Capture the Saint

1

Seattle, seen from heights of freeway overpasses or aerial overviews, appeared as a pleasant mix of modern technology and small town warmth. For thousands of residents, such was the reality of life in the Pacific Northwest. If she could turn a blind eye to the pain of exploited children, the city would seem perfect. She knew better. For some, there was little or no justice.

Every city needs a saint, and all saints supplicate for assistance. Vi’s supplication brought her Simon Templar, and he had given his assurance that before the sun rose over the Cascades, there would be justice.

The Saint maneuvered easily through the light late-night downtown traffic and soon the distinctive profile of the Westin Hotel loomed before them. Before Simon swung the BMW into the broad circular drive, Vi espied Dan and Ian’s distinctive Volvo wagon parked facing eastbound on Olive Way.

“Bless those boys,” exclaimed the Saint, “they are as fast as they are efficient. Now the fun begins.”

“What fun? What are you talking about? What are we doing now?”

Simon stopped the car, popped the trunk’s release, left the engine running, and opened the door.

“You’re going home to your husband; I’m going to raise hell with the ungodly.”

“Not without me you’re not,” objected Vi. “You’ve put me through too much to put me out now.”

Simon tooted out a rhythm on the car’s horn. The doorman tossed him a quizzical look and the Saint gave him a military salute.

“I’m not ditching you,” Simon clarified as they got out of the car, “you have two important missions to accomplish — first, put on a new pair of hose; second, deposit the check.”

“Check?”

“The one stuck to the front of your refrigerator with a little watermelon shaped magnet,” explained the Saint cheerfully as he retrieved the trunk’s incriminating contents, “It’s a cashier’s check for $10,000 made payable to me and endorsed to you for charitable purposes. It was given to me by Salvadore Alisdare earlier this evening, but save your gratitude for Diamond Tremayne. I’m sure Nat has found it by now, especially if he decided to pummel his innards with more of those pre-fabricated cinnamon rolls.”

As Vi mentally spent the ten thousand dollars, she saw Dan, Ian, and two exceptionally distinguished gentleman respond to Simon’s automotive summons. The two men, elegantly attired and radiating auras of impressive savoir fare, seemed an unlikely pair to accompany Simon’s youthful fans. All four were smiling.

“Look, it’s the Saint!” One of the gentleman was pointing and shouting with mock amazement.

“He’s the Robin Hood of Modern Crime, I hear,” added his companion, “not a bad banjo player, but he spreads melodrama around him like an infectious disease.”

“Oh,” replied the first thoughtfully, “so that’s what he’s been spreading around.”

Vi found herself starring at one of the most juvenile displays ever performed by adult males in public — the Saint dove at the two men, securing one in a playful headlock while the other protested that he didn’t want to wrinkle his suit. Dan and Ian stood aside, beaming with radiant admiration.

“What in the world is going on,” asked Vi, feeling a bit out of the loop.

Having released his willing victim, Simon dragged the two men over for introductions, but it was the taller of the two — a rugged chap with hard bitten features — who spoke first.

“You should know better than to associate with a known criminal, Mrs Berkman, especially one who recycles his old literary efforts and sells them to the movies.”

“Simon and I are old friends,” said Vi extending her hand, “we met several years ago in New York.”

“Yes, but he is a much older friend,”

“I didn’t get your name,” she prompted.

He proffered his card. It was conservative in design and utilitarian in its purposeful understatement. His name — Peter Quentin — was printed in small, dignified type face beneath a larger rendering of his firm’s official name and trademark.

“We’re here for the Maritime Issues Forum,” he explained. The slim, white card also identified him as Executive Vice President of an international corporation who’s logo, designated by two intertwined initials, could have but one anagramatical articulation.

“Exactly how do you pronounce this?” She asked weakly.

“C-Q,” explained the second gentleman as he shook hands. “I’m Roger Conway, the ‘C’ in SeaQue; Peter Quentin here is the ‘Q’ in SeaQue.”

“Simon...” Vi turned to the Saint, her face pleading for explanations. She saw only the world’s most dazzling and irrepressible smile, and eyes sparkling with triumphant mischief.

Dexter Talon lit another stubby cigarette and allowed the smoke to pour out his nose and into the beer hiding in the shadow of his double chin. He nursed the glass’ contents with admirable patience, glanced at the clock above the television, and began putting away the personal mementos of his sordid double-life — a lock of hair, an ankle bracelet, and other scraps left behind by various youths lured to his lair by false promises, or ensnarred to his desires by fear. He placed each item carefully in a shoebox, carried it into the bedroom, and he slid it under the dresser. Ashes dropped from his cigarette’s tip and settled unbroken on the carpet. He smeared them in with his shoe.

