Capture the Saint

by Burl Barer

  "OK, Snookums," drawled the Saint.

  "You calling me Snookums?" asked Vi incredulously.

  "No, my child, Snookums is the term of endearment I have chosen to bestow upon this horrific specimen of modern male fashion and lapsed social graces," said Simon as he twirled the retrieved pipe as if it were a baton. "Everything about his behavior, not to mention his wardrobe, is blatantly offensive to prevailing community standards, but it's only fair that we allow him to offer whimpering excuses and pass the blame on to his tailor and whoever put him up to this."

  The man's chest heaved labored breath as he emitted an unprintable example of his limited, although colorful, vocabulary. Simon came dangerously closer, slapping the pipe against his palm in a threatening gesture.

  "Snookums, dearest, I'm afraid you've violated the verbal morality code. And in front of a lady, no less."

  The Saint's tones were silken, but his eyes were chips of iced lapis. The brute hazily gazed into those famous mocking eyes, but he sought neither depth of emotion nor novel metaphor. The beast was picking a target. Had his vision been more acute, or had Simon Templar been six inches closer, the Saint's hawk-like profile would have been permanently altered. Instead, the beasts fist slammed solidly into Simon's forehead.

  The Saint, to his perpetual embarrassment, never saw it coming. He did, however, see an astonishing array of lovely geometric patterns pulsating in colorful corroboration with the accompanying pain. Vi, equally surprised, failed to fire the canister, and the beast lurched out the doorway heading for the stairs.

  Simon Templar's powers of stamina and recovery, frequently documented and familiar to followers of the Saga, are the stuff of legend, and the Saint was as eager to preserve his image as he was to prevent his attacker securing an easy escape.

  The beast had a good lead, but Simon moved with more agility, catching up at the head of the stairs. Vi, brandishing her canister, scrambled after him.

  "Don't go," called Simon grabbing the back of the giant's slacks, "we were just becoming disgusted with you."

  The Saint secured his grip on a handful of waistband, braced himself against the rail, and dug in his heels. Simon was rock-solid; the beast was in direct forward motion; the slacks worn by the fleeing adversary, despite the best intentions of their manufacturer, were never designed to withstand such intense amounts of opposing tension. Bare-bottomed and unexpectedly air-born, the beast flew down the flight of stairs, his face kissing the final few before colliding with, and crashing out, the front door. Pulling the back of his sweatshirt down over his embarrassment, he hurried into the First Avenue throng.

  It is of minor sociological significance that nothing about his looks, dress, or behavior prompted a second look from any passers-by.

  Simon Templar sat atop the stairs holding his head in one hand and a torn swatch of fabric in the other, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Momentarily, he raised his eyes to Vi and waved the pant seat as if it were a checkered flag.

  "Snookums escaped by the seat of his pants," said the Saint with a resigned laugh, "`strong as a racehorse and swift as a rapier'."

  Berkman allowed the canister to hang by her side.

  "He was?"

  "No, I was, back in the days of my wayward youth." Simon stood and playfully tossed the torn pant seat at Viola Berkman. She caught it in her left hand. "And our friend Snookums is a pickle packer."

  Vi's eyebrows aimed for her hairline.

  "I beg your pardon."

  "When he had his hand around my throat, I smelled the vanilla," said Simon as they walked back into Vi's office, "People who work with pickles rub vanilla on their hands to dispel the smell of brine."

  Vi put the canister and pant seat aside as Simon and she picked the folder and other scattered items off the floor.

  "Simply telling me Mr Snookums reeks of vanilla and packs pickles leaves me clueless as to why he ran in here with a pipe and tried to smash your head in," muttered Vi, as if expecting in-depth exposition of the intruder's motivations, short term objectives, and long term goals.

  Her expectations were not unrealistic, and Simon Templar answered.

  "Snookums is not a professional thug. Despite his size and strength, he had to augment his attitude by artificial means -- drugs of some kind -- before he could take the assignment. His motivation was either promise of reward or fear of punishment, and his failed objective was to liberate a cashier's check for ten thousand dollars from my pocket. "

  "How did he know..."

  "He knew because, I firmly believe, the man who gave me the check sent him to get it back."

  "And who..."

