Capture the Saint

1

Stepping out onto Harvard Street, his mind swirling in response to Diamond’s blatant references to Salvadore Alisdare’s suspect Costello Treasure scenario, Simon Templar walked briskly southbound, cut across the A&P Market’s illumined parking lot, emerged one block east, and secured a Jet City taxi near the corner of Broadway and Denny.

“Take me to 14th and Madison, if you don’t mind,” instructed the Saint.

“And if I do mind, what am I supposed to do?” countered the crabby cabbie from beneath her Seattle Mariner’s baseball cap, “Take you some place else?” She had used this line so many times that it was part of her nightly repertoire.

“I’ve been some place else already, and this will be a new experience for me,” Simon stated casually. He glanced out the cab’s window towards Ernie Steele’s Checkerboard Room, wondering if Detective Talon was still sucking smoke and swallowing beer.

A familiar object, and a familiar face slid between Simon’s view and the bustling sidewalk. Inching in the opposite direction was Viola Berkman in her black BMW. Their eyes locked in recognition, and each quickly lowered a window.

“I’ve been circling this block forever,” admitted Vi with sheepish enthusiasm, “I’m dying of curiosity about your meeting with Talon.”

Simon considered transferring to Vi’s vehicle mid-street, but the taxi’s rear view mirror reflected the driver’s preemptive look of disapproval.

“14th and Madison. Meet you there.” Simon added a circular hand gesture indicating she should reverse direction.

The driver, pleased at not losing her fare, stopped scowling and wiggled her abundant eye-brows.

“That your girl friend or your wife?”

“Neither,” clarified the Saint, as if she was entitled to a clarification.

“Yeah, well I figured she looked a little young for you anyway,” the cabbie asserted emphatically. She retrieved a battered 8-track tape from the glove box and slammed it into the aged player.

“I like music while I drive,” she announced as if declaring a political conviction, “I play Grand Theft and I play it loud.” The final five words were stated with the implied conclusion: “And there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

The Saint, forever the essence of courtesy, offered one delicately phrased observation.

“It is traditional to torture the hero when he is in the hands of villains, not while he is in transit.”

The driver cranked up the volume and tossed back a retort over the cacophony of screaming guitars. “Who said you was the hero?”

“I’m the last hero you’ll have in this taxi,” muttered Simon, and the vehicle’s aural atmosphere was submerged in a deluge of reverberating electronic feedback.

Crowbar Schwartz, lead singer and rhythm guitarist for the power trio Grand Theft, was really named Crowbar Schwartz. The circumstances surrounding his distinctive appellative were the stuff of contemporary urban legend: while rushing his ever-loving spouse to the maternity hospital, the senior Mr Schwartz — a virtuoso Chicago musician with several tiresome compositions to his credit — lost control of his pristine Falcon Futura and wrapped it around a lamp post.

Trapped in twisted heavy metal, the laboring Mrs Schwartz — a beauty specialist and personal grooming consultant — remained miraculously unharmed. Her talented husband, dazed but uninjured, used a crowbar to free his wife at the exact moment their infant son emerged. Mr and Mrs Schwartz, perhaps still suffering from shock, agreed that the boy should be forever known as Crowbar Avon Schwartz.

While psychologists and sociologists later quibbled in print over the name’s influence on his career choice and lifestyle, Crowbar achieved considerable wealth by dedicating the fruit of his musically predisposed genes to replicating screeching tires, broken glass, and crashing metal on his guitar. As for stage make-up, Crowbar gratefully acknowledged his mother’s loving, professional, color-coordinated guidance. None of this, of course, was of particular interest to Simon Templar. His exposure to the atonal caterwaulings of Crowbar, despite their international and relentless air-play, was limited to this particular cab ride on Capitol Hill. Thankfully, as Broadway Avenue’s boutiques and restaurants gave way to the more educational trappings of Seattle University, the 8-track player devoured the tape.

So garbled and distorted was the original recorded performance that no deviation from its normal sound was initially discerned. Soon, however, the stretched mylar strangulation of Grand Theft’s earnest efforts became unmistakable as the ironically entitled selection, “Scream,” was ensnared by the capstan and entangled in the machine’s swirling metallic innards.

The driver ripped the plastic case from the dash and threw it violently to the floor. Long slender entrails of twisted, lifeless recording tape dangled death-like from the gaping hole in the console.

“Look at that,” exclaimed the aggravated cabbie.

“It looks better now than it sounded before,” said the Saint seriously.

She wheezed out a long, laborious sigh, turned on the radio, failed in a knob-spinning attempt at retrieving any of Seattle’s numerous AM signals, and barked an overworked and un-ladylike oath as she clicked off the dysfunctional receiver.

“Devoid of art, woman despairs,” observed Simon objectively, “I suppose we must now amuse ourselves with romantic conversation.”

“I don’t date customers, so you can save your breath,” she growled with believable menace.

The Saint, not easily menaced, allowed a faintly thoughtful smile to linger on the corners of his mouth, rather recklessly and dangerously. But that was like Simon Templar, who never got worked up about anything, let alone a lippy cabbie cursed by sudden mood-swings.

“I believe this is the first time anyone has ever actually told me to save my breath,” replied the Saint amiably. “Apparently, in the best pulp fiction tradition, I am about to be bludgeoned to death by clichés.”

“Hey!” The cabbie tugged down the bill of her Mariner’s cap, “You complainin’ about my drivin’?” While Simon Templar serenely contemplated the evening events, conversations, characters, and escapades, Viola Berkman easily maneuvered the irregular traffic patterns and unorthodox block structures of capital hill, eventually managing to position her BMW two car lengths behind Simon’s taxi. Equal distance behind purred a perfectly restored black Jaguar XKE.

“Blackmail? Serves the jerk right,” commented Viola as the Saint recounted scintillating details of the Checkerboard Room encounter, “But that business about Buzzy looking every inch a woman is delusional hogwash. Even a pig like Talon...” Vi stopped in disgust and tightened her overcoat against the night.

Simon had paid the cantankerous cab driver, met Vi at her parked vehicle, and walked her graciously to the provisional shelter of a green and white awning gracing the entrance of a tiny Italian bistro.

“You are about to enter the mind of a confused and desperate criminal,” stated the Saint flatly.

“Looks more like a pizza joint to me,” admitted Vi after a cursory appraisal of the bistro’s exterior.

“We’re not going in there,” clarified Simon, “we’re taking a brief walk to the non-existent Madison address of SeaQue Salvage.”

He took her arm and led her paternally to the end of the block. En route, he fished out Alisdare’s business card and showed it to Vi.

“You will notice that the address on the card corresponds not to any actual location of SeaQue Salvage, but only to...” He pointed across the street to a small store-front who’s exterior sign proclaimed “Mail Boxes for Rent.”

“In fact,” continued the Saint, “I am willing to wager that SeaQue doesn’t even have a mail box there.”

An electric Metro Transit bus, drawing power from overhead lines, passed through the intersection. Bright blue sparks crackled skyward in a minimal display of short-lived fireworks.

“Those bus sparks are one of my favorite things about Seattle,” she said, “but you didn’t bring me down here to watch buses and look at an unused mail-drop.” The light changed and Simon signaled for Vi to follow him to the other side of the street.

“It is a theory, about to be proven,” proclaimed the Saint once the two of them stood before the darkened store front, “that Salvadore Alisdare selected this Madison mail-drop as SeaQue’s fictional location without any great master plan in mind. I believe he chose it simply because he passed it everyday, or because it can be seen easily from...” Simon scanned the diverse businesses and outlets within view, and smiled with happy triumph as he pointed to large older building kitty-corner from Madison. “Right over there.”

Viola Berkman took a good look at the Saint’s prized discovery.

“Emerald City Custom Catering?”

“The sign says they are ‘The Seafood Specialists,’ ” confirmed Simon.

“Seafood?”

“They delivered the dynamite lobster fra diavola so pleasing to the media mavins at this afternoon’s reception. I believe Connie Cain put a daub behind each ear to win the heart of Emilio Hernandez.”

“A romantic gesture,” concurred Viola, “let’s all visualize that, shall we?”

“And,” continued Simon undaunted, “I am absolutely positive that they also do brisk business with Neptune Salad and dill pickles. Blackmail, extortion, and the exploitation of children are not, you will notice, advertised on the marquee, but comprise a significant portion of their fishy activities.”

Viola Berkman watched the late-night traffic cruising Madison before asking the obvious questions.

“Dill pickles as in ‘packed by Snookums’?”

“And sold by Salvadore Alisdare, purveyor of pickles, seafood, condiments, perversion, persecution, extortion, and illegal substances to boot. A man becoming increasingly irrational, desperate, and unpredictable; a man who handed me a $10,000 cashier’s check to search for the Costello Treasure.”

“Does this mean you have everything all figured out? You know what happened to Dan and Ian, how to stop Talon from victimizing children, and what the real story is on Dolores Costello?”

Simon put his arm around her and they began the walk back to her car.

“If I were that brilliant, this would only be a novella,” explained the Saint, “but I firmly believe that some simple breaking and entering, coupled with full-scale burglary of Salvadore’s fish and pickle palace, may give us more answers than we anticipate.”

They walked back across the street in silence. As they continued towards her BMW, he broached a serious and sensitive subject.

“Vi, there are a few things I haven’t told you. And I believe there is something you haven’t told me.”

The Saint’s blue eyes seemed iridescent in the dark, and his tone displayed none of the light playfulness which had characterized their previous banter.

“What do you mean,” asked Vi. She was neither overtly defensive nor offended.

“I haven’t told you that I met Arthur Rasnec tonight.”

Vi stopped.

“With Talon?”

“No.”

“I’ve never met him, myself. Where did this happen?” asked Vi.

“He was with Karl Krogstad, the director of The Pirate, at some silly double feature playing at the Harvard Exit. But there was a woman with him, a rather remarkable and attractive woman named Diamond, a woman who seemed to know more about what I was doing than she had any right to, including details of Alisdare’s bogus Costello Treasure story.”

Vi Berkman appeared momentarily surprised and unmistakably abashed. She averted her eyes, but Simon sensed it was not from guilt. He walked her to the driver’s side and held the door while she entered, then circled the back of the car. Vi released the door locks and Simon took the seat beside her. A few drops of light rain speckled the windshield; Vi adjusted the rear-view mirror; the Saint chuckled softly and shook his head.

“C’mon, Vi. What’s the story on Diamond? Your silence is deafening.”