Templar had called thirty minutes earlier at least, but Talon tended to lose track of time when admiring his collection. He pulled on his overcoat, took another gulp of beer, adjusted his shoulder holster, and exited his alter-ego’s 8th floor condominium. His big baggy body waddled down the long hallway to the small elevator. While awaiting its arrival, he shoved the brown-stained remains of his current smoke into the bowl-shaped ashtray under the elevator call buttons and looked around nervously. He tried to time his comings and goings as to be of little or no notice to the other tenants. For an incredibly large man, he had mastered the dubious art of the low profile.

The arriving elevator’s musical ding broke his after-hours reverie. Talon poured himself into the cubicle, pressed the parking floor button, and waited for the descent. Less than a minute later, Detective Dexter Talon was ambling across the secured, underground parking garage towards his nondescript, unofficial vehicle — a common brown Plymouth indistinguishable from thousands exactly like it on Seattle’s streets.

As he unlocked the sedan, a strong hand clasped down on his beefy shoulder.

“What ho, Tex,” said the Saint, and his voice was as heated steel slicing through the night’s moist chill.

Talon turned, his keys falling with sharp metallic impact on the gray concrete.

“Saint! How did you get in here,” stammered the Detective, “You said you’d meet me...”

“I say lots of things, butterball,” Simon interrupted, “and any enterprising youth with a bit of patience and a dollop of creativity could make off with every hubcap in sight.”

Simon Templar appeared as self-assured, self-possessed, and completely refreshed as he did several hours earlier. Talon, although he made no reference to the topic, found the Saint’s impeccable personal grooming to be a source of nagging irritation. Rather, the flabby man’s tiny eyeballs seemed to crawl back into their sockets as he nervously looked from side to side. He attempted a gruff retort, but Simon spoke first.

“We’re quite alone, just us two,” said the Saint softly. “I promised you a little gift, and I am a man of my word — something to add a touch of realism to whatever you have planned for Mr Alisdare.” He handed Talon a plastic bag.

“This is a gun,” the Detective said flatly.

“Brilliant. I’ll recommend you for a promotion. Don’t touch it. It has Alisdare’s prints all over it. It may come in handy.”

The disgusting man’s lower lip quivered with emotion, and the Saint controlled a near overwhelming impulse to split that lip with a strong right uppercut.

“Thanks, Saint. I don’t know why you’re helpin’ a guy like me, especially after I used your name and all.”

If Talon expected compassionate warmth and comraderie to issue forth from Simon Templar, he was summarily disappointed.

“If you ever mention my name again, even in passing, I promise I’ll have you killed. Period. Do you understand me? For your information, I do have a gang. I have instructed them to watch your back tonight when you meet Alisdare, except if you mention my name. If you do, it will be the last thing you ever say. Observe that simple rule, and if only one man walks away alive from your little meeting, that one man will be you.”

Had Talon been face to face with a ferocious jungle cat, he could not have been more terrified than he was at that moment. It was as if every primal and dangerous aspects of the Saint’s personality were manifest before him as twin shafts of ice-blue light reflected in the cold depths of Simon’s ethereal azure eyes.

Not another word was spoken, Talon bent down to retrieving his keys, and the Saint was gone. He listened for Simon’s footsteps but heard only the erratic buzzing of a flickering fluorescent light and the gentle waves of Lake Washington lapping against the outer rim of the garage. He let out a long, laborious sigh, tucked the plastic bag under his coat, and clumsily stuffed another smoke between his thick, dry lips. It shook so hard he could not light it. A sudden cold breeze blew in from Lake Washington, whistling between the lot’s solid concrete columns, and his baggy body wobbled and shuddered in response.

Detective Dexter Talon, alias Tex Nolan, muttered an unseemly expression under his labored breath as he plopped into the driver’s seat, started the ignition, and activated the electronic garage door opener attached to his visor.

The Saint, from a vantage point of concealment, watched the large garage gate rise in response. He saw the Plymouth pass out of the lot, drive up the incline and turn right on the one-way street. In the back of Talon’s car were most of the contents from Salvadore Alisdare’s personal safe. Most, but not all. There was one item retrieved from Emerald City that was, at that very moment, being returned to its rightful owner. And the Saint smiled, for he knew that neither he nor Little Buzzy, nor any of Seattle’s children of the night, would ever see Dexter Talon again.

The Saint exited by simply reversing his clandestine method of entrance, and allowed himself a few minutes of peaceful repose. He sat on the park bench situated to the building’s North, as would any comfortable Madison Park resident, and admired the scenic panorama. A young couple walked a large dog along the sidewalk, and a few boats peppered the lake with bright running lights. To his left, the Evergreen Point bridge stretched across Lake Washington. To his right, although his vision was partially blocked by high-rise condominiums, majestic Mt. Rainier seemed to rise in snow-covered glory behind the Mercer Island Floating Bridge. He soon stood from the bench and walked purposefully towards the high-rise’s front door, arriving exactly at the moment an elderly lady, having been carefully delivered home by relatives, turned her key in the lock.

“Allow me,” said Simon graciously, holding open the door