  "My new business partner," said the Saint. "but I don't have much faith in the long term prospects of our relationship. Right now my focus is on more important things, such as your predatory pedophile," Simon threw a glance at the window, "and the curious misadventures of Daniel and Ian."

  Vi sighed, checked her watch, and reached for the telephone.

  "Your pal Snookums cut into our time. I suggest we take the file with us back to my house."

  She punched a rapid succession of buttons, paused, and brightened when her husband answered.

  "Hi, hon. Listen, we're on our way. Yeah. OK. Well, someone who packs pickles and smells like vanilla tried to assault Mr Templar, but," continued Vi with an affected breathlessness, "the Saint pantsed him and threw him out the door."

  Simon growled.

  Off the phone and by his side, Vi Berkman tapped the Saint on the shoulder.

  "It is alright to tease you a little bit, isn't it, Saint?"

  Simon, redepositing the last errant item into her black bag, gave her the warmest of smiles.

  "Viola, my dear, true adult professionalism manifests itself as childlike play."

  "Which means?"

  "You can tease me all you want," said the Saint comfortably, and he meant it.

  2

  The slender silver key slid into the precision ignition and the momentary whir of the starter died into the smooth sibilant whisper of a perfectly tuned engine as Vi Berkman's BMW came to life. She depressed the clutch, eased the gear lever into first, and heard the subdued click beside her as Simon Templar fastened his seat belt.

  "You're a good boy, Saint," said Vi with maternal intonations.

  Simon leaned back against black leather and allowed himself a moment of nostalgia, speaking in accents peculiar to the late and unlamented Prohibition Era crime boss, Dutch Kuhlmann.

  "Yes, you vas a goot boy, Saint."

  Vi shifted smoothly into second gear. Simon sighed, ran his hands through his dark hair, and opened the passenger side window for a breath of Seattle's night air.

  "I was just thinking of someone I shot once," remarked the Saint, "or maybe I shot him twice, hard to recall. Memories and carbon monoxide make an intoxicating combination."

  Vi drove; Simon scanned Seattle's streets with eagle vision for Dan and Ian's Volvo wagon. At the intersection of 3rd and Denny he noticed an aqua and white Nash Metropolitan in which the driver, Mr Surush Josi, was belting out the theme from "Oklahoma" at the top of his lungs.

  Of Nepalese birth and impressive girth, Josi was as ignorant of Simon Templar as the Saint was of Mr Josi. Seldom demonstrably sociable, Surush was usually quiet, introspective, and impressively efficient. The occasional rocks tossed into his life's pond by the hand of happenstance created only minor ripples, leaving both his inner being and outer countenance essentially undisturbed. As befitted his employment at the King County Morgue, the sight of blood, decay, dismemberment and decomposition bothered him not in the least. And Surush Josi was a man of secret appetites. His duck pin build attested an earnest appreciation of Nepal's cuisine, but the passion of his solitude was Broadway show tunes. Be it "South Pacific," "Gypsy," or "Brigadoon," Surush knew and loved them all.

  Simon Templar smiled at the sight of Josi belting out Broadway standards to the silent audience of his windshield. Josi, oblivious to all details beyond the gen
eralities of traffic, continued Eastbound while Vi Berkman turned Westbound. The paths of Surush Josi and Viola Berkman were never destined to cross, nor would he recall catching a brief glimpse of either the attractive female driver or her piratical passenger.

  To pry Josi's attention from the twin demands of safe driving and singing show tunes required either an element of quiet curiosity or a thunderclap of cognitive dissonance. The only curious item on his nightly pre-work drive was the earlier sighting of a bright red luminescent stick figure topped by an absurd elliptical halo adorning the side of a Volvo wagon as it entered the northbound lane of Interstate 5. He had no idea of the insignia's intended meaning, what product it advertised, political position it endorsed, or the sociological implications of its application to a Swedish vehicle. He only knew that he had never seen it before and would certainly recognize it if he saw it again.

  "Not pleasant to contemplate, is it Mr Templar?"

  Rabbi Berkman, looking more akin to a collegiate linebacker than a Rabbi, poured fresh brewed coffee into Simon's cup. Husky, rugged, and athletic with sandy brown hair and deep dark eyes, Nat Berkman appeared as ready to wrestle Jacob and the angels as he was to unravel intricacies of Talmudic scholarship.

