proffered Alisdare's invitation.

  "Name that aroma," prompted the Saint.

  "Lobster fra diavolo. That was easy. What do I win?"

  "Good, now one more."

  "Don't I get a whiff of coffee beans first?"

  "You're not buying perfume, Dearest. Now, close your eyes and get ready for item number two."

  Simon waved the cashier's check under Beck's performing proboscis. Her brow furrowed in concentration.

  "This one is a bit trickier."

  "Just name that smell."

  Beck suddenly brightened with self assurance, opened her eyes, and proudly identified the aroma as belonging to Neptune Salad, a marketing euphemism for a low-cost concoction of mayonnaise and imitation crab meat which, while popular at numerous cafeterias and take-out counters, was not among the items at the evening's buffet.

  "Thank you, Ms Beck, O Queen of American Mystery," intoned the Saint, gently genuflecting in her general direction.

  "Thanks for the unexpected coronation," she curtsied. "Is there a rational explanation for your sudden fascination with my sense of smell, or has this promotional tour resulted in some sort of Saintly breakdown?”

  The Saint was already moving quickly towards the elevator when he gave reply.

  "I will explain everything in 48 hours. Whatever dinner you want in Portland is my treat. And thanks for the loan of your nose. If this adventure ever becomes immortalized in the official chronicles, I'll make sure it gets credit."

  Beck sniffed in playful derision. She intended launching a clever verbal rejoinder, but Simon Templar's elegant personage was already aboard the elevator, his mind rapidly planning the balance of what he perceived as a decidedly hectic evening.

  The Saint, relieved that thugs, thrushes, and post-pubescent collegiate types were not blocking his door, freshened up, placed three important phone calls, and emerged from his suite ready for action, but ill-prepared for the two young men now stationed like grinning totems outside the vestibule—one lean, lanky, and dark; the other short and pudgy with sheepdog hair. A healthy dollop of villainy would render their pairing an invariable cliché torn from the yellowed pages of pulp adventure fiction, but the Saint knew immediately that they were not villains. Had they been representatives of the ungodly, he could have punched them in the nose and been on his way.

  Regrettably, they were fans.

  "Mr Templar!" The tall one thrust out his hand in a threatening gesture of friendship.

  "He just left," growled the Saint unconvincingly as he pushed past them, "he threw himself from the window in a fit of dismay when he discovered the actress never met the bishop."

  "It is him!" exclaimed the pudgy one, moving in hot pursuit.

  The Saint turned to face them, walking backwards as he did so.

  "I'm sorry, fellas, not now. I would love to chat, sign autographs, answer questions, commit mayhem, the works, but not now, not tonight."

  "But Mr Templar," pleaded the taller of the two, "we've read every book.."

  "In the world? Congratulations, you must be brilliant. Now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with my Rabbi."

  Simon repeatedly pressed the elevator call button as if he could nag it to a prompt response. Turning towards the boys, the Saint saw their crestfallen demeanor and took pity. Simon sighed, smiled, and apologized for his brusk behavior. Surprisingly, the two youths seemed to enjoy it.

  "I imagine we appear the worst type of smug self-congratulatory devotees, Mr Templar," admitted the lanky lad, "But we know all about you; we've read every Saint book...."

  "I haven't," interrupted the Saint. "Oh, I've glanced through most of them. A lot of it is fairly accurate, some of it is..." Simon saw the look of preparatory dismay creep across their eyes as if he were a
bout to prick their happiest holiday balloon with an oversized pin. "very accurate," the Saint concluded with emphasis.

  The two smiled the smile of affirmed illusion, brimming with adoration and unabashed hero-worship. The Saint had seen the look often enough, although he preferred finding it affixed to attractive members of the complimentary gender.

  "OK boys, you have until this elevator reaches the lobby to ask whatever you want and receive an honest answer. My romantic relationships are the only subject off-limits." The pudgy one, blatantly disappointed, turned to his companion and spoke as if the Saint were deaf and invisible.

  "Does that mean we can't ask him whatever happened to you-know-who?"

  His pal blinked rapidly, giving this conundrum serious consideration.

  "Which you-know-who?"

  The Saint laughed out loud, approached the protruding tummy of the human sheepdog and treated it as he did the elevator call button, his index finger poking it relentlessly.

  "You're missing your cue, laddie," prodded the Saint, "You are supposed to say `leave my stomach out of it'." Grinning, the youth dutifully repeated the phrase.

  "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.