by Burl Barer
Horns honked, lights flashed, people yelled, and the mistreated youngster known as Little Buzzy found herself reluctantly consoled in the dark by an enormous object of fear and loathing.
"It’s OK baby," murmured Talon, pressing her needlessly close, "all the bad men are gone."
"All except one," corrected the Saint.
The downpour was incessant, and time was of the essence. Simon had never expected to see Talon again.
"Look at her, Saint," said the Detective as if showing off a prized collectable, "you can see how I was fooled."
Drenched to the skin through her inadequate clothing, Buzzy's undeniably well-developed feminine figure was being offered up as some sort of justification.
"I can't thank you enough, Templar," insisted Talon, "I really owe ya. Now beat it. I'll take care of the little girl."
Simon stood momentarily immobilized. The phrase "little girl" reverberated through his mind. Any moment the scene would be crawling with reputable law enforcement, rubber-necking onlookers, and press representatives from backstage. A good car wreck such as Major League's tends to bring everyone together.
The Saint's personal plan of remaining out of the headlines was being seriously threatened, but Simon Templar refused to leave Buzzy alone for even one moment with Dexter Talon. Somewhere behind the detective, a police radio crackled; behind the Saint shone the headlight configuration of a Jaguar XKE.
Odd shafts of light criss-crossed the scene with jagged shadows, the rain was subsiding, and there were people arriving from all directions.
Simon turned to confirm the identify of the vehicle behind him; Talon turned to face rapidly approaching footsteps.
Buzzy broke free from the detective's repellent hug and ran towards the most welcome sight of her life -- Viola Berkman flanked by several Seattle police officers, including Stroum and Goldblatt. She threw herself into Vi's arms, half laughing, half sobbing.
"You're a little late, officers," explained Talon in a most professional manner, "some crackpot tried to kidnap that poor kid. That's him wrapped around the power pole."
Stroum walked to Talon's car and opened the door to the back seat while Goldblatt approached the detective cautiously.
"You know something, Talon?" called out Officer Stroum, "You're really sick."
Talon's skin froze.
"I'm afraid you're under arrest, Detective," stated Goldblatt officiously, "I'll need your gun and your shield."
The ex-detective's excess flesh vibrated furiously.
"What the hell am I under arrest for?"
"The murder of Salvadore Alisdare, for one thing,"
"Jeeze, Dexter," called out Stroum from Talon's back seat, "the whole damn thing was tape recorded for God's sake. Hey! Add possession of child pornography to the charge, Allen, the car's loaded with it."
Talon face turned purple with rage, he pointed his big fat finger in the direction of Simon Templar and shook it violently.
"The Saint! The Saint!" sputtered Talon irrationally.
"The man's a Saint all right," agreed the arresting officer as he snapped on the cuffs, “I can vouch for him myself. After all, he's my Rabbi."
Talon stared at the athletic frame of Nat Berkman silhouetted in the Jaguar's headlights, and realized Simon Templar was nowhere to be seen and even less likely to be referenced by anyone in attendance.
"By the way, Rabbi," said Officer Goldblatt pointing at the Jaguar, ""I like your personalized license plate."
"Thanks," replied Berkman, "and its a good sign that you do. After all, it requires a certain moral mindset to recognize it."
Talon stared at the plate. 10COM meant nothing to him. Buzzy, however, understood immediately. So had Simon Templar.
4
"Ten Commandments," asserted Ian correctly as he shoved another bite of Denny's pecan pie into his mouth.
"Not as blatant as RABBI," noted Roger Conway, "but certainly more clever."
"I thought that other jerk's car was gonna cream us for sure," Daniel admitted, shaking his head in wonderment.
Peter Quentin and Roger Conway, who recently assured the Tropicana Motel that Buzzy's whereabouts were no longer of concern, watched the boys stuff themselves with pie and ice-cream, the most minimal of rewards for their outstanding heroism and coolness under pressure. The Saint, in addition to picking up the tab for the above referenced refreshments, also slipped them sufficient cash to completely restore their authentic Saintmobile.