  When Vi and the Saint first arrived, the muscular Rabbi ground fresh coffee beans, measured them on the heavy side, and prepared the perfect pot of coffee as his wife and her guest shared full details of the evening's adventures. As an additional treat, the Rabbi pulled a cardboard carton of pre-fabricated cinnamon roles from the refrigerator's freezer compartment, microwaved them, and squeezed out a decorative white topping from an accompanying pouch.

  Savoring the aromatic Sumatran blend, Simon enthusiastically complimented Nat Berkman on the superlative quality of his coffee; eating the rolls, the Saint commented solely to himself, was rather like chewing on plastic.

  "Not pleasant at all," confirmed the Saint, placing the final picture back into Vi's manila folder.

  The three sat comfortably in the Berkman's well appointed condominium on the south slope of Queen Ann hill. The living room view encompassed the Space Needle, making the bright Seattle landmark resemble a colorful backyard souvenir.

  Having examined Vi's disturbing collection of amateur photographs, the possession of which would to grounds for prosecution in more than one State, Simon understood why she requested that the Saint intervene. Had the photos featured consenting adults he would have merely cocked an eyebrow at their inventiveness. But the central figure featured in the photos was neither adult nor consenting. The snapshots, Vi explained, were lifted from the scene of humiliation by a fourteen-year old street child known only as "Buzzy".

  "There is no way to identify the perpetrators of this outrage," remarked Simon, and they knew exactly what he meant. "Aside from Buzzy who, judging from her haircut, was also attacked by a blind barber, no one could be picked out of traditional line-up."

  "And she refuses to go to the police," completed Vi. "She confided to me that one of the men is Detective Dexter Talon, but if you were to ask her right now, she would deny any ability to identify either the men, the location, or admit that she is the girl in the photos."

  This was not, according to the Berkmans, an isolated incident. A group of men, including Talon and an amateur photographer, centered their personal proclivities on underage and defenseless children. Shielded by an aura of professional respectability, they operated with immunity and impunity, violating the fragile dignity of the street's most vulnerable victims.

  "You're sure about Talon?," Simon asked as he stood and walked towards the window.

  "Absolutely," confirmed Vi.

  "Does he know that you know?"

  "I don't think so, but it is possible."

  Simon's gaze took in the multi-colored highpoints of Seattle's skyline, the gentle meandering of slow-moving vehicles, and romantic couples strolling along the Queen Ann side-streets. He noticed one young woman's golden hair reflecting the metropolitan illumination of moonlight and neon. For a moment, the Saint was far away.

  So was Viola Inselheim Berkman.

  Throughout her adulthood, Viola held to the indelible impression of the Saint retained from her childhood. She saw him as almost more than human, shamelessly reckless and impudent, capable of accomplishing the near impossible with nary a hair out of place nor a wrinkle to his wardrobe. Viola Berkman was, of course, absolutely correct.

  As for the Saint, he knew she perceived him as a knightly hero, slayer of dragons, and righter of wrongs. Simon Templar, by his own admission, had never gloried in that particular role. To himself he was always an outlaw, pirate, and adventurer. If he were a champion of justice, it was his own justice that he championed --one neither inscribed in books of law nor reached by general consensus-- a justice derived from inherent integrity. Simon Templar also realized that on nights such as these, he was more than a soldier of fortune; he was an agent of fate.

  "I would be most interested to know," said the Saint in a voice of strangely ethereal detachment, "a good deal more about our illustrious Detective Talon."

  "Well," offered the Rabbi as if announcing a sports score, "I can tell you plenty. He's been around at least a good decade and a half. He has, or had, enough of a reputation to survive the big purge they had on the force about ten years ago."

  "Purge?" Simon turned to face the Rabbi.

  "Yeah, a big one." Berkman cracked his knuckles in emphasis before reaching for another cinnamon roll. "Corruption and cover-ups went all the way to the top, but some clean cops spilled the proverbial beans to reporters after all sorts of clandestine meetings at the Dog House restaurant. It came out in the paper, big shakeup, heads rolled, and most of the department was flushed. Only the strong or the upstanding survived."

  "Either Talon was clean," said the Saint, considering options, "or simply slippery. Or then again, maybe his unsavory `hobby' is of recent acquisition."

