Capture the Saint

1

“Why are you still alive, Mr Templar?”

Simon Templar, alias the Saint, was only momentarily taken aback by the one unrehearsed question posed by perky television talk-show host Connie Cain during the live afternoon broadcast of “Coffee with Connie,” Seattle, Washington’s most popular local program.

“Mythological characters such as myself seldom age at the going rate,” responded the Saint cheerfully. “And if survival is the topic,” offered Simon, “I have been shot at, shackled, handcuffed, gassed, and interviewed by trained broadcast journalists — the relative degree of danger inherent in each being open to debate.”

The small studio audience laughed warmly and applauded with approval as the mildly bemused and professionally coiffed hostess signaled for a commercial break.

“You are very good at this, Mr. Templar. Do you do a lot of television?” Her question seemed curiously genuine in contrast to the alternately sanguine and saccharine couching of her on-air delivery.

“I find precious little on television worth watching,” stated Simon with disarming honesty. “But this is more fun than being either shackled or gassed, although I was once grilled for information under lights almost as intense as these.”

“Did you talk?”

“Not a word,” confided the Saint in hushed tones of mock severity. “Of course, the unsavory individual asking the questions was sadly bereft of your charm, grace, and intrinsic allure.” Simon may have been overdoing the charm, but the studio audience enjoyed the banter.

“When we come back from the commercial,” Ms Cain did her best to avoid a slight blush, “we’ll talk about the movie.”

The movie to which she referred was about to have its auspicious Seattle premier, and while the career of Simon Templar was once as well known as any celluloid adventure concocted for any contemporary hero, it was not a fictionalized version of the Saint’s life that had received the Hollywood treatment.

The simple truth is that Barney Malone, semi-retired Hollywood producer and established acquaintance of the Saint, spent a year on his knees and several hours in a bar convincing Simon Templar to sell him the movie rights to ‘The Pirate’, the Saint’s singular excursion into the world of adventure fiction. Written decades earlier and now creaking with age and bending under the weight of unintentional anachronisms, the novel was at best a derivative pot-boiler distinguished only by the romantic escapades of its Hispanic hero.

The initial sales of ‘The Pirate’ had been more than respectable, an adjective never utilized in the descriptive prose published by the world’s press when documenting the extra-legal activities of its youthful author who, at the time of its original publication, was earning his international reputation as the Robin Hood of Modern Crime.

The fact that a tag-team of screenwriters had rendered the plot and characters of Templar’s original story unrecognizable did not surprise him.

“I lost faith in films about the time of The Falcon,” admitted the Saint to Malone in only half jest. “I have far more faith in the stability of the dollar and the morality of Monarchs.”

The dollars Simon Templar was earning from Malone’s cinematic adaptation were more than enough to prompt the Saint to sit under the hot lights of a television studio, banter with entertainment page pundits, and spend a few pleasant days traveling the West Coast at Malone’s expense to promote the film’s debut.

To those who follow the career of Simon Templar, it may seem tragic that the exploits of the Twentieth Century’s Brightest Buccaneer would be relegated to the entertainment pages rather than dominating the headlines. The Saint was perfectly pleased to be absent from the latest Seattle headlines — a front page story detailing the death by gunfire of a weasel-like miscreant who most often utilized the moniker Salvadore Alisdare. Simon Templar, the affable and entertaining talk-show guest was the exceptionally singular twist in the story; the one missing piece neither police nor reporters were ever able to place.

Simon Templar was not the last man to see Alisdare alive. That doubtful honor was reserved for the individual who, meeting him in a Madison street alley during morning’s wee hours, punctuated the climax of their distasteful conversation by puncturing Alisdare’s lungs with several slugs from a .38 revolver. The Saint saw both men prior to their eventful convergence, knew the outcome of their meeting long before reporters detailed the events in print, and was not the least surprised to read of Alisdare’s death nor the subsequent arrest of the cold blooded killer. Although he encouraged the first’s demise and arranged the second’s arrest, the Saint’s primary intention was a unique and memorable birthday surprise for Barney Malone.

As the historic pleasure craft “Thea Foss” passed under Lake Washington’s Evergreen Point Bridge uniting Seattle with the Eastside suburban communities of Bellevue and Kirkland, Barney Malone raised a small green bottle of Perrier above his sunburned, balding head. “To ‘The Pirate’,” Malone offered as a proud if not predictable toast.

“To Thea Foss,” countered Simon holding aloft his Peter Dawson. “And her memorable motto, ‘Always Ready’.”

“What was she, a Boy Scout?”. Malone’s dark eyes darted about as if anticipating a vaudeville audience’s response from the nearby seagulls.

“The Scout motto is ‘Be Prepared’,” Simon corrected cheerfully. “A subtle difference and subtlety was never your strong point.”

Malone, bedecked in blue Dockers and matching windbreaker, sat back in the yellow canvas deck chair and studied the bronzed features of his long time acquaintance.

“OK, Simon. I know you’re up to something. What’s the story?”

“Let’s begin back in 1889.” The Saint leaned back comfortably and tilted his head to catch more of the sun on his already tanned face. “Dear old Thea Foss was living on a houseboat in Tacoma when a neighbor sold her his skiff for five bucks.”

“Wow. I am really enthralled now,” Barney faked a yawn. “When does someone get shot? If someone doesn’t get shot it won’t make a movie.”

“Hollywood has rotted your brain,” observed the Saint as if he had only that moment discovered the obvious. “Next you will be telling me about past-life lovers and the ancient ascended masters.”

“The only ascended masters I know are DeMille, Hitchcock, and the guy who made King Kong,” countered Malone proudly, “And if I had past lives worth remembering, they would have been on the Late Show by now, and colorized.”

“Thea Foss has been on the Late Show, except she was called ‘Tug Boat Annie’.” Simon waited for the anticipated reaction.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Tugboat Annie!” Malone was instantly animated.

Sitting bolt upright with a suddenness that almost upended his deck-chair, Malone’s voice increased in volume by several decibels. “Marie Dressler, Wallace Berry... wait, don’t tell me the director...”

The mere mention of old movies activated a hidden circuit in the mind of Barney Malone. His otherwise adult and cynical nature defered to a markedly more youthful demeanor, exulting in the ability to recall with near total precision the cast and credits of innumerable Hollywood films.

The Saint confidently awaited Malone’s accurate remembrance.

“Mervyn LeRoy. 1933. Starring Robert Young and Maureen O’Sullivan as the obligatory young lovers,” rattled off Malone in staccato bursts of cinema savvy. “Am I right or am I right?”

“Absolutely accurate and correct,” confirmed Templar, “Tugboat Annie and Thea Foss are one and the same. From humble beginnings...” Simon gestured to Barney for the appropriate conclusion.

“To one of the largest tugboat companies in the world.” Simon Templar swirled the ice in his half-empty glass. “Foss Tugs roam the world, Barney. The boats have evolved from Thea’s first five dollar rowboat to the husky deep-draft ocean tugs that are familiar sights in nearly every ocean.”

“So?” Malone looked at Simon, awaiting the kicker.

“So,” replied the mercurial Mr Templar, “you are sitting on a true treasure.”

“Treasure?” Malone closed one eye, peering at the Saint as if through a spy glass. “Did Thea Foss stash some cash on board?” Malone, still squinting, attempted appearing Picaresque.

“Thea Foss never saw this exact craft in her entire life,” sighed the Saint. “Dear old Thea passed away in 1927. The Foss Maritime Company bought this ship in 1950 from a group of geological scientists working off the coast of California.”

Malone pulled an ugly cigar out of his pocket and stuffed it into the side of his mouth.

“Don’t say it, Templar,” warned Barney. “I’ll stop smoking when you stop drinking. Besides, if this was one of Charteris’ old Saint stories, you’d have smoked half a pack by the time we got to that line about Tugboat Annie.”

“Well,” the Saint slowly tilted his head away from the unlit but potentially offensive cylinder of tobacco. “if you want to know more about the treasure...”

Malone removed the cigar.

“Allow me to acquaint you with the vessel’s characteristics,” continued the Saint lightly, “her length is 12 feet with a twenty-one foot six inch beam, eight foot draft and displacement of three hundred tons. She has twin Atlas Diesel engines, horsepower of 550 b.h.p, cruising speed of 10 knots, officers and crew total five, and ten people may sleep overnight, but not with any degree of privacy nor intimacy.”