The celebratory party of four was soon joined by a jovial Simon Templar returning from the pay phone with fresh news.
"The cats out of the bag and the fur is flying furiously," sang the Saint happily, "the King County Jail has testy old Talon under suicide watch, a transcript of Alisdare's last tape has been released to the news media, and here's the best joke of the night: Little Buzzy had a special visitor at the hospital where she's being kept overnight for observation -- Crowbar Schwartz, lead guitar player of Grand Theft. Apparently he thought it good PR to visit such a put-upon fan. Besides, he said her haircut reminded him of an old girlfriend from 15 years ago. When he asked Buzzy if there was anything special he could do for her, she said `yes, take a blood test’."
His compatriots in the Denny's booth waited several minutes for Simon Templar to stop laughing.
"Wait a minute, Saint," interrupted Ian, "what about the Costello Treasure?"
"Which one? There are two Costello Treasures," explained Simon, "one of them has been in my hotel room since about one o'clock in the afternoon, the other has yet to be revealed, although I know exactly where it is."
Dan and Ian looked at Simon incredulously; Peter and Roger, used to such shenanigans, didn't bat an eye.
"Finish your pie and follow me back to the Westin for a sneak preview of the Treasure of Dolores Costello, then I must get my beauty sleep -- I have an important 10 a.m. appointment."
"That means a woman," explained Peter in case the boys were bereft of understanding.
"What's her name again, Simon," chided Roger Conway, "Tiffany? Ruby? DeBeers?"
"This week she calls herself Diamond Tremayne. Next week, I haven't the slightest idea," acknowledged the Saint. "I can't wait to see the name on her airline ticket."
At ten o'clock the following morning, Simon Templar kept his appointment with Diamond Tremayne. She arrived dressed in a conservative business suit, white blouse, dark hose, matching black mid-heel pumps, and her luxurious hair in a lovely French braid.
"Disguised as a librarian?" asked the Saint.
"Librarians can find anything, Mr Templar," she answered, "even treasure."
Tremayne, to Simon's surprise, did not arrive alone. Accompanying her were Arthur Rasnec and Karl Krogstad. Everyone was cordial, but only Simon Templar was ignorant of the exact nature and purpose of the excursion. The Saint did not earn his nickname solely on the basis of patience, although under the circumstances, he was entitled.
As Diamond promised, Neah Bay was beautiful that time of year, and Arthur Rasnec certainly owned a charming Bed & Breakfast. In fact, he owned far more than impressive overnight accommodations. He also held title to a spectacular piece of rustic property, once utilized as a summer camp, now perfectly suited as a retreat, artists colony, or both.
"The way I see it, Mr Templar," explained Rasnec with professional expertise and remarkable human warmth, "this facility would be the ideal locale for the educational and moral rearmament of displaced street kids such as Little Buzzy. Privately funded, professionally staffed, dedicated to healing, training, and nurturing via an arts based curriculum."
Krogstad was smiling broadly, rubbing his hands together gleefully.
"And get this, Saint," added Karl, "you know today's kids are crazy about media and movies. We'll set up a complete film and video workshop, teaching them hands on techniques in editing, lighting, scriptwriting, drama, the works. We'll actually produce original material created by the kids themselves -- marketable, of course, and once a year, right here
, we'll have that International Independent Filmmakers Conference and Competition I told you about at the Harvard Exit."
Karl obviously secured his investor, but it was Diamond Tremayne who put the humanitarian spin on concept and realization. Simon was impressed.
"There are also employees of other enterprises in which I own significant interest," added Rasnec, "who are most interested in training for new careers and pursuing optional avenues of employment."
"And what exactly do you want from me, Mr Rasnec?" asked the Saint politely.
"I'm donating the property and substantial funding, but Diamond has also made a generous contribution to the initial start-up of the project, and we were hoping..."