She leaned her head back on the seat and sighed with a slight smile.

“Quite a looker isn’t she, Saint? Her name, so she says, is Diamond Tremayne. I honestly had no idea that your paths would cross, at least not tonight. All I know is that she has personal interests in getting to the bottom of this for reasons similar to mine, although I have the impression that her motivations may be more vengeance than justice. She told me that a cousin’s daughter got into some trouble a few years ago, ran away from home in Massachusetts, wound up in Seattle,” Vi sighed as if telling the story increased the burden of knowing the details, “and after her experiences here at the hands of a certain respected law enforcement official, she committed suicide. A scrawled note of drug-fuelled rumblings makes for poor evidence, especially out of town, but it was enough for Diamond. But not enough,” added Vi with a practiced air of professional detachment, “for the Federal authorities to whom she complained. They said they would look into it...”

Vi stared out the window for a moment, but she wasn’t looking at anything. Simon allowed her the silence. After a moment, Vi purposely decorated her face with an adult smile.

“I meet a lot of angry, confused and vindictive people in my line of work, Simon. Most of them make a lot of noise, and then go home. I’ve learned to take very few of them seriously. Anyway, when I shared my feelings about Rasnec and Talon’s connection to Uncle Elmo’s Good Time Arcade, Diamond seemed convinced that she could use her considerable feminine charms to successfully ingratiate herself with the primary suspects and, in her words, make them pay.”

Make them pay.

The Saint repeated the phrase almost inaudibly to himself, allowing the implications to percolate in his subconscious. The resultant realizations formed and extrapolated slowly at first, but Simon Templar soon felt a warm glow radiate from the center of his being, rising in increasing calorific intensity until it manifested itself in a grin of near luminescent magnitude.

His bright blue eyes widened as if attempting to absorb a panorama of possibilities. Perhaps, reasoned Vi, he was indulging in the predictable, masculine contemplation of Diamond’s ample, tempting lips, or the attractive packaging of her flawless features and statuesque physique.

“I think I’m in love,” declared the Saint. And Vi Berkman, to this day, affirms that she actually heard him giggle.

If the Rabbi’s wife believed the Saint had taken leave of his senses, she was not the first person to harbor such an erroneous impression. It may be noted, should one be taking notes, that Simon Templar had been considered irrevocably eccentric and decidedly absurd by numerous individuals throughout his distinctively dangerous career. For some, such an appraisal had proven fatal; for others, simply distracting. And were Viola to infer that the Twentieth Century’s Brightest Buccaneer had blown a bulb, such an hypothesis would only indicate a failed appreciation for an essential and endearing aspect of the Saint’s unique and wondrous personality. Simon Templar had always been his own greatest admirer, but such personal aggrandizement never obscured his appreciation for the accomplishments of others. Among the talents and abilities cultivated within himself was the glorious appreciation of the same light reflected in different mirrors. The dazzling illumination refracted by Diamond Tremayne was, by his appraisal, nothing short of breathtaking.

Although his initial intuitive deduction cleft the veils of conscious reasoning like a comet crashing resistless through the narrow mathematical orbits of logic, his brain had to catch up with it, plodding laboriously over the steps that inspiration had taken in its winged stride. For Simon Templar, such laborious plodding took mere moments, and he promptly offered an adequate, if truncated, explanation for his unexpected excursion into inappropriate jocularity.

“I’ve been bending my brain into a pretzel attempting to unravel this business with Talon, Alisdare, Buzzy, SeaQue Salvage, and the Costello Treasure,” admitted Simon, “and, up to a point, I accepted much of it as an improbable, yet intriguing, interlacing of coincidences. But Diamond crossed the line — her subtle references were lobbed over Rasnec’s head with clear intent. She wanted me to catch each and every allusion. Ever since I walked out of the Harvard Exit I’ve been asking myself what she was up to and how she knew so much. And then, when you said ‘make them pay’, I realized that she was doing exactly that — making them pay. I bet she’s responsible for Alisdare clipping Talon for twenty grand, responsible for Alisdare passing ten of it on to me. It is currently my conviction that the dynamic Ms Diamond is also the author of that outlandish Costello story. No wonder I thought it was a practical joke,” exclaimed Simon, remembering his initial impulse to credit Barney Malone, “I was never meant to fall for it in the first place. Alisdare was convinced that I would, but someone convinced him first. The con was a con from the moment of conception.”

Vi looked at the Saint with tight jawed intensity.

She had no interest in fabricated treasure stories nor intra-criminal deceptions.

“What Talon did to Buzzy is no practical joke,” she remarked ruefully, “We’re talking about predators, Simon. These men are life destroyers.”

The Saint turned towards her, taking her cool hands in his warm grip. Another bus passed by, but Vi didn’t notice the brief blue sparks reflected in her windshield. The blaze of solid determination flaming behind the Saint’s eyes transfixed her attention.

“I know what these men are, and they disgust me,” insisted Simon. “They don’t deserve to be called men at all, because they’re lower than animals. Trust me, Vi. I’ve vowed that Talon will not escape justice, and the same goes for Alisdare and the whole damn bunch. If Rasnec’s dirty, I guarantee you that he’s going down too.”

Vi’s own grip tightened as if drawing strength from a dynamic electric current.

“But we’re not alone in this,” continued the Saint seriously, “There is more going on with Diamond Tremayne than either of us fully understands. Each of us has met the woman only once, but from what she said tonight, I believe she’s working both sides of the game, raiding the hulls of two different ships, and is either smart enough or crazy enough to point it out to me. But that is a deadly and dangerous game to play.”

Vi loosed her hands and lowered her head.

“I don’t know, Saint. What kind of woman would ingratiate herself with the likes of those men?”

Condensation clouded the BMW’s windshield; smeared light seemed to run in rivulets across the tinted glass. Seattle, blurred and augmented by mid-town metropolitan drone, could have been any city of neon, nightlife, and too much traffic. The Saint thought of New York.

“Either a woman of purpose, or a woman without one,” answered the Saint.

“Really, Simon, a woman wielding influence over a pedophile?”

“Diamond was playing hip accessory to Arthur Rasnec, not Dexter Talon,” Simon reminded her, “and an opportunistic hedonist like Alisdare would gleefully accept entrepreneurial guidance from anyone projecting an air of malicious intent, especially one...”

“Who’s drop dead gorgeous?”

“I was going to say ‘exceptionally clever’,” said Simon, and they both knew he wasn’t going to say that at all.

“It is one thing to be a mocking desperado, it is quite another to be in the hands of one,” said the Saint wisely. “It recently occurred to me that I may be attempting to capture a galleon already boarded by another buccaneer.”

“What do we do now?” Asked Vi.

“We?”

She laughed nervously, relaxing somewhat from her previous pitch of keyed tension.

“You’re going to sample an Italian soda at that little bistro,” he stated pleasantly, “while I burgle Emerald City Catering.”

“Going after seafood?” She attempted regaining her sense of humor. “Absolutely not,” said the Saint. “This story has enough red herrings already.”

2

Twenty minutes later, Viola Inselheim Berkman sat sipping an Italian cream soda in the cozy bistro. The warm aroma of baking pizza permeated the air, relaxed conversations and occasional laughter drifted in from neighboring booths, and the dark wood bench upon which she sat seemed solid and reassuring. Simon Templar was also solid and reassuring, but he had merged into the night’s darkness some time ago armed, to her knowledge, with only a slim black flashlight.

She would wait; she would think; she would watch the traffic. She imagined the Saint sneaking into Emerald City Catering by violating whatever security existed for such establishments, and returning filled with self-satisfaction and pertinent information.

Vi swirled the cream around the ice cubes in her tall class, checked her watch, and glanced out the window. A sleek black Jaguar XKE pulled up along the bistro’s west side, stopped momentarily and moved on. She looked at her watch again and realized the hands had moved only one tiny increment since her previous examination of the dial.

She gave the ice cubes another ride around the glass. They slowed in their gradual spin and settled precariously, one atop another. She held the glass in her right hand and raised it to her lips. At that precise moment she saw an Emerald City Catering van turn the corner and head directly toward the old, dark building where Simon Templar was breaking and entering.

The glass stopped mid-motion and the ill-concealed shaking of her hand caused the weary cubes to collide in a wet, muted clatter. She delicately placed the glass on the table, resolutely rose, and walked out into the night with hell-bent determination and iron-willed resolve. Viola Inselheim Berkman would never allow the Ungodly to capture the Saint.

Simon Templar hated fighting in the dark. He calmly despised the entire scenario of dodging bullets, hiding behind makeshift shelters, and anticipating a sudden, shattering end to his carefree lawless career. He felt much the same about the intellectual equivalent. The Saint never fancied himself following in Bulldog Drummand’s footsteps; he preferred leaving dogmatic detection to plodding, patient, meticulous clue collectors and masters of deductive reasoning. Simon Templar’s mental gymnastics were, if one must invoke stereotypical geographic references, more conceptually Eastern. Jigsaw puzzles were neither his forte nor had he ever selected them as a pleasurable pastime. He could, if requested, successfully assemble the pieces, but gleaned no enchantment from the process nor completion. He was simply a big picture thinker.

Yet, here he was, performing one of his least favorite functions — breaking, entering, and searching for puzzle pieces. In the Saint’s intuitive and highly refined consciousness, he knew an absence of hard facts left drastic gaps in this adventure’s logic. The logical adventure was itself a rarity, but no more so than an uncritical publisher or an unblemished bootlegger. Criminals were seldom the masterminds portrayed in paperbacks, nor were they as successful in their complex conspiracies as best-seller hardbacks would have their readers believe. But greed and selfishness, coupled with an indiscriminate longing for excess wealth, had driven small time hoods to the big house, and bigwigs of industry to small cells in multi-tiered institutions. One man’s political indiscretion, the Saint once noted, was another man’s prison sentence. And while blind justice often peeked, Simon Templar preferred putting a thumb’s pressure on the scales of equity. At this exact moment, however, the Saint was applying his thumb and forefinger to the combination lock found on Salvadore Alisdare’s personal safe in Emerald City Catering.

Simon Templar burgled the building in record time, surveyed the basic layout of the enterprise, briefly admired the two gleaming stainless steel kitchens, located Salvadore Alisdare’s unimpressive office, riffled through every item on or in the cluttered desk, and set about unlocking whatever secrets were concealed behind tumblers and steel.

So advanced was he at the art of safecracking that he mastered the combination with minimal effort and a minor narrowing of concentration. Actually, to be perfectly frank, Alisdare’s investment in personal security was not up to industry standards. Perhaps had he been general manager rather than an opportunistic event planner with added responsibilities in cold storage and shipping, Alisdare could have procured a more complex and inviable system. In the deft and dazzling hands of Simon Templar, however, it would have made no difference whatsoever.

The safe’s door swung open, and the black flashlight’s intense shaft of precision illumination highlighted the contents. There was not much to highlight — a nefarious black book of names, numbers, and addresses, a yellow legal pad, a loose audio cassette tape, a battery powered micro-cassette recorder, and a small packet of photo negatives. The tape was labeled “Talon #1”; the negatives were similar in content, albeit more detailed, to the snapshots in Vi’s folder.

“Why, Alisdare, my dear, you are a thorough little blackmailer,” murmured Simon as he poked through the safe’s contents, “And you thought these would be more secure here than at home.”

A cursory examination of the black book revealed curious and incriminating annotations, women’s names with little stars drawn next to them, a cryptic ledger, a list of chemicals, and a thought provoking addendum under the name Dexter Talon: a.k.a. Tex Nolan. The address was a prestigious high-rise condominium complex on the 2000 block of Madison Park’s 43rd Ave. East. The phone number was not the one at which he had reached Talon earlier.

Enveloped in the cloak of darkness, peering into Alisdare’s collection of incriminating evidence, Simon had a bright idea. It was one of those wild, reckless and impertinent actions for which the Saint had been both roundly criticized and deservedly admired. He swiveled to the black business phone on Alisdare’s desk and dialed the fictional Tex Nolan’s unpublished phone number.

There was, of course, the distinct possibility that Talon was still ensconced in the smoky environs of Ernie Steele’s, cruising for adolescent company along First Avenue, or at his respectable address of record. Possibilities, however, seldom deterred the Saint from following inspiration’s prescient tickles.

“Hullo?” It was Talon answering, his voice rasping of bad beer and harsh tobacco.

“Sorry to bother you, Tex,” chirped the Saint affably, “but after I walked out on your alter ego, I decided to discover a few facts.”

“Saint! How did you...”

“Perfectly, the same way I do everything,” admitted Simon, “but in the joy of the moment, I couldn’t allow myself to forget you.”

Talon, shocked at receiving a call from Templar on his most secret of lines connected to his most secret of lives, was momentarily nonplussed but allowed his deepest fears to find voice.

“You’re working with Alisdare, aren’t you,” barked the detective, “he must have given you this number. I’ll get you both!”

“Relax, Tex,” advised the Saint, “Alisdare is your problem, and I suggest you take my initial advice. I have no more love for him than you do. He didn’t give me this number, nor did he reveal your secret identity. Let’s just say I’m not such a slouch at detective work myself. I don’t know everything, Talon,” Simon lied convincingly, “but enough to know Alisdare is up to his little red ears in more than seafood and serviettes. I’ve found a delightful stash of photo negatives...”

Talon choked.

“And I think the world would be better off without them.”

“You’re kidding.” Talon was incredulously grateful.

“Yes, it’s the Saint to the rescue, Tex. You can’t say I never did you a favor. Someday we’ll drink a mutual toast to justice.”

Talon wheezed out a lungful of relief.

The Saint hung up the phone and sat for a moment in the silence of Alisdare’s office. There were times when he amazed himself.

“To hell with Emelio Hernandez,” he said to no one in particular, “the best actor award goes to Simon Templar.”

He delved back into the safe and pulled out the yellow legal pad on which, in a woman’s fine handwriting, were the essential details of the Costello Treasure. The Saint chuckled to himself softly, retrieved Alisdare’s SeaQue Salvage business card from his pocket, memorized the phone number, and moved over to the desk. He again punched the telephone button for line one and dialed SeaQue. Line three began blinking silently and an answering machine commenced a pre-recorded response.

“Thank you for calling SeaQue,” cooed the unmistakable voice of Diamond Tremayne, “Mr Salvadore Alisdare cannot take your call right now, but if you will leave your name, number, and message at the sound of the tone, he will get back to you as soon as he can.”

While the machine transmitted Diamond’s mylar coated greeting, the Saint traced small wires trailing from the phone jack to an inexpensive answering machine installed as a touch of authenticity should Simon consider calling the number on the card.

Believing that Vi waited impatiently at the corner bistro, he hurriedly pocketed the negatives, microcorder and cassette, slid the little black book into his jacket pocket, tossed the legal pad back into the safe, shut the door, and made sure the black line above the dial pointed to the same digit as when he arrived.

The Saint slid silently past the second floor office area towards his unauthorized point of entry. He froze for a moment when he felt the low rumble of an arriving truck and heard the unmistakable metallic fanfare of the motorized delivery door widening its receptive jaws. Simon Templar banished all thoughts of Talon, Alisdare, and blackmail from his mind — the imperative issue at that exact moment was the Saint’s getaway.

He knew his bearings to the nth degree, and he travelled to his destination with the noiseless precision of a cat. In the near distance he heard the truck’s engine rattle to a healthy standstill and felt the violent vibration as the heavy metal door shook to a secure closure.

The Saint had not only the silence of a cat, but the curiosity as well. His very nature was torn between two opposing, but equally attractive scenarios. One was admittedly more mature and conservative — get out by whatever route was most accessible — the other was more confrontive and daring. There have been infamous incidences among the Saint’s escapades, many of them documented in print and enlarged by legend, during which his most efficient route to freedom was judicious application of unexpected confrontation. On this particular night, and in these specific circumstances, prudence born of experience convinced him that this venture was assuredly not one of those.

For one thing, the identity and purpose of the recent arrivals remained undisclosed. For another, he may not be in immediate danger. The truck’s driver could depart quickly, allowing him delayed but undisturbed egress. However, it was also possible that two or more Emerald City Catering employees would turn on every light in the joint, make themselves a pot of coffee, and spend the next hour or so playing gin rummy.

Artificial illumination instantly flooded the main floor, someone remarked about the imperative nature of coffee, and another insisted upon a new deck of cards.

It could be worse, reasoned Simon. At least he was one dark floor above them where he could tremulously hide in a hutch were he given to such self-protective temerity. The Saint, quickly discarding the option of being cramped in a cupboard, allocated himself a few trim minutes of eavesdropping before searching for the second story eaves.

“I wish Alisdare would score us some free tickets when we did these concert jobs,” said one fellow emphatically, “I’d love to be in the audience instead of just settin’ out cold cuts backstage.”

“Ah, c’mon, Dave,” responded the other, “you mean you really go for those guys? I don’t know how you can stand a bunch of old hippies jumping around screaming. Instead of Grand Theft, they should call themselves...”

His suggestion, while not suited for all audiences, caused Dave to guffaw and snort, an unpleasant auditory experience inexplicably interpreted as an expression of appreciative humor.

“Besides,” he continued, “I think Alisdare saves all the good perks for himself. If the job is lobster and scampi for big shots with big bucks, you can bet the little runt will be licking his fingers all the way to the client’s table. He had one of those today at the Westin. Some movie promotion and they probably spent as much on the food as they did on the special effects. That little goof-ball is probably spending his commission right now shovin’ tokens in the slot at Uncle Elmo’s peep show.”

Dave cut the cards.

“You’re kiddin’ me, Bud. Ya mean ol’ Alisdare hangs out down there?”

Bud laughed as if Dave was ready for his own prime-time comedy special.

“He hangs out there all right. There and that other dive, ‘Chesters,’ in Woodinville. Probably because the cold storage and ice sculpture guy is out there and they got that ‘Brine Time’ pickle business. What a racket,” chortled Bud as he sloshed coffee in his personal World’s Greatest Lover cup, “He makes money on the catering, plus he orders pickles from himself. He got some investor I guess to pump money into his pickle business, but I wouldn’t eat ’em ’cause, knowing him, ya never know where they been. He wanted me to party with him and some pals one night, but that kind of stuff is not my scene. I’d rather watch a ball game or listen to country-western.”

Dave rearranged his cards. It made no difference to the quality of his hand.

“I’d rather be tortured than listen to country-western,” said Dave slyly, and his mind was back at the Seattle Coliseum. “We’ll be back in time for their big encore. We gotta bring plenty of those Brine Time pickles and overpriced sandwiches for the road crew.”

Bud discarded a ten of diamonds.

“Did you catch that blond dressed like a space alien backstage? Boy, she can beam me up anytime.”

Both men laughed because such men laugh at such jokes; the Saint had heard enough. He relocated to the row of windows where his seldom used but never rusty talents as an accomplished second story man were put to immediate use in reverse.

Getting out, Simon discovered, was not going to be difficult. Getting out silently, however, was going to be impossible. He could open a window with only slight opposition, but the building’s ancient nature guaranteed grating screeches equal to Grand Theft’s encore.

The Saint was momentarily perplexed, but only momentarily. Two loud bangs, separated by a one-second pause, suddenly rattled the delivery door as if someone was entreating entry. As two knocks are almost always followed by a third, Simon threw open the window as the third shockwave hit the door. Success.

“What the hell?” Dave tossed his official Emerald City cap on the table next to the discard pile, set down his cards, and headed for the loading dock’s entrance.

“Oh, jeeze, it’s probably some nut,” offered Bud, the older and more experienced of the two. He had been through this more than once.

“We’re closed!” he yelled to the air, and watched his companion open the back door next to the large delivery entrance.

Weaving mildly in an excellent and accurate impersonation of a slightly sloshed and obviously inebriated upper class patron of Seattle’s nightspots was Mrs. Nathanial Berkman. She smiled and blinked, steadied herself, and raised her palm in a gesture so authoritative that any word attempting escape from the lips of the capless employee stopped short of expression.

“Pickled herring,” began Viola stepping forward with the determination of a steamroller about to descend a steep hill, “I’m looking for that pickled herring. Not the big rolled herring, not the wine herring, not the sour cream herring, but the pickled herring in the tall jars with all the onions. Not that I object to onions, mind you, but onions are no substitute for herring, a certain number of onions are obligatory, like ablutions before prayers.” Having propelled herself placidly through the opening, she panned her gaze around the interior of Emerald City Catering. Two guys, coffee, cards — one of the men sipping his java while watching his young compatriot handle the situation.

“You do understand about herring, don’t you?” She smiled hopefully.