“So tell me,” interrupted Malone, “when does...”

“Someone get shot? They already did. Don’t you read the papers? It was a tragic story of back alley execution, low life crime, and high-stakes extortion. It will make a delightful motion picture,” insisted the Saint, “suitable for the entire family, provided the entire family is over forty, armed, and dangerous.”

“People over forty don’t go to movies,” scowled Malone as if confessing a tragic secret, “they rent videos of old movies.”

The Saint ignored Malone’s depressing digression into the realities of show business, and banged his foot on the ship’s deck much as men kick the tires of used cars.

“It’s built of 3/8 inch rolled steel, same as a World War II battleship. In those days she had anti-aircraft guns on her foredeck and carried a dozen depth charges on her fantail.”

“So did a dancer on La Cienega Boulevard I knew back in the ’40s,” deadpanned Barney. “Sorry, Simon, but I simply can’t enthuse about old warships. Now, you want to talk about actors, that’s a different matter. War ships? They mean nothing to me. And if by treasure you mean that this ship won a medal for having big guns bolted on deck,” Barney was building volume in mock bombast, slipping into his best Lionel Barrymore impersonation, “then the famous Simon Templar had better park his Hirondel at Cars of the Stars because I fear the man has become too senile to drive.”

“Senile is what Julius Caesar said to Cleopatra”, countered the Saint. “Do you do any other members of the Barrymore family, or are you a one trick impressionist?”

Barney rose to the challenge. Standing erect and windswept on deck, he turned sideways to Simon and gazed resolutely to the horizon.

Short and slightly lumpy, Barney Malone did not cut a romantic figure. The Saint gave this silent impression serious consideration before offering his opinion.

“Ethel Barrymore, sister of Lionel and John”, decided the Saint.

Barney allowed his flabby chin to hit his chest.

“True, true, all too true”, Malone faked a slight sob. “John was ‘The Great Profile’, I however, resemble Ethel. You could have been sporting enough to say ‘John Barrymore’ just to flatter me on my birthday.”

The Saint found Malone vastly amusing. Perhaps it was Barney’s unique ability to combine considerable business savvy with an unpretentious, almost childlike appreciation for the joys of his avocation.

“Flattery is not an appropriate gift for a man of your distinction and achievements, Mr Malone,” beamed the Saint. “You deserve something far more tangible. Say, several thousand dollars in cash and a King salmon buffet.”

Malone plopped back into the deck chair, eyed his cigar, and ran one stubby hand through his almost invisible hair.

“I wouldn’t take the money if it passed through your hands, Saint.” Barney’s eyes paid tribute to Eddie Cantor. “Lord knows what vile creature had it before you. I earn my money the old fashioned way — making movies for middle income twelve to twenty four year olds with enough cash to pay the inflated ticket prices at the multiplex. King salmon buffet, however, is perfectly acceptable.”

Invited to the upper deck by an officious white jacketed crewman, the two men enjoyed an obligatory Seattle latte while culinary experts in the galley began preparation of the aforementioned buffet.

After a few thoughtful sips of exceptional espresso, Simon called Malone’s attention to a grouping of condominiums on the lake’s West side.

“See that area over there? It’s called Madison Park.”

Barney nodded. He was not familiar with Madison Park, but he knew the general geographic area to which Simon referred. It was one of Seattle’s older, smaller, and more relaxed lake-bordering neighborhoods.

“Something very interesting happened in that lovely location late last night. I robbed a man who didn’t exist of over $50,000.”

There was no snappy come-back from Barney Malone. A relative silence punctuated by gull cries and augmented by the low rumble of Atlas Diesels informally requested clarification of Templar’s cryptic comment.

Malone locked eyes with the Saint, slowly pulled a silver Zippo from the right hand pocket of his windbreaker and proceeded to light the cigar. “If you didn’t shoot him,” Barney puffed, “it won’t make a movie.”

“Movies, movies, movies,” moaned the Saint. “And you were once a man of letters.”

“Newspapers can’t make you dance,” Malone countered. “With movies, I dance all the way to the bank. Now, tell me the story before I shoot you — no, wait, let me guess. It all starts with a small knot of struggling men.”

“Wrong story.”

“Then it must begin at a cocktail party where you are approached by a beautiful woman who wants you to kill the husband, remove her rival, or invest in a new line of lipstick.”

“Not this time.”

“Templar, let me give you a piece of advice. Always begin with your hero in mortal danger, then make it get worse as the plot unfolds.”

“If you would let me unfold it, you might enjoy it.”

Malone, having irritated the Saint to the point acceptable in their relationship, leaned back and drew deeply on his cigar. For Barney Malone, this was the all clear signal.

2

The Saint’s story began with neither struggling men nor beautiful women, but with an ice sculpture. While Simon Templar had seen his share of slowly melting swans, frozen busts of famous patriots, and even a lovingly rendered representation of two moose locking antlers, he had never encountered a five foot high block of ice which left him so chilled.

The sculpture, elevated by a stainless steel pedestal and back-lit by neon, shimmered in amplified translucence and tasteless overstatement. Serving as an unsubtle centerpiece for a mutated form of cocktail party known as a media reception, it dominated the room and overshadowed the buffet.

Simon Templar had seen so many astounding and unexpected items in his adventurous career that to say he was agog, stunned, or speechless would stretch the credulity of any enlightened follower of these chronicles. But the honest and accurate report must document that Simon Templar’s eyes, while not bugging cartoon-like from their sockets, widened by a perceptible degree while his jaw’s resolute ratchet mechanism involuntarily slipped several noticeable notches.

Representational of the human form in intent, yet minimalist in expression, the wet work of frozen art featured straight line limbs and body. Above its balloon-like head was a rakishly tilted electrically illumined halo blinking in irritating synchronization to music blaring from overhead speakers.

“Nothing exceeds like excess,” quoted the Saint under his breath. His logo was everywhere, on everything, dancing around the room on posters and placards placed strategically throughout the suite, as were one-sheet and three-sheet theater lobby posters for “Simon Templar’s The Pirate, Starring Emilio Hernandez. Screenplay by K.K. Beck. Directed by Karl Krogstad. Produced by B. Malone.”

Simon’s gaze shifted from the slowly dripping icon and the myriad match-stick logos to the event’s more animated participants. Connie Cain, recovering from her afternoon encounter with our endearingly dangerous central character, talked shop and sampled scampi with her co-anchors, weathermen, and assorted representatives of Seattle’s electronic media. A reporter from the Seattle Times and a columnist from the Eastside Journal discussed surrealism and screenwriting with Karl Krogstad and K.K. Beck as caterers served fresh lobster fra diavolo.

The invitations summoning luminaries from Seattle’s press, politics, and civic organizations to the Westin Hotel to meet The Pirate’s lead performer, director, producer, screen writer, and the famous Simon Templar, were also embossed with the Saint’s stick-man logo. A small encircled “R” by the figure’s left heel indicated the distinctive drawing was a legally registered trademark. The Saint found this contemporary addition to his crude artistic creation both amusing and disquieting. When he first hastily chalked the haloed figure on the doors of vice-traders, murderers, and blackmailers, he had no idea of its eventual commercial value.

Simon slid his souvenir copy of the invitation into his inside jacket pocket as journalists and individuals of distinguished social standing abandoned the crab and oysters to surround him for handshakes and introductions. As was his obligation, Simon Templar smiled broadly and entered the party with buoyant, honest enthusiasm.

As the social pleasantries passed, the predictable questions answered, the practiced one-liners delivered, and the guests shuffled off to the adjacent suite to meet the handsome and eligible Emilio Hernandez, the Saint noticed a short, moderately attractive, no-nonsense woman in conservative business attire holding back from the posse. Her eyes seldom left him. As the crowd thinned, she approached the Saint.

Holding her invitation as a calling card, she tapped the Saint’s rakish trade-mark with the well-manicured nail of her right index finger and cast an amused glance at the Saintly glacier.

“I remember the night you drew one of these for me on a torn scrap of paper,” she said coyly, offering Simon her hand.