Our penultimate pirate's bright blue eyes were glorious beacons of supportive assurance.
"The Simon Templar Foundation would be proud to participate," confirmed the Saint, "and I know a firm named SeaQue will be similarly inclined. Do the Berkmans know about this?"
"I had a chat with Vi this morning," answered Tremayne, her countenance glowing with an aura of charitable victory.
Diamond, Rasnec, and Krogstad took turns shaking Simon's hand.
"What exactly is your position, Ms Tremayne?" the Saint later asked, the Neah Bay afternoon sun bathing his private room in warm golden hues.
"I raise collateral," replied Diamond playfully, kicking off her pumps and wiggling her toes, "it is also my obligation to receive extensive foot massages from notorious and dangerously handsome men."
To dispel any doubts as to the identity of her notorious man of preference, she reclined demurely on the sofa and stretched her exquisite legs across his lap. Simon's strong fingers applied appropriate and anticipated pressure.
"Perhaps your little feet are weary from standing on such high moral ground," commented the Saint.
"I told you I learned from the best," she said, "As for morality, the world has too much rhetoric and not enough action. Most problems could be simply solved if people actually acted in conformity with their words. Some talk; some actually do."
"And you, Ms Tremayne, are exceptionally versatile."
"Mere conjecture, Mr Templar. And as much as you detest playing detective," continued Diamond, her unbraided auburn hair cascading luxuriously around her shoulders, "I think this caper calls for increased personal investigation."
"Shall we investigate how much of your story about having a cousin corrupted in Seattle is true? Shall we question how it is that you and Rasnec know each other, and for how long? Shall I raise the possibility that going after Talon was Arthur's idea in the first place, not yours? Would it be wise to surmise that you have been many things in life before becoming the world's most attractive midnight marauder, including a dancer with less than professional credentials?"
Diamond Tremayne carefully watched the Saint's face as he spoke, searching for signs of judgement or condemnation. She saw neither.
"If all I'm raising is questions," she answered coyly, "then I will pose a few of my own: what's your mother's maiden name? Do you have brothers and sisters?"
Simon Templar smiled.
"To appreciate a rose," agreed Simon, "you inhale its fragrance, not sniff the soil from which it grew,"
Diamond swiveled her long legs from his lap and leaned in to him.
"Let us agree that you are the Saint and I am Diamond Tremayne," she suggested in a secretive whisper, scrunching her adorable eyes into cute little squints and moving her dangerous lips close to his, "and, for the sake of discussion, let's accept that characters such as myself sometimes simply appear full blown and fully grown."
"You certainly fit the criteria," said the Saint, the rest of the sentence and the balance of the chapter silenced by demonstrations of appreciative affection.
Chapter 6
How Barney Malone Did a Dance, and Simon Templar Became Inspired.
Barney Malone eyed Simon suspiciously before tapping the long white ash from the end of his aromatic cigar and turning his gaze to the serulian blue waters of Lake Washington.
"How much of that story has any association with reality?"
"Why? Do you want to buy the movie rights?
"I'm not sure I buy much of it at all,"
"Mr Malone," protested the Saint, feigning affront, "do you honestly believe that I would lure you out here on such a beautiful day to pull your leg--especially one as aged as yours?"
To validate his truncated version of the preceding narrative, the Saint handed Malone recent editions of Seattle's two daily newspapers.
"Criminal Caterer Killed in Alley," recited Malone aloud, "Detective Indicted in Downtown Slaying," "Rabbi to the Rescue," "Duvall Drug Deal Explodes."
The Saint smiled smugly.
"Believe me now?"
Malone tossed the papers aside.
"There's nothing about the romantic nuptials of Judge Crater and Amelia Ehrhardt." objected Barney, "and I thought that was the best part."
Simon dropped his head as would a penitent schoolboy.
"Alright, I made that up, but the balance of the story can be completely verified by Roger Conway and Peter Quentin."