“I understand we’re closed,” said Dave patiently, “and we don’t sell herring to walk-in customers anyway. We’re a catering service, not a deli.” He would have continued his explanation, but the coquetry look on Viola’s attractive face curtailed any further commentary.

He gently guided the well-groomed intruder back across the threshold and shut the door before Viola Berkman could say another word, and that was fine with her. Vi’s intent had been simply to ascertain the degree of tension behind the door, and as there was none, either the Saint had escaped or remained undiscovered. If a distraction were useful, useful she was.

“Are you sure you can’t spare a herring?” giggled Viola with a slight slur, the final request adding further authenticity to her performance as a slightly sozzled socialite. The only response was no response, and that too was fine with Mrs Berkman.

The Saint was squirming out the window when he heard the source of his fortuitous distraction. It was difficult to make out any details of the conversation, but Simon Templar silently thanked his providential guardian angels for once again ladling out preposterous amounts of delightful luck. With his strong fingers curved over the edge of the sill, Simon hung at his full arm’s length. Transferring to the narrow stone ledge running along the side of the building was effortless, and he moved quickly to the nearest corner.

From this vantage point he surveyed much of the neighborhood. Unfortunately, much of the neighborhood could, should they bother looking, survey the Saint. The closest streetlight shot glare across his vision. Simon considered a blind forward leap into mid-air would certainly result in crippling impact with either pavement or gravel; a calculated jump to the side could, if he were correct in his estimation of distance and positioning, allow him to land several feet below on the flat roof of a small retail outlet christened with the grandiose title “Prosthesis World.” Overestimating ability or underestimating distance would qualify him as a potential customer.

Deciding that another moment of blatant public exposure was unacceptable, the Saint took a leap of faith. It was a leap not dissimilar from any of the numerous leaps which find their way into these stories, except that mid-distance between the point of departure and the point of arrival, the cassette tape stashed in Simon’s pocket became independent of its human carrier and sailed off alone into the night, its clear plastic case shimmering with reflected light for one brief moment before plummeting into darkness and pavement. Simom heard the sharp treble crack of the cassette hitting the asphalt strip running between the two buildings only a millisecond before his strong legs delivered him unbroken atop Prosthesis World.

Crouched rooftop under moonlight, Simon Templar considered the familiarity of this nocturnal environment. Countless times he had scampered across similar roofs, swung from balustrades, dangled from sills, and stretched his lean athletic frame from drain gutter to lattice. The Saint could not deny that tonight was somehow different. There was an uncomfortable ache along the length of his calves and a mild cramping in his upper arms. Despite continued formal workouts, Simon regretfully acknowledged to himself how distant in actual experience were the once common physical rigors of demonstrative outlawry.

He watched another Metro Transit bus spark its way up Madison, noted the green neon sign of the Italian bistro, and leaned gargoyle-like over the roof’s edge. He retrieved the thin black flashlight from his jacket and aimed the pinpoint beam downward, but it revealed only the pavement’s predictable location.

The safest place to drop was from the roof’s far west side. Simon eased himself over the edge and let go. The ground, accented with a liberal sprinkling of gravel, was more uncomfortable on impact than he anticipated. He rolled once, stood quickly, straightened his clothing, and merged back into the tall foliage sprouting alongside the building.

Stepping from the shadows, he walked over and picked up the tape.

“Boo!”

3

Simon spun around and found himself facing a gleefully grinning Viola.

“Hey Mister, what’s a man your age doing jumping around like that?”

“C’mon,” urged the Saint as he took her arm, “Let’s go. What in the world are you doing here?”

“I’m the one who distracted the employees so you could do your nightly calisthenics,” declared Vi proudly as they strolled quickly, but not suspiciously, back to the bright lights of Madison.

“I’m glad that you’re having so much fun, Ms Berkman,” drawled the Saint. “But if you’re going to accompany me to the last rural lair of corrupt caterers and deviant pickle packers, I insist on taking the wheel.”

“Only if you tell me everything,” bargained Vi.

The Saint drove.

The BMW passed over the Evergreen Point Bridge towards the affluent eastside suburbs, and by the time it turned north on I-405, Simon had recounted his version of events and discoveries at Emerald City Catering. Vi poured through the pages of Alisdare’s little black book of names, dollar figures, cryptic notations, and references to ingredients not smiled upon by advocates of environmental protection.

“I don’t think this is a recipe for pickle brine,” said Vi jabbing a fingernail into the page. “Ferric chloride, ephdedrine sulphate, ammonia gas, benzaldehyde...”

“Don’t forget a liberal sprinkling of formaldehyde and acetic acid,” added the Saint, “that’s what makes Brine Time pickles so crunchy and Snookums so cranky.”

Vi shut the book.

“Cranky indeed. That’s what the kids call it — crank. They also call it speed, the poor man’s cocaine. I’ve seen kids on that stuff more nervous than a bag full of cats. They stay up for days without sleep, get paranoid and unpredictable...” Her voice trailed off as her jaw tightened in anger and determination.

The Saint gave the BMW some speed of its own and moved to the right hand lane.

“Methinks Mr Alisdare has been sampling his own product, judging from his recent behavior,” commented Simon, “and Snookums probably had a snoot-full when he entertained us at your office. But by the time the sun rises over the Cascades, I am absolutely positive that Talon and Alisdare will concern you no more.”

He said it with such flat matter-of-fact assurance that Viola could only look at him with comforted admiration.

Simon flicked the turn signal indicator and took the Woodinville/Duvall exit. A brightly lit self-service gas station illumined the descent from four lane freeway to the tiny town’s one main intersection. They turned left and continued on the Woodinville/Duvall road and soon passed the only enterprise doing any business at this late hour, the rowdy and raucous Chesters Dance Palace. A beer and wine outpost featuring exotic dance performances for men with bulging wallets, big tires on their pickups, and unfulfilled fantasies, Chesters had not yet become victim to the future’s unavoidable emergence of conservative family values and gentrified property improvement.

“You can guess who owns that joint,” muttered Vi, “the wonderful Mr Arthur Rasnec.”

“And probably without Dexter Talon,” added Simon as he slowed to the speed limit.

“Without Talon? I thought they would be two peas in a perverted pod.” Vi’s expression indicated unsurprising disapproval.

“Talon may be a crafty predator, but he is no investment genius,” explained the Saint as they continued on the darkened two-lane blacktop, “I’ll bet you his bottom dollar that when he decided he wanted a piece of Uncle Elmo’s action, he went to Rasnec without even knowing him. Rasnec isn’t a criminal lawyer, he’s an investment attorney. He invests his own money as well as others’. He likes to be a player. Chesters makes perfect sense for Rasnec — he finances a cheap thrill joint in an underdeveloped area like Woodinville and funnels the profits into land purchases. Look at it — wooded acres, no industry, no retail, a few houses. Someday it will be another populated extension of the Bellevue/Kirkland Metropolitan Area with fast food franchises, factory outlets, and high-priced housing developments. Rasnec, seeing the future, would be buying it up with every penny of profit from the world of exotic dance. Five years from now, when all this is strip-malls and condominiums, the main street will be named ‘Rasnec’ in honor of the town’s primary benefactor and most respected investor.”

“Hmmm, I doubt Talon is as futuristic in his motivations,” said Vi, “but if you’re right, Rasnec probably saw ownership of Uncle Elmo’s as not only a prudent downtown investment, but as another source of talented performers for Chesters.”

“Advance to the head of the class, Viola. Elmo’s daytime nieces may be grinding away back there for table tips at this very minute.”

“And if it’s true that Talon didn’t arrange Uncle Elmo’s death,” Vi enjoyed playing Ms Deduction, “the mob who put Elmo in his grave would tread more lightly around a Seattle Detective. They might even slip him cash, if he were open to it.”

The tall trees and occasional clouds obscured the moonlight. Simon turned on the BMW’s high beams.

“It’s possible,” agreed the Saint, “A little corruption goes a long way.”

“I hope it takes him all the way to hell,” insisted Vi.

The were both silent for a time, and the dark road seemed to unravel forever. Vi hoped the Saint knew where he was going. She turned and stared at him, which was something she enjoyed doing. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t mind. Despite his age, he appeared timeless. There was still the same heroic swiftness of line about his features, and the same dancing devil of mischief in his clear blue eyes that she either remembered from her childhood or memorized from magazines.

The Saint tossed back his head and laughed aloud. Vi, assuming that he was laughing because she was staring, begged his forgiveness.

“No, no,” objected Simon good naturedly, “the day women stop staring is the day I refuse to go out in public.”

Vi eyed him playfully for a moment before posing a perfectly reasonable question.

“Why do you still do it? Being the Saint, I mean.”

A reckless smile glided across his lips and his chin tilted up in youthful impertinence.

“Because I refuse to grow up and settle down,” stated the Saint proudly. “I’ve certainly matured, but I promised myself at an early age that I would never resign myself to life without adventure. I vowed to keep crashing about, raising hell, righting wrongs, rescuing damsels in distress, and biffing the ungodly on the beezer for as long as I could. Besides,” the Saint added for additional justification, “it’s good for the complexion.”

Simon slowed the BMW as they rounded the curve into what would be the center of Duvall if Duvall had a center.

“Then again,” continued the Saint, “I’ve always asserted that I was a genius, and to prove it, I promised to quit while I was ahead.”

She reached over and squeezed his arm. His bicep was rock solid.

“The public thinks the notorious Saint retired years ago, Mr Templar,” said Vi affectionately.

“It was a mild intention never fully realized,” admitted the Saint cheerfully, “Maybe I felt something remained undone. When I was young and brash all I wanted from life was adventure, and adventure became life itself. But Viola my sweet, adventure, more than anything, is an attitude of mind. In other words, it’s not what you do, it’s the manner in which you do it.”

“As the actress said to the Bishop?”

The Saint laughed and Duvall’s one streetlight cast refracted rays through the lightly fogged window bathing Simon’s profile in an aura of white.

“If there were no Saint, I imagine we would have to invent one just to keep us on our toes,” said Vi sweetly. “But really, Simon, when you’ve swashed your last buckle, who in the world could take your place?”

Simon’s bright sapphire eyes focused far away on some private, personal vision.

“The spoiled child of a wild tempestuous destiny,” stated the Saint, “who wants to have all the fun in the world. As for me, when that time comes, I shall recline in literary repose on a sun-drenched beach and write my memoirs.”

She had her answer; the Saint dimmed the headlights and eased slowly into the dirt and rock parking lot of a closed country cafe called The Silver Spoon.

“Are you lost?” asked Vi, somewhat concerned.

“Of course not,” snapped Simon playfully, “and if I was do you think I would stop for directions at an empty restaurant?”

Simon turned off the ignition and reached down for Viola’s purse.

“I need to retrieve something from you, if you don’t mind. A deadly weapon, as a matter of fact.”

Simon pulled Snookum’s small revolver out of Vi’s bag. The Saint heard her gasp.

“How long has that been in there?” Vi sounded like a scolding schoolmarm.

“Oh, since just before I ran off to burgle Emerald City Catering,” responded Simon, “You can’t make big bangs without one of these, you know.”

“Do you plan on shooting somebody for real?” Vi asked it as if worried that pumping people full of lead was not situation specific appropriate behavior.

“Not if I can help it,” said Simon, “the police always want to investigate those things, and corpses are so inconvenient.”

Vi looked around dimly lit Duvall as if expecting the aforementioned corpses to suddenly appear.

“There’s nothing here except this cafe and a few little shops across the street,” she said, pointing at a small clustering of outlets including The Handmade Blade Arts and Crafts Center and The Child’s Balloon Gift Shoppe. “You plan on shooting your way past the decoupage for a climax by the wrapping paper?”

Simon finished double checking the gun and slid it into his back waistband.

“We’re not far from Brine Time, and we’re equally close to Mr Alisdare’s private lair,” explained the Saint coolly, “I’ve known dear Salvadore’s domicile ever since I lifted his wallet back at Nikko’s. In fact, I believe Snookums had every intention of bringing me here earlier, although I wasn’t particularly receptive at the time. Let’s just say I am arriving fashionably late and hopefully unannounced.”

Simon took the black book from Vi, thumbed through it, and ripped out a page. He also removed one unpleasant negative from Alisdare’s collection, kept the plastic bag in which they were contained, and activated the inside trunk release. He stepped out of the car and motioned Vi to do the same. The Duvall air was chilled and moist with the scent of trees. Vi seemed more to fall out of the passenger side than exit gracefully.

“If you think you’re stuffing me in the trunk, you’re certainly mistaken.”

She stood in the damp darkness, her arms folded, her demeanor straining to retain its air of competent professionalism.

“The thought never crossed my mind,” admitted the Saint, and he placed some items lifted from Alisdare’s safe into the trunk, retained others, handed Vi the keys, and provided carefully worded instructions regarding the balance of the evening’s agenda.

A few minutes later, the black BMW slowed to a stop along a single lane road off what passed for the main Duvall highway. Had anyone been watching, they would have seen nothing. The car regained speed and disappeared into the dark. So did the Saint, but he was not in the car.

Simon Templar had every intention of walking up to Alisdare’s front door and ringing the bell, but not before ascertaining a thorough understanding of the property’s features, structures, and hazards. In crime parlance, he cased the joint.

The wooded property was at least three acres. Set back at significant distance from the secondary road was an older house and two minor secondary structures. One was steel, the other was a nondescript wood shed, both were newer than the house and looked distinctly utilitarian. The shed, surrounded by shrubbery, was not noticeable from the entry road. A miniscule border of light seeped through one small rectangular window.

For anyone to sneak up on the building without stumbling over tree roots, especially in the dark, would be next to impossible. For the Saint, next to impossible was the stuff of his legend. He slithered through the darkness in self-assured silence and positioned himself directly beneath the window. He could hear voices, none of which were familiar, discussing one of his least favorite subjects — chemistry.

“The HCL salt is odorless, colorless, and bitter-tasting and it forms needle-shaped crystals in ethanol,” remarked one fellow to another, “Highly water soluble. Less soluble in ethanol. Only very slightly soluble in acetone, toluene, or MEK, more if solvent is hot. Insoluble in ethyl ether.”

“Yeah,” acknowledged a deeper voice with a world-weary tone, “Methamphetamine freebase is a very pale yellow oil, foul tasting as hell, and alkaline enough to irritate the lungs. We’re probably smart to use toluene — less of a fire hazard.”

The Saint, despite a relative ignorance of chemistry, understood that the men were not discussing pickle processing.

He slipped away with the noiseless precision of a military commando and approached the main house from the back side. He could see the outline of three vehicles in a flattened clearing — a 4X4 elevated by absurdly enormous tires, a nondescript medium sized two-door import, and a Volvo wagon. Simon shot a pinpoint shaft of light from the black flashlight to the wagon’s passenger side and a red stick figure’s halo winked back at him.

So precise and noiseless were his footsteps than neither leaf nor twig knew of his existence. He moved up along side the Volvo, peered in, and steeled himself for the possibility of bloodstains.

There was no blood, only crumpled wrappers from peanut butter cups. The Saint surveyed the two story house. It was an older Duvall construction with large front porch, a smaller one in back, and a daylight basement. An open shed off to the side contained a wheel barrow, rakes, a cord or two of wood, an axe, and sundry related items. Stretched out on the ground was an extension ladder, the type painters use. Simon considered it for a moment, judged the distance between the ground and second floor window, and decided to leave the ladder untouched.

He crept around the side of the house, his ears straining to catch every sound. Positioned directly under the main floor window, the Saint stole a peek inside and saw Salvadore Alisdare preening in front of a mirror. Out of his suit and into faded denim pants and wide lapeled lavender shirt, he looked like an overdressed duck.

The Saint continued around to the anterior porch, paused to assure himself that he looked his best, and strode up the five steps to the front door with all the affirmative confidence of an old-fashioned bible salesman.

With a smile on his face and every muscle at the ready, Simon Templar rapped a playful rhythm on the door.

There was a moment of predictable trepidation, for the Saint seriously considered the possibility that he could be gunned down there and then. He dismissed the idea, and not entirely by his traditional justification that such an ignominious demise was not in keeping with destiny. If Snookums had been sent to retrieve him, Simon’s appearance on Alisdare’s doorstep may be a surprise to the domicile’s inhabitants but one they were at least partially prepared to deal with.

Salvadore Alisdare casually pulled open the front door as if anticipating visitors, but from the look in his face, he was obviously not anticipating the Saint.

“Sorry to bother you at home, old fruit,” began the Simon with characteristic charisma and unflappable effrontery, “but I seem to have misplaced two young men and an ugly station wagon.”

4

The Saint strode directly into the room, shut the door behind him and turned the deadbolt before the slack-jawed Alisdare could find his voice-box.

“Now, as the wagon is outside I assume the boys are inside. Would you mind fetching them for me?”

Alisdare’s ears resembled two hot-pink flames rising from the side of his head. Sweat ran in rivulets from his temples down the sides of his cheeks, and his little eyes blinked with astonishing rapidity.

“Mr Templar...,” Alisdare, torn between an imitation of courtesy and an outburst of anger, almost stumbled over his tongue, “this is...”

“A surprise, an honor, a day for celebration,” continued the Saint in his most absurd and irritating manner, “but we must wrap this up quickly as it’s getting late and we need our beauty sleep before we search for the Costello Treasure, don’t we Mr Alisdare?”

Salvadore’s eyes burned with an unnatural fire, and Simon knew its source was the shed behind the house.

“Yes, the treasure,” acknowledged Alisdare, and he struggled to regain his self-control. “Your young toughs are my honored guests. They are in no danger, I assure you. Please make yourself comfortable.” He gestured towards a modest yet comfortable living room ensemble, but Simon didn’t budge. “Please, we have much to discuss.”

“We can discuss how to get more loot from Dexter Talon, for one thing,” insisted the Saint with inflection tinged by criminal conspiratorial intentions.

“That’s the real treasure and I believe there’s enough for both a blackmailer and a pirate. I’m one, you’re the other.”

“So that’s your game,” said Alisdare with a sweaty smirk, “I thought...”

“Don’t think,” interrupted Simon roughly, “You don’t have the qualifications.” He began to jab his finger into the small man’s chest. “Talon told you I was on his side, but you knew that was probably bogus. But you wanted me out of town, out of the game, because you couldn’t take the chance that I’d interfere. I loved the Costello Treasure story, I really did. I especially loved the ten thousand dollar cashier’s check. If you hadn’t come to me with that whopper I wouldn’t have seen the photos of little Buzzy until tomorrow morning.”

Salvadore turned several lighter shades of beige.

“I’ll cut to the chase, Mr SeaQue Salvage. The way I figure it, you’ve got Talon over a barrel and that barrel is full of cash — corrupt cash but cash none the less. Someone told you I’d fall for that Costello story faster than a boxer taking a dive. Even if I didn’t believe it, my curiosity would compel me to go along for the ride. Whoever it was, they were right, except I bumped my schedule ahead by fifteen hours and this has been a most educational evening.”

Alisdare, his piggy eyes wide as dish plates, instinctively and defensively took a step backward with each of Simon’s pokes.

“I’ve had bad beer with Detective Talon, met Arthur Rasnec and Diamond Tremayne, paid a little visit to Emerald City Catering,” continued the Saint with assertive bravado, “and brought back a few souvenirs.”

The Saint shoved the photo negative and the torn page from the little black book into the sweat-drenched weasel’s face.

“Look familiar?”

Alisdare wanted to throw up. He wished Simon Templar would simply vanish. His heart pounded ferociously and the room swirled around him. He put an arm out to steady himself, but there was nothing within reach. He began to list dangerously to one side, but Simon’s strong hand steadied him.

“You can’t drop dead on me, my little rodent,” cautioned Simon, “we have so much nefarious planning to do, so much wealth to confiscate, so many details to work out.”

“Please,” pleaded Alisdare weakly, “let me sit down.”

Simon plopped the plump lump of agitated flesh into an unpleasantly upholstered armchair and leaned over to squeeze Alisdare’s cheeks with his strong brown fingers.

“You have a meth lab cranking away out back and protection from a Seattle detective because he is under your thumb. He can’t have you busted ’cause you hold all the cards and all the photos. But I’ll tell you the one thing you have going for you that I really appreciate even more than your crisp, delicious pickles or your scrumptious lobster.”

Alisdare looked up into the Saint’s clear blue eyes for a hint of mercy and found only a dangerous mocking humor.

“You have the world by the tail. You really do.”

Simon’s voice was light and full of admiration while his grip was tight and unrelenting. The trembling blob in the armchair imagined the Saint must be a madman.

“You see, Salvadore ol’ pal, I despise Dexter Talon even more than I dislike you. He has nothing going for him except bad habits and part ownership of a sleazy arcade. But those habits and that arcade are earning him payoffs from the old enemies of Uncle Elmo. You remember dear old Elmo, don’t you? You must, because I found his name in your little book. You’ve managed to tap into the easiest flow of money in the criminal kingdom — extorting payoff money from a corrupt cop. The poor leech is just a conduit of cash. It builds up in his hands and then, after you insist, it moves on to you. So what if you toss ten grand at me, there must be five times that much just waiting to be snared.”

Alisdare nodded his head violently in affirmation.

“But you’re even more greedy than I am, Salvadore. You had to send your pickle-packing compatriot to get your check back. He failed of course, so he comes back with a gun. Where was your big beast going to take me if I had gone along with him?” The Saint wanted an answer and released just enough tension on Alisdare’s cheeks for him to squeeze out words through pursed lips.

“Here. He was going to bring you here. I wanted... I wanted to explain things to you, make you my partner, honest... the Costello story, you’re right about that... I figured you were tipped off when you and two of your gang took off for Uncle Elmo’s...” Alisdare, babbling foolishly, rambling and stumbling, hoped for an opportunity to make sense, to say something that would make the Saint go easy on him, “We’re two of a kind, you and me. We can work together, really we can. You’ll see.”

The Saint would have laughed out loud but he didn’t want to step out of character. He reached back and pulled Snookum’s gun from his waistband. Alisdare recoiled in fear.

“Give me your hand,” insisted the Saint, and Salvadore held up one weak wet hand.

Simon spun the gun around and slammed the butt into Alisdare’s reluctant grip.

“Take it,” Simon insisted.

He took it.

“Shoot me,” demanded the Saint, and the little man’s hand shook violently.

“Pull the trigger!” Simon slapped him across the face. “Pull the trigger!”

CLICK!

The gun was empty.

“Thank you,” said the Saint happily and thrust a pen into the gun’s barrel and lifted it out of Alisdare’s sticky palm. The tremulous blackmailer, immobilized by fear, watched as the dangerous buccaneer pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and deposited the weapon inside.

“I had to shoot a few people tonight and your fingerprints on the murder weapon will be most convenient,” stated Simon with a straight face, “Even Talon won’t be able to get you off the hook.”

Under the circumstances, and despite the absurdity of the Saint’s assertion, Alisdare had no choice except to take Simon’s word for it.

“Now, let us agree between you and me, that we will have no more secrets,” intoned the Saint in the most silken of tones, “I’ll tell you right out that I’ve given my gang the contents of your safe. If you have Talon over a barrel, we have you. But I’m not on Talon’s side; I’m not on your side. I’m on my side. It just happens that my side is closer to you than it is to Talon. We both want what Talon’s got — money and plenty of it. And together, were going to get it and get it all at once.”

Alisdare squeaked out a question.

“All at once?”

“Simple, my little cucumber,” intoned Simon as if Alisdare was a complete idiot. “You are going to arrange one of your little meetings with Talon — a meeting of the minds. Tell him you want to negotiate an arrangement for your long term prospects together. He’ll fall for it. All you have to do is keep him busy in a neutral area, maybe by that little bistro on Madison, while I have my gang, including the about to be liberated ‘young toughs,’ ransack his hideaway in Madison Park.”

“But,” Alisdare began to object, but Simon cut him off with a glare.

“But that would kill your golden goose? Too bad. I’ll split the loot with you, fifty-fifty. Or maybe sixty-forty, depending on your degree of cooperation. You see, I’m only in town for a day or two so raiding the hen house instead of waiting for eggs doesn’t bother me a bit. You should just be happy I don’t kill you right here, right now. I could, you know. I’ve done that sort of thing before.”

Alisdare considered the Saint’s notorious reputation and Talon’s previous threats. He bought it.

“You do what I say and I won’t do a thing to harm you, your meth lab, or your pickle business,” growled the Saint, “Cross me in any way and I’ll smash you and everyone associated with you.”

Salvadore Alisdare wished he had never heard of the dangerous rogue who held him captive with nothing more than attitude and inflection. The same dashing gentleman who listened so patiently to the Costello Treasure story now intimidated him with wholesale threats and an awe-inspiring presence that gave even the unimaginative Alisdare images of india-rubber, freshly lubricated lightning, and high explosives. The little man was afraid, and nothing fuels hatred faster than fear. The Saint watched the animosity boiling in the whites of Alisdare’s eyes.

“You know, I get the feeling you don’t like me,” said Simon with a slight pout. “You don’t want your partner to feel unappreciated, do you?”

Alisdare, convinced that Simon was both deliberately dangerous and decidedly insane, did his best to humor him.

“No, no. I appreciate you, I really do. After all,” insisted Salvadore, “you are the famous Saint. Everyone knows you; everyone marvels...”

Simon cut the absurd flattery short.

“Enough!”

The Saint pulled Alisdare roughly out of the chair.

“We are not going to be the best of friends, but we will certainly pretend we are. Before you offer me your comraderie and fellowship, I suggest you reunite me with my youthful gang members. Then we will all sit down together for some delicious Brine Time pickles and discuss the limited financial future of Dexter Talon.”

Alisdare’s eyes darted nervously towards the back door.

“Oh, yes,” added the Saint, “when your chemistry class is dismissed and the kids come home from school, feel free to introduce me as your long-lost Auntie Ethanol. You can doubt me if you wish, but I assure you it will be fatal. Now, where are the boys?”

The little man wiped a sleeve across his dripping brow and raised his eyes.

“Upstairs.” The reply was without enthusiasm.

Simon threw a muscular arm around Alisdare’s hunched shoulders and squeezed him as if they were dear old pals.

“C’mon, let’s go liberate the youths, and don’t even think of pulling a fast one or tipping off your Bunsen-burner buddies. That one gun may be empty, but I’m a walking arsenal,” lied the Saint, “I’ve got more firepower on me than you can imagine.”

As Alisdare could imagine extensive firepower, he trembled in acquiescence as the two men traipsed up the curved stairway to the upper floor. Simon paused to offer a critical commentary on Alisdare’s choice of lime green shag carpet, but the words washed over Salvadore like sea water over the sunken Polaris. Lost beneath the waves, Alisdare was in no mood for interior design consultation.

Beneath the Saint’s surface, he was neither as buoyant as he behaved nor as malevolent as he appeared. Simon enjoyed being back in action, but that was his choice. Dan and Ian, however, were simply fans whose admiration and eagerness merited fellowship and an autograph, not kidnapping and captivity. He had blithely sent them on their way, entrusted with a few simple errands designed to give them an exaggerated feeling of adventurous involvement, never imagining he was consigning them to even the most minimal degree of danger.

The Saint had earlier categorized the night’s priorities. Now that Dan and Ian were located, the first task was to assure their freedom. Beyond such immediate concerns, there were other matters occupying Simon’s thought processes. He fully grasped the methods and motives of Alisdare and Talon, despite their mutual antagonism, but the exact roles of Diamond Tremayne and Arthur Rasnec remained enigmas. As mysteries go, she was the more captivating of the two. Simon trusted time, fate, and the gods of adventure would assure complete disclosure of Ms Tremayne and her Costello Treasure. As Diamond had manipulated Salvadore Alisdare into revealing himself to the Saint, she was obviously on Simon’s side. But the Saint knew from experience that sides can be characterized by slippery borders and abstract boundaries.

No less slippery was the diminutive Mr Alisdare who led the way upstairs with predictable reluctance and appreciable trepidation. The top of the stairs merged into a hard-wood hallway decorated by an antique floor radio and one struggling palm. The long languid plant leaned listlessly to one side, the dirt in its terracota pot caked from benign neglect.

“Really, Salvadore,” commented the Saint, “your green thumb seems to have deserted you.”

Alisdare stopped in his tracks, turned toward the plant and allowed his gaze to move bravely back to the Saint.

“It’s supposed to look like that,” snapped Salvadore acerbicly. With the remark still dripping from his lips, the little man suddenly bolted down the hall with an astonishing animated velocity. Simon, close behind, reached out one strong arm, grabbed the ferociously peddling fellow by the nape of neck, and lifted him off the ground. Despite an inability to achieve traction while suspended in space, Alisdare’s feet maintained their repetitive rapidity while his hands flailed furiously like a pair of flapping geese.

The Saint lifted and twisted Alisdare around until the agitated character faced him eye to eye. The struggling subsided and Alisdare seemed to resign himself once again to the Saint’s control. Simon eased him down until his toes skimmed the floor’s surface.

“Behave yourself or there will be no pickles for dessert.” The Saint’s tone was only moderately paternal. Alisdare, his lower lip vibrating, nodded penitently. Simon set him solidly on the ground, swiveled him around, and placed both his hands firmly on Salvadore’s shoulders.

“Lead the way, partner,” commanded the Saint.

There were doors on either side of the hall and one of them featured a small buzzer-like device with wires running up the outside frame and disappearing into the wall. The Saint had seen these before — electronic door releases operational only from the outside. Both the device and the wires were painted over in the same dull peach as the wall and door frame.

Salvadore shuffled towards the entry on his left with understandable resistance.

“Can’t we just leave them be while we talk this over?” asked Alisdare weakly. The Saint’s expression discouraged any continuation of that particular line of reasoning. Then, with the same speed with which he had bolted at the head of the stairs, Alisdare thrust out one short pudgy finger and pressed the button with such force that the tip of his finger blanched. It did not release the door, rather it unleashed a blaring electronic wail of piercing intensity rivaled only by Grand Theft’s encore at the Seattle Center. And all hell broke loose.

In retrospect, Simon acknowledged that Salvadore’s mad dash down the hall made perfect sense, as did his illusory penitent attitude. Having regained control of Alisdare, the Saint mistook trickery for temerity. His captive was dashing towards that very buzzer when apprehended. His goal, although momentarily delayed, was achieved. The electronic bleating which ensued the moment Alisdare pressed the button threw the previously silent house into an uproar. Alisdare, as unlikely a Gabriel to ever blow the trumpet of ungodly summons, sent a danger signal to the men in the shed and alerted any malefactors of which Simon was unaware.

The Saint tossed the little man aside as one would a stuffed toy and kicked in the door. It was a garish bedroom accented by metallic green wallpaper and black satin sheets. It was empty. Alisdare cackled in nervous laughter. Simon spun and faced the opposite door. As Simon lunged, Alisdare threw himself at the Saint’s knees. Perhaps Alisdare thought his grip and weight could abort the Saint’s mission or negate the explosion of power in Simon’s legs. If such were his intentions, they were ill founded. Rather, it was more as if Alisdare had locked his arms around a rocket at the moment of lift-off. The Saint was airborne, his strong right shoulder impacting the solid wood door with sufficient force to rip out the striker plate and tear the door frame asunder. Alisdare, like the tail of a cat, was along for a short but eventful ride which culminated in painful collision — first with the floor and then with the sole of Simon’s shoe. The later did not impact Alisdare’s forehead entirely by accident.

The Saint was on his feet in an instant while Salvadore, disoriented as much from the chemicals in his system as from his sudden burst of stressful exercise, had difficulty scrambling as far as all fours. It took only a micro-second for Simon to realize that this room was also without guests. The Saint, as much as he hated admitting it, had been momentarily outwitted by a consummate scoundrel. Simon quickly delineated his immediate options and listed them as limited. A headfirst dive through the second floor window was the next best thing to suicide, and the Saint did not come here to die. There was no advantage in escape without the boys, nor was there success to his visit unless he could exercise significant influence over Alisdare. If the recipients of Salvadore’s summons were no better blessed in physique and agility than their master, it was still possible for Simon to gain the upper hand. An immediate assault upon Alisdare’s arriving reinforcements was a risky venture, but the Saint’s colorful career could be characterized as a succession of such ventures, each proportionately speculative and uniformly hazardous.

The Saint swiftly sidestepped Alisdare, moving back out into the hall, and saw the first human obstacle to his situational ascendency — a scrawny, hollow-cheeked individual, less than five foot ten inches tall, with a total estimated weight of one hundred fifty seven pounds — taking the stairs two at a time in manifest earnestness. When the Saint burst into view, the gangly thug stumbled to a mid-stair stop and spun his right hand up to fire the sleek, silver television remote control clutched in his grip. The aforementioned spin came to an abrupt halt when he realized the impotence of his armament and blurted out an embarrassing caveat.

“I forgot my gun!”

“Tough noodles, Toodles,” commented the Saint dispassionately.

Toodles was not the stringy fellow’s given name, but as he and Simon were alone on the stairs, he knew it was to him that the Saint spoke. In a reflex action as absurd as it was ineffectual, Toodles’ thumb desperately depressed one of the remote’s buttons. The Saint did not pause, rather he pounced with the power of a compressed steel spring suddenly released.

Had a photograph been taken at the earliest moment of this eventful encounter, it would reveal only an absurdly handsome modern-day pirate conversing with a wide-eyed, slack-jawed imbecile. Even the most advanced techniques would fail to capture the emotional impact on the gunless gunsel who noticed neither the precision tailoring of the Saint’s wardrobe nor the finer aspects of Simon Templar’s personal grooming. Either because he was scared as hell, or perhaps because he nurtured the mistaken assumption that the personification of danger at the top of the stairs would wait for him while he went back for his revolver, the ungodly’s vanguard turned his back. It was this same back, neither wide nor muscular, which immediately experienced an unpleasant impact mid-center, propelling him in a flailing arc of descent interrupted only by a momentarily painful collision with the wall. The Saint’s own descent was equally rapid, and Simon was already in Alisdare’s living room while his proposed opponent, a tangle of limbs on the landing, cried shamelessly over a sprained ankle.

Alisdare, having regained his two-footed stance if not his composure, began issuing abrasive orders from the second floor hall.

“Capture the Saint!” yelped Salvadore, but his disheveled accomplice was both unenthusiastic concerning the concept and decidedly unworthy of the task.

As for the Saint, he knew the henchman could only have arrived so quickly if he had been somewhere in the house to begin with. As he had not appeared during Simon’s earlier boisterous conversation with Alisdare, he must have been completely distracted one floor below.

Simon’s immediate survey of his surroundings revealed nothing surprising about the architecture or layout of Alisdare’s home. Traditionally, American domiciles of that era featured daylight basements accessible by stairwell located near the back door and adjacent to the kitchen. Already sprinting in that direction, Simon could see through the kitchen towards the back door and predict with a fair approximation of accuracy the exact location of the aforementioned stairwell.

Three sets of keys gleamed on the kitchen counter and another rested atop a hall table. The math was easy — three cars in back, one in front. It was quite possible that Dan and Ian had been hustled in via the back door and promptly ensconced underground. Alisdare, Simon noted to himself, violated the conventional thriller protocol which requires villains to hold prisoners above the first floor unless the house is situated atop a seething whirlpool, cavernous labyrinth, or boiling pit of molten lava.

The Saint scooped up the keys from the hall table, grabbed the other sets as he crossed into the kitchen, and stuffed them into his pockets. The door to the basement was ajar and Simon propelled himself down with one agile leap, landing with uninterrupted strides upon gold shag carpet in Alisdare’s subterranean party room while his affronted host continued berating his semi-crippled lackey into limping, lukewarm pursuit.

Simon immediately discovered Dan and Ian gagged with duct tape and amateurishly secured by bungy cords to two black metal chairs set several feet apart in front of a console television. On screen was an inventive escape of interpersonal cross-gender indulgence never previewed by any legitimate ratings board; resting atop the TV was the object forgotten by the injured henchman in his hurried response to Alisdare’s summons — a snub-nose .38 revolver.

Thrilled at seeing their knightly hero drop into the midst of their dilemma as if descending from heaven, Dan and Ian began straining furiously against their bonds, grunting out muffled cries behind taut tape.

“So much for being a captive audience,” remarked the Saint, his voice resonating with victorious promise, “you’re watching too much television and not getting enough exercise.”

Simon grabbed the .38 in one deft move and swiftly unsnapped the absurd restraints. Dan and Ian sprung from their chairs, ripping away the tape from their lips.

Thundering footsteps and husky voices signaled that reinforcements from the shed were soon to be upon them, and the quietude of Duvall’s pastoral serenity was already pierced by Alisdare’s shrill commands and anguished expletives.

“Lock ’em in,” ordered Salvadore breathlessly from above, “slam that damn door!”

If the Saint harbored any concerns regarding his young fans’ response to the reality of being engulfed in a maelstrom of life-threatening mayhem, they were discarded with the same rapidity with which Daniel and Ian sent their chairs crashing through the basement’s windows.

“They’ll trap us down here!” exclaimed Daniel. His remark was more explanation and instruction than observation, but the Saint was already several mental steps ahead of him. Simon tossed a handful of keys to the wide-eyed Ian as the young men scrambled atop a teetering video cabinet to kick out the chards blocking their potential egress, grabbed a bungy cord, and headed back up the stairs.

The first human shadow cast on the stairwell wall jumped back in panic when the Saint’s purloined .38 spat flame and a high-velocity slug slammed into the kitchen wall. Simon heard swearing and cries of warning echoing in the reverberation of his gunfire. He took the stairs in two leaps, slid the metal hook of the bungee cord around the thin stem of the old-fashioned brass door knob, and jumped back down to fasten the opposite end of the tightly stretched high-tension cord to the metal bracket at the bottom of the stair’s railing. Keeping the basement door from closing provided more opportunity than danger. He knew Alisdare would send thugs back outside the moment he realized his captives were scrambling out into the dark, but no one in his right mind would dare risk the impact of hot lead by descending the stairs or lingering in the doorway long enough to discover the reason for the door’s inexplicable reluctance to achieve closure.

No one said Salvadore Alisdare was in his right mind.

“Shut that damn door, Milo,” he insisted, and Milo the Gimp reached out, grabbed the handle, and attempted slamming the basement door. The resultant increased tension on the bungy cord, amplified in its resistance at the point of near closure, was more than Milo could control.

Had Milo insisted on retaining his grip, he would have been pulled off his one good foot and sent face first into the gold shag carpet several feet below. The handle, however, jerked from his sweaty hand and the door swung back open with a bang. Aggravated, and unaware of the bungy cord, Alisdare took angry control of the effort, pulling furiously at the recalcitrant introgression at the same moment that Dan and Ian crawled out the basement window.

The Saint was directly behind them atop the unsteady cabinet when he heard Alisdare tugging and swearing, his plump shadow elongated and animated on the stairwell wall. Before Simon pulled himself through the jagged exit, he fired one well-aimed parting shot. The bullet smashed into the railing bracket exactly where the Saint intended. Although Simon couldn’t see the predictable result, his imagination provided appropriate mental illustrations to accompany the cacophony created by Alisdare’s rear-first crash into the accessory closet of brooms, dustpans, detergents, and an exceptionally noisy ironing board. One of Salvadore’s shed-dwelling auxiliary immediately retaliated by firing two slugs from a .45 through the basement door, but they served only to alert the Saint that there was more to dodge than scrawny Ungodly and unlicensed chemists.

Outside in the dark, Dan and Ian raced towards the Volvo wagon as two shadowy forms exploded out the back door and attempted interception. Alisdare was immediately behind them, waving his arms wildly and screeching like an agitated parrot.

“Stop them, stop them all!”

Had a professional football scout been in attendance, the boys’ abilities to deftly elude their pursuers would have earned them lucrative offers from several major league teams. The thugs, unimpressed by such agility, resorted to weaponry. A shotgun blast of blue fire racked the darkness and the left rear window of the Saintmobile shattered in crystalline fragments.

Ian dove in the dirt, seeking cover by crawling under the station wagon, while Daniel threw himself behind a tree. The Saint, moving at full speed, pulled the .38’s trigger while his adversary’s first shot was still vibrating his tympanum. The shadow behind the shotgun screamed, his right arm pierced by the invading projectile, and fell backward as his smoking weapon vanished behind him in the brush.

“Don’t kill them!” screamed Alisdare, but as Simon was unsure to whom the entreaty was addressed, he ignored it. So did the second assailant who, perhaps more motivated by self-defense than a desire to halt the trio’s progress, fired three wild rounds in rapid succession. Two bullets screamed into the dirt by Simon’s heels, and the third sent bark splintering from the tree behind which Daniel hid. Ian, still stretched out under the Volvo, clasped his hands over his ears and prayed for deliverance.

The Saint vaulted in the brush, grabbed Daniel by the shoulder, and threw him behind the Volvo’s right side before the ungodly could fire another round. With Ian under the car, and Simon and Dan behind it, they were either on the verge of entrapment or escape.

Simon thrust a strong arm beneath the auto’s chassis and gripped Ian by the sleeve, dragging him hurriedly from under the vehicle.

“The keys!” insisted Simon, and Ian fumbled out an indistinguishable handful. The Saint pulled open the passenger door and the dome light splashed illumination, alerting the ungodly as to their exact location. Simon dove into the front seat as fresh round from the .45 blasted through the windshield and slammed into the Volvo’s headrest.

“Damn!” exclaimed Ian, and he suddenly bolted from cover.

Intermittent lunar luminance and the yellow 100 watt bulb above Alisadare’s back porch streaked through an atmosphere of gun smoke and outcries. The wounded assailant’s moans merging with the oaths and expletives uttered by his unsavory compatriots convinced the local crickets and bullfrogs to keep their croaks to themselves and their hind legs immobile. A new element entered the auditory mix — an angry outburst of taunt and derision from a short young man with sheep-dog hair. It was Ian, loudly shouting crude and creative insults as he dashed out of the clearing in a daring desperate and unexpectedly heroic act of effective distraction. All manic movement and furious noise, he leaped stump to shrub, weaving erratically towards the stacked cord wood on the other side of the vehicles.

“Get the little bastard!” ordered Alisdare, scurrying down the back steps as if moving three feet closer to the action would somehow increase his odds of success.

Milo hobbled stupidly in Ian’s general direction while the shadow with the .45 automatic instinctively swung his sloppy aim away from the Volvo.

The fuel injected pride of Sweden burst to life with a horrendous roar, a blaze of headlights, and the clamor of inadequate tread on loose gravel. The Saint was behind the wheel, in control, and ramming the accelerator to the floor.

“Hang on, kiddo,” advised Simon, and Daniel’s fingers dug into the brown plastic dash as the right passenger door banged back on its hinges.

The Saint rode the clutch and manipulated the shift knob with gear grinding abandon. Now, for the first time, he could clearly see every detail of the night’s madness — Alisdare yapping and scuttling like an inbred Pomeranian, Milo limping about aimlessly, a lump of humanity adorned by bedraggled beard and bib overalls clutching a blood soaked arm, and what could only be described as a generic skinhead from central casting wielding a .45 doing his best to corner the wild and wily Ian.

Simon pulled hard on the steering wheel, gunned the engine, and spun the Volvo to create more chaos and increase the dust factor. Skinhead turned from Ian and angrily let loose another burst of gunfire at the Saint. The shot blew away the black AM radio antenna, sending it ricocheting off the luggage rack.

“The radio didn’t work good anyway,” commented Daniel conversationally, and the Saint knew he was in good company. Simon aimed the Volvo’s brights directly at the armed man who could not decide between pursuing Ian or taking another shot at the Saint. His indecision was his undoing. As he turned his eyes away from the Saintmobile’s headlights, the wrong end of a ladder banged him directly across the bridge of his nose. On the other end of the ladder, swinging it like a mighty staff, was Ian.

“Eat wood, scumbag,” he shouted, and whacked the blinded skinhead resolutely alongside his hairless noggin. The thug’s fingers jerked in painful reflex, blasting the last round in his clip through the toe of his boot. He thudded to the ground in disoriented agony, yelling and kicking his smoking foot in the air.

Simon leaned on the horn; Ian tossed aside the ladder and began his dash for the open passenger door. To the Saint’s surprise, Ian skid to a stop and turned back as if remembering an important errand.

“What’s he doing now?” asked the Saint in obvious wonderment.

“He gets like this sometimes,” answered Daniel, doing his best to sound nonchalant despite the pounding of his heart, “I think it’s an unresolved anger issue.”

Ian raced back to the woodpile, grabbed the hatchet, and began swinging it above his head while unleashing a torrid stream of unseemly obscenities at Salvadore Alisdare. The hatchet was accordingly launched as a sharp-edged exclamatory punctuation, smashing into the light bulb over Alisdare’s head and imbedding itself point-first above the porch.

The last tiny flecks of shattered filament drifted downward as Ian raced to the Volvo. The Saint was already shifting gears and positioning the vehicle for an unobstructed route out the front drive. The swing of headlights when the Saint threw the Volvo into reverse revealed Alisdare on all fours searching for the lost shotgun, two thugs on the ground commiserating over their mutual discomfort, but no Milo. Simon was not actively concerned about the gimp’s whereabouts until Ian and the limping lacky appeared simultaneously at the open passenger door.

For an instant, the Saint almost expected Milo to repent of his past misdeeds and request a ride as far away from Duvall as the Saintmobile could carry him. Instead, Milo grabbed Ian by the throat.

The Saint retrieved the .38 from his lap, but Dan was between Simon and Milo, as was the strangled and struggling Ian. Daniel instantly grasped the situation’s logistical complexities. And that, as they say, was that. Less than five seconds later Ian was gulping air in the front passenger seat; Milo, minus two of his yellow rat-like teeth, was flat on his back in the dirt, and Dan sat in the back seat massaging his sore knuckles.

“I couldn’t have knocked him colder myself,” admitted the Saint, and Dan didn’t bother to suppress a smile of adventurous pride.

The Volvo spat dirt and gravel from its back wheels as Simon gunned it from the clearing to the front drive. It was a long, one lane blacktop, and they were up to 40mph as they took off for the exit.

“Who were those guys?” asked Ian weakly, “I mean they really ticked me off big time.”

The Saint was incredulous.

“You mean you don’t know that was the SeaQue Salvage liar I told you about?”

“Oh, your Costello Treasure buddy,” exclaimed Daniel. “Nah, they never explained anything. They just kidnapped us, blindfolded us, brought us here, and the little guy asked us stupid questions.”

“The nut kept demanding information about our gang,” Ian added derisively, “and he carried on about talons, diamonds, and somebody named Buzzy.”

“Then ratface made us watch dirty movies.”

“The first one was the better of the two,” clarified Ian needlessly, “at least it had a plot.”

Nearing the intersection of Alisdare’s private lane and the secondary road, a set of headlights suddenly blazed in the distance.

“Who’s that?” gasped Ian, pointing at the two bright bulbs growing bigger and brighter, filling their windshield.

“Maybe it’s a bus load of movie critics coming to offer second opinions,” muttered the Saint.

The oncoming vehicle appeared to increase speed, bearing down on them with unrepentant intensity.

Ian gulped and griped the cloth upholstery; Dan brushed some shattered glass from the back seat and wondered what if his minimal insurance covered damage by gunfire. Moments from potential impact, the Saint discerned the oncoming car’s distinctive BMW emblem, slammed on the brakes, and twisted the steering wheel hard to the left. The BMW took the opposite evasive action, and both cars screeched, skidded sideways, bounced backwards off the narrow lane, and came to temporary repose directly across from each other. Beam to beam, they faced each other.

“Is that the Berkman lady?” asked Ian hopefully.

“It shouldn’t be,” answered the Saint, “but it certainly looks that way.”

Simon fished the .22 in the plastic bag out of his jacket pocket and tossed it to Daniel in the back seat.

“Keep this safe for me.”

Dan and Ian shot each other looks of dismay, then stared at the Saint.

“Just because you’re out of the basement doesn’t mean I’m out of the woods,” explained Simon quickly. “Old pink-ears and I still have unfinished business, and you have time to complete the last item on your errand list.”

“Then what?” It was Daniel speaking, his tone even and unshaken.

“Then,” said the Saint optimistically, “we will glory in our romantic outlawry.”

“Personally,” commented Ian dryly, “I’d settle for a pepperoni pizza.”

“This is where I get out,” said Simon. He put the Volvo in neutral, switched the dome light switch to the off position, and left the engine running. “When I slam the door, go for it.”

The BMW driver door swung open, as did that of the Volvo. The Saint emerged with Milo’s .38 in his right hand. The piercing lights made discerning anyone behind the glare impossible for either party.

Ian spoke sotto-voce from the driver’s seat.

“Saint, where are we?”

“Duvall,” stated Simon softly “Turn right at the road, right at the end, left at the single light. Just drive. You’ll make it.”

The Saint strained his eyes against the dust and headlights. The only sounds were the BMW’s smooth murmur, the Volvo’s low rumble, and the distant voices of Alisdare and his incapacitated accomplices.

“Simon?” It was Viola’s voice behind the glare, tinged with tears and trembling. “Oh, God, Simon...” She was abruptly silenced by internal emotion or external pressure.

The Saint raised the .38, slammed the Volvo’s door, and moved into the light.

“Drop the gun, Templar.” It was Snookums who spoke, and his statement was an order, not a request.

The conversation suffered interruption when Ian shifted the station wagon into gear and gave it a rush of octane. As the boys peeled out, their headlights revealed three forms standing by the BMW’s drivers side. One was a woman, the other two were men. The larger of the two men held obvious dominion over his reluctant female companion.

Ian increased speed, swung out the driveway onto the secondary road, and disappeared into the night as a second set of headlights narrowly missed collision with the speeding Volvo and turned in on Alisdare’s road.

The Saint stood in stark relief against the dark Duvall night, his right hand holding the .38 at eye level, his left hand resting on his hip. The very blood in his veins seemed to freeze, and his bright sapphire eyes frosted with iced intensity.

The newly arrived vehicle slowed to a stop ten feet away and flicked on its high beams. Simon noticed, but did not divert his attention from Viola and her captors who now moved haltingly in front of the idling automobile.

Snookums held Viola roughly by the hair, the point of an authentic Stiletto pressed into the soft white of her throat. In the double illumination of the two cars, every detail burned into Simon’s consciousness — Viola’s nylons tattered and shredded, blouse torn to embarrassing exposure, lipstick smeared clownlike on her lips, mascara in tear streaks down her cheeks. Despite the distance between them, their eyes met in intimate communication. Her exterior may have been abused and violated, but her inner core remained defiantly her own. He knew what she expected of him, and he would not disappoint her.

“We’ve got the girl, Templar, give it up.”

“I’ve got the gun, Snookums, give her up,” countered the Saint, and his voice carried an inflection of perky unconcern.

“I could slit her throat in a heartbeat,” insisted the giant harshly.

“And you’d have a bullet in your empty head as a souvenir of the occasion,” explained the Saint as if delineating a basic scientific principle.

“He’s a remarkable shot, honest,” added Vi helpfully, tilting her throat back farther from the blade’s point.

“Shaddup!” demanded the giant, and he glared intently at the Saint.

The silence between them stretched with increased tension. At length, the Saint spoke. “Your turn,” prompted Simon, “Really, you must keep up your end of the conversation.”

“You expect too much of him, Simon,” added Vi bravely, “I was similarly disappointed...”