“It must have been a night to remember,” said the Saint as if he remembered the night, the woman, and the significant particulars. His mind raced to place her face with an event.

“I am not surprised that you don’t recognize me, Mr Templar. It was long ago. Perhaps this will refresh your memory: You said ‘Give this to your Daddy and tell him The Saint brought you home’.”

The Saint’s memory was immediately refreshed. He remembered the night, the woman, and the highly publicized body count. He even recalled the first time he heard her name uttered by the impersonal metallic voice from a police car radio in New York’s Central Park:

“Calling all cars. Viola Inselheim, age six, kidnapped from home in Sutton Place...”

The Saint’s ability to relive each moment of that long ago night on New York’s Long Island had not dimmed through the veil of years. He could still hear her shrill cry of terror, see spitting flames of gunfire, feel his own shouts of ‘run!’ tearing through his throat as he spurred the child’s flight from captivity.

Released from vivid reverie, Simon realized he was still gripping the adult hand of little Viola Inselheim.

“Your fist was tiny then,” remarked the Saint softly, looking at her hand as if surprised it was not miniature and dimpled. “And the last time I saw you, you were wearing a white frock.” Simon paused. “And your father?”

“My father never wore a white frock, Mr Templar.”

They both laughed, releasing tension born of time, trauma, and little or no true familiarity.

Relaxed, she resumed.

“I still have the note, and the newspaper clippings. My father...” the intonation indicated that Zeke Inselheim was no longer living. “...saved it all. I pulled it out and looked at it when I knew I was going to see you again.”

Simon gestured towards a fresh gaggle of noshing and nibbling professional communicators devouring the remnants of Seattle’s finest seafood in his honor.

“I still hold a certain attraction for the press” commented the Saint in self-deprecation. He was attempting, by diversion and without success, to move the conversation to the next plateau.

“Saint Rescues Viola! Saint Battles Kidnappers!” quoted Viola, “The headlines were at least two and a half inches high in big bold black letters.”

Simon Templar felt oddly uncomfortable. Not with Viola, but with himself. He had rescued the child in a spectacular display of reckless bravado, but her rescue was secondary to his primary motive: killing her criminal captor, Morrie Ualino. The Saint accomplished both, admired the coverage of his escapades in the subsequent newspaper publications, and allowed little Viola Inselheim to become the one tender footnote to an otherwise violent and treacherous evening.

“I am now Vi Berkman, my husband is assistant Rabbi at the Reform Temple. We have lived here for a few years.” Viola took a deep breath, stretching her next word as if it were physically malleable. “And...”

The Saint recognized the intonation of “and” as the intonation preceding detonation. The Rabbi’s wife was no femme fatale, but despite her unquestioned integrity Simon knew there was something explosive coming, and he could feel it all the way up his spine.

Viola Inselheim Berkman turned her attention to the latest brigade of broadcasters and bigwigs abandoning the scampi to sample the Simon Templar, and smiled the smile of radiant acquiescence. The Saint sensed from her very bearing that she had become a woman of strength, dedication, purpose, and consummate courtesy.

“Time for you to play celebrity. We’ll talk later. Then maybe make some Big Bangs.”

The Saint sensed a sizzling fuse.

“Big Bangs, Mr Templar. Big Bangs.”

With finger food appetizers and spoon fed quotes, the trained professional broadcasters and local luminaries were not left hungry. Some of them — most notably Connie Cain — did not leave alone. She and Emilio Hernandez retreated to the dashing star’s personal suite where, during a more animated moment of interaction, she misplaced half a set of false eyelashes.

When the ice sculpture watered down and the contemporary soundtrack music no longer strained the sensitive components of the Westin’s sound system, Simon Templar and Viola Inselheim Berkman shared coffee at a quiet corner table.

After surface discussions of the Saint’s earlier completed Seattle itinerary — lunch at Leif Erikson Lodge in historic Ballard with Olav Lunde followed by preparation for his live television appearance — Simon and Viola exchanged observations on the differences between New York and Seattle life styles. When the small talk was depleted, Viola commented lightly on the pleasure of renewing their acquaintance, then asked an unexpected question.

“Do you still rescue children in danger, Mr. Templar?”

She intentionally released him from any attempt at formulating a response by immediately beginning her next sentence.

“No man does what you did for me unless he loves children, treasures them, and is willing to risk his life for them. And don’t be modest, Saint. I know. And even if my memory didn’t tell me, I can read it in those old clippings.”

Simon could sense a sales pitch a mile away, but he could also discern the purity of her motive.

“If this is leading up to me buying Girl Scout cookies, I’ll gladly take a case,” offered the Saint.

“I want you to take a case, but it is not cookies.” She looked at him with an intimate directness to which she was unquestionably entitled, as if searching his ice-blue eyes for signs of the same man who cradled her under his arm that night long ago when the Saint’s game was neither media nor movies, but death and justice.

Simon Templar leaned forward, taking both her hands in his. “You are not six years old anymore, and I am certainly not thirty-one. You are a grown woman and I’m...”

“...The Saint,” asserted Viola, reciting a memorized newspaper account, “an astonishing combination of heroism and terrorism, the most mysterious figure...”

“Spare me,” Simon laughed, “I was always easy copy for adjective addicted reporters”

“Those descriptions weren’t farfetched,” she said with a slight hint of humour, “All the superlatives were well earned. I know. I was there. And what I want to know is...”

“Will I pull out a hidden knife or noisy automatic and rub out a bad guy just like in the movies?”

“No, Mr Templar. Not like in the movies, like in New York. But this time there is only one man to kill, and many children to rescue.”

She wasn’t kidding.

Simon saw Barney Malone ambling towards them from across the room.

“Cut to the chase, Ms Berkman,” said the Saint.

“I work with Seattle’s street kids. Do you know what a predatory pedophile is, Mr. Templar?”

Simon’s involuntary shudder affirmed his knowledge.

“This man is so well protected, his prey so vulnerable, that he swims upstream in the so-called ‘regular channels’.”

Malone was getting closer, and Simon didn’t feel Barney’s inclusion in this particular conversation was appropriate.

“Cops? Do they know?” Simon tossed the quick question her way as he rose to introduce her to the arriving Mr Malone.

“Yes. They know him well. He’s on the force.”

With introductions and conventional niceties evenly distributed, Simon escorted Vi Berkman to the elevator while Malone oversaw the careful packing of the valuable promotional material.

“As I assume I have perked your interest,” continued Vi as they walked, “you are invited to my Youth Service Outreach office in the Sanitary Building by the Pike Place Market tomorrow morning at ten.”

“It sounds like a clean location,” remarked Simon, wondering exactly what Vi honestly expected of him. “Why exactly are we meeting at your office?” The Saint figured he might as well simply ask.

“Because,” said Vi as she stepped into the elevator, “You will see with your own eyes why you must do what I ask you to do, and who it is that you are going to do it to.”

The Saint slid into the elevator quickly as the doors shut behind him. “I’m not about to let you make a tv-movie exit, and there is no commercial break following your last line. I may have saved your life, but I am not about to commit murder simply because you think it is a good idea.”

Vi leaned against the wall and smiled a weak, knowing smile.

“OK. Don’t kill him. But I absolutely assure you that once you understand who he is and what he does, the Saint will not let him go unpunished by any means necessary, convenient or expedient.”

The small bell announcing their arrival at the Westin’s lobby served as ringing punctuation to her final comment. She put out her hand.

“Tomorrow, ten in the morning. Sanitary Market Building. Will you be there, Mr Templar?”

Simon relinquished the affirmation as he shook her hand. Watching her walk away, his mind still sifting through the conversation, the implications, and her request, he paid scant attention to the small, dark, man stepping into the elevator.

3

“Excuse me, Sir,” remarked the gentleman. “If you are Simon Templar, you are exactly the man I am looking for.”

“Really?” Simon pressed the appropriate button commanding the elevator to return him to the reception suite. “You don’t want me to kill anyone do you?”

“Good heavens, no,” the little man’s laugh sounded like a wheezing pig. “I want to make you rich.”

“Sir,” remarked the Saint with a polite bow, “I am already rich.”

“Well, even richer, if you prefer. My card.” The tiny fellow proffered forth a white card. “Our board of directors instructed me to introduce myself and make you a most lucrative offer.”

Simon examined the card carefully. It was, even by his standards, of significant interest. The card read “SeaQue Salvage International. London — New York — Seattle.” It featured a Madison Street address for the Seattle office and identified the little fellow as Mr Salvadore Alisdare, General Agent.

“I would offer you my card, Mr Alisdare,” said the Saint pulling the invitation from his inside pocket, “but I am saving it as a souvenir.”

The tiny man chuckled and pulled an identical embossed invitation from his side suit pocket and held it up to the Saint.

“I have one, thank you. I know the party is over, but I was working late and hoped against hope that I would still find you here.”

As the door opened, both men stepped into the hall. Simon jokingly took Alisdare’s invitation and held it up to the light as if verifying it’s authenticity.

“Looks real to me,” pronounced Simon, officially depositing it in his right jacket pocket in the finest Ticketmaster tradition. “Follow me and I will show you the most incredible ice sculpture you have ever seen in your life, then you can buy me a drink in Nikko’s lounge downstairs and tell me about the fortune in my future.”

As Simon Templar led the belated guest towards the nearby empty reception room, his steps were light and his heart dilated. Suddenly, Simon stopped cold.

“Wait a minute..” The Saint’s voice had the harshness of steel on chilled steel. The little man’s dark face turned beige. “I can’t stand the thought of seeing that block of ice one more time, let’s hit Nikko’s now and get some sukiaki and tempura while we’re at it.”

Simon Templar locked his grip on Mr Alisdare’s arm as an irrefutable argument convincing the confused General Agent to accompany the Saint back towards the elevator.

“Watching all those media types devour the buffet gave me an appetite,” insisted Simon, “and your invitation entitled you to free food anyway. You, sir, will be my guest.”

The little man’s tiny feet peddled rapidly to keep up with his new friend’s impressive stride. In one quick moment, the two men were in the descending elevator.

The Saint, while silent on the ride down, was exulting to himself on his good fortune and fate’s ironic sense of humor. Several floors above him a superficial resemblance of his career’s signature was becoming a chilly puddle, but the real live Saint was just getting warmed up. His mood advanced from quizzical in the face of Vi’s direct offer of murderous mayhem to ecstatic after meeting Mr Alisdare, for the Saint was always intrigued by ineffectual liars.

There were several aspects of the SeaQue agent’s presentation which Simon Templar discerned as decidedly fishy or, at best, crustaceanesque — most notable being the aroma of fresh lobster fra diavolo saturating both Salvadore Alisdare and his supposedly pristine invitation.

“So tell me how you are going to make me an even richer man than I already am,” prompted Simon as he dipped the tips of his Nikko chopsticks into the steaming sukiaki.

The little man’s cheeks flushed as he toyed with his tempura broccoli.

“Mr Templar, have you ever heard of the Costello Treasure?”

The Saint had never heard of the Costello Treasure and to the best of his knowledge, neither had anybody else.

“As in Abbot and Costello?” Asked Simon casually.

“Er, no. Mr Templar,” The little man seemed dissapointed with the Saint’s response. “The Costello Treasure is named after Dolores Costello, the famous actress. She was the wife of John Barrymore — the brother of Lionel and Ethel Barrymore.”

Simon Templar forced himself to suppress an outburst of laughter.

The Saint, having listened to all manner of nonsense in his life, would be willing to wager that the entire Costello Treasure myth, whatever it may be, was fabricated by the fun loving imagination of Barney Malone. The Saint had been an easy target of Malone’s harmless and amusing humor before, and this little diversion was perhaps Barney’s best yet.

Simon leaned across the table and spoke sotto voce. “Have you ever heard of a man named Barney Malone?”

“Who?” The lobster-scented General Agent, appearing confused, shook his head in slow negation. The highly suspect man from SeaQue was honestly ignorant concerning Mr Malone.

“Please, Mr Alisdare,” the Saint waved his chopsticks as if chasing away his previous question. “Tell me absolutely everything about the famous Costello Treasure and your irresistible, lucrative offer.”

The diminutive dinner guest recited the dramatic history of the Costello Treasure while Simon Templar, finding the inventive exposition fitfully enthralling, deftly trapped and devoured rectangles of tofu.

The narrative’s essentials concerned the sea-going saga of Dagfinn Varnes, a Norwegian cryptologist who’s antipathy towards the Axis manifested itself in covert activities on behalf of the Allies.

“In the latter days of World War II, Varnes was aboard the U.S.S. Amber guarding the entrance to the Strait of Juan de Fuca from Neah Bay to Port San Juan on Vancouver Island”, said Alisdare as if making a major revelatory pronouncement. He tilted his head to one side, stared expectantly at Simon Templar, and awaited an appropriate indication of unabashed fascination from his elegant companion.

“Where the lovely Miss Costello,” remarked Simon, “fleeced the crew at five card stud and stashed her winnings in the engine room.”

The Saint regretted the jest the moment it left his lips. Alisdare dropped his fluttering hands to the table and appeared to demonstrably deflate.

Simon apologized for interrupting, attributing the imperative nature of doing so to the call of nature itself. Alisdare winced when Simon affectionately squeezed his shoulder while leaving the table.

The only nature summoning Simon Templar was his inherent Saintly nature responding to intuitive trumpets, and his appetite for honest information outweighed any proclivity towards culinary indulgence. The Saint also preferred a main course of facts before swallowing fancy. Hence the wince-inducing squeeze delivered to the diminutive prevaricator masked the deft lifting of Alisdare’s wallet from the opposing pocket of his dinner jacket.

In the tiled isolation of Nikko’s spotless washroom, Simon Templar carefully scrutinized the billfold’s diverse contents. Having learned illuminating details about his dishonest dinner guest, Simon took a circuitous route to his table via the hotel’s courtesy telephone. En route, the Saint debated whether or not to return the errant wallet. As much for the sake of fun as for expedience, he wanted to keep it. But risk outweighed amusement, and Templar performed another successful slight of hand.

Seated and smiling, Simon convivially encouraged Alisdare to proceed with his story.

“Where was I?” asked Alisdare.

“Lying off the coast of Vancouver Island”, said the Saint with a slight hint of questionable inflection.

Salvadore’s ears turned red, he cleared his throat, and continued his recitation.

“After the Navy’s massive shipbuilding program had gotten into full swing, ships such as the Amber were no longer necessary. After the war, it was decommissioned and became property of Alaska salmon packers. Her name became the Polaris and her history became temporarily obscure — temporarily because recently SeaQue became privy to some rather astonishing passages from the papers of Dagfinn Varnes.”

Alisdare poured emphasis on “astonishing”, bathing it in unmistakable importance.

“And how astonishing is it?” asked a wide-eyed Simon Templar.

“Quite. Quite indeed. Portions of his personal papers were cryptologicaly encoded, and even after being decoded were somewhat, er...”

“Vague?”

“Um, perhaps metaphorical would be more appropriate.”

The Saint gently pursed his lips, suppressing the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I never metaphor I didn’t like,” deadpanned Simon.

With a weak sigh, the General Agent dug into his pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of typing paper, and asked Templar to listen carefully to Varnes’s decoded references to the Costello Treasure.

“Amber equals Polaris. Multi colored fish. Dazzling gems of inestimable value. Infanta. Murals of beauty, rich beyond measure. Lost beneath the waves of Neah Bay, awash in gray, the treasure of Dolores Costello.”

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 of 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 about 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.

“That’s when we became stereotypical fawning fans,” explained the pudgy one with an honest and infectious smile, still delighting in Simon’s treatment of his tummy.

The Saint originally intended disengaging from this fan club duo when reaching the lobby, but Simon Templar was never one to argue with fate and opportunity. It may have been the strong, assertive nature of the marine biologist, the mention of the Maritime Issues Forum, or the Saint’s pleasure in performing for a favorably disposed audience. Then again, Simon’s decision to include these two characters in the adventure’s next phase may have been simply prudent strategic planning.

“So tell me, my nefarious new accomplices,” asked the Saint, “what are we driving?”

Simon’s new friends, identified in an earlier conversation not quoted verbatim as Daniel and Ian, gleefully responded in near unison as they led the Saint out of the Westin.

“The Saintmobile.”