Barney Malone puffed fresh life into his cigar.
"I haven't seen those two in years," muttered Malone, "the last I heard, Conway and Quentin were lolling about the UK disguised as oil slicks on the road to prosperity. Why they're not at least under house arrest is beyond me."
Simon bit the inside of his cheek to avoid grinning too broadly.
"Those two rascals would verify you having danced the night away with Archdeacon George Townshend in the vestibule of St. Patrick's Cathedral" deadpanned Malone perfectly, "the very fact that you would invoke them in defense of such a far-fetched yarn is almost adequate testimony to it's manifest falsity."
Barney's ability to keep a straight face during the final three sentences of the previous paragraph was not up to the task, and both he and the Saint burst into laughter.
"OK, Templar, I'm hooked," admitted Malone good naturedly as they regained their composure. "what's the truth about the Costello Treasure?"
Simon checked his watch, noticed the craft's approach to a lakeside mooring, and pulled a small photograph from his inside pocket.
"Here's your first clue," said the Saint, handing Malone the picture. Barney stared at it for sometime before speaking.
"I've never seen this one before," he acknowledged, "its a perfectly wonderful candid snapshot of John Barrymore and Dolores Costello. Who took it? Where did you get it? More importantly, can I keep it?"
"Yes, you can keep it; I got it from my friend Olav T. Lunde; it was taken by his father who was once an employee of the Barrymore's," answered Simon, standing and pointing towards the dock, "and here comes complete validation for the story you're so reticent to believe."
Boarding the ship were Roger Conway and Peter Quentin, carrying a large cake and a gift wrapped package. Barney almost dropped his cigar.
"Surprised to see us, Barney?" kidded Conway as he stepped aboard.
"Only considering the long standing extradition agreements between America and Great Britain," joked Malone, his true pleasure unconcealed and amplified by an excited smile.
Hugs, handshakes, and backslaps were soon well distributed and as the Thea Foss resumed its Lake Washington cruise, these men of long acquaintance settled down to admire the cake and watch Malone unwrap his gift.
The cake itself was an icing work of art, decorated with multi-colored fish, diamonds, waves of water, and an old-fashioned hand-cranked movie camera. "Happy Birthday Barney" was spelled out in Art Deco edible font. One understated candle adorned the cake's mid-point.
"We'll cut the cake after lunch, but first Barney must open his gift," commanded the Saint.
Malone complied, pulling away the festive wrap and revealing a 1920's style marine log book. The vessel's name, written in elaborate script, was embossed on the cover.
"INFANTA"
Barney recited the name, recalling it as one of
the cryptic clues quoted in the Costello Treasure scenario.
"Open it," prompted an encouraging Peter Quentin.
He did, and was momentarily speechless. Each leaf of the exquisite book was adorned with another rare photograph of Barrymore, Costello, and their coterie of famous show business friends cavorting on Barrymore's personal yacht; each large page featured handwritten details of fishing trips and sight-seeing excursions of the Great Profile, his beautiful wife, and numerous luminaries from Hollywood's Golden Age.
"These photos are priceless," whispered Malone emphatically, "none have ever been published, not in Silver Screen Magazine or any hardback collection, and I ought to know. This book is beyond value. I have never seen anything so spectacular. Who did you have to kill to get it?"
An awkward silence followed the question as Conway and Quentin looked to the Saint.
"He knows the story, fellas," said Simon, "I told him all about our rousing adventure, Alisdare, Talon, Little Buzzy, the works."
"What story?" Conway and Quentin asked impishly in unison; the Saint closed his eyes and shook his head.
"If Simon told you some wild yarn and it didn't end with one or both of us saving his skin, then you know it can't possibly be true," advised Roger with all the intensity of a politician campaigning for re-election.
"Actually, Roger saved him this time because I was tired of doing it," added Peter helpfully, "the Saint didn't try to sell you some whopper about us being involved with the Corrupt Cop Kills Caterer story, did he?"