  Vi gave a cynical laugh and brushed crumbs from the front of Nat's sweater. "You mean like his acquisition of Uncle Elmo's Good Time Arcade?"

  "As you said earlier," Simon admonished in a manner neither harsh nor light-hearted, "there's nothing illegal about Talon having business interests, and the assisted suicide of dearly departed Uncle Elmo is no indication that Talon had anything to do with it. We must be careful not to allow our distaste for his alleged abhorrent behavior with little Buzzy to color our perception. What we need are facts."

  A look of surprise and minor disappointment passed over the face of Viola Berkman. She couldn't believe the Saint doubted Talon's thorough corruption.

  Simon sat down, leaned forward, and looked back and forth between Vi and Nat as if he were about to share a deep, dark, secret, but a playful spark glimmered in his ice-blue eyes.

  "Confidentially, despite my considerable criminal savvy and almost unerring brilliance," said the Saint, "I have, believe it or not, made mistakes. Back in New York, years ago, there was a man named Valcross. I thought he was a paragon of civic virtue; he was the biggest crook in town."

  Vi nodded. She knew the story.

  "And there was another time," continued Simon with a self effacing grin, "when I thought an honest and hardworking Portland businessman named Irv Jardane was a bunko artist. Only a simple twist of fate saved me from making a ghastly mistake. As it turned out, I helped Irv make a bundle in the food preservation business. And while we never became what you'd call close friends, at least he wasn't swindled out of his honest earnings, thanks to the Saint."

  "So," said Viola Berkman with a questioning lilt, "the omniscient Simon Templar is telling us that omniscience has its limits?"

  Nat washed down his latest mouthful with a large gulp of dark coffee, his finger raised to make a point.

  "No, dear," observed the Rabbi, "Mr Templar is the Saint. Hence, `to err is human; errant Divine'."

  Vi scowled and kicked at Nat's shin as if it were an irritating Pekinese; Simon considered tossing a couch cushion at him or beaning him with
the remaining cinnamon role.

  "Henny Youngman, you're not, hon," drawled Viola affectionately as Simon stood, stretched, and strolled towards the window.

  "Seriously, Mr Templar," said Nat, changing his tone, "considering the attack on you earlier this evening, the questionable disappearance of those two young men, and that other character who wants you to run off to Neah Bay to search for the Costello Treasure, why don't you simply call this Talon character on some pretense..." Before the sentence could be finished, Simon turned in obvious interruption.

  "Yes, I do need to use your phone if you don't mind," said the Saint, and he picked up the sleek, black, cordless resting on the end table.

  "Just a quick call to the Westin to check for messages," explained Simon.

  Vi raised her coffee to her lips, but her eyes never left the Saint. She heard him identify himself, request messages, and she saw him smile at the two of them as he listened. She also saw his eyes momentarily narrow, then suddenly brighten.

  "My, my, my," said the Saint with bemused wonder. He depressed the new call key and punched in seven digits as he turned back towards the windowed view of the Emerald City.

  Nat and Vi eyed Simon with mounting curiosity.

  "Hello," the Saint began with a solid, business-like delivery, "this is Simon Templar returning your call, and I must say that I am most eager to hear what you have to say."

  The Berkmans looked at each other and shrugged.

  " Yes. Yes. Uh-huh. I see. The Checkerboard Room?" Simon looked over his shoulder at them for confirmation. They nodded, not knowing what they were confirming, nor to what they were agreeing. "OK. Half hour. I will? Alright. Thank you."

  Simon returned from the window, replaced the phone on the table, took his seat, and savored another sip of Nat Berkman's superlative coffee.

  The Berkmans were, as the saying goes, on the edge of their seats.

  "Well? What was all that about?," asked Vi in a voice that was almost too loud.

  The Saint laughed.

  "Ah, the marvels of voice mail," said Simon with absolute sincerity, "I had three messages waiting for me. The first was from Barney Malone informing me that if I had a brain in my head I would be watching `Trial Without Jury' on Channel 13; the second was from Bill Farley of the Seattle Mystery Bookshop requesting additional autographed copies of ‘The Pirate’ to meet the rising and inexplicable demand; the third was from a Detective Dexter Talon. I returned his call immediately and I shall see the gentleman in person about a half-hour from now at Ernie Steele's Checkerboard Room on Capitol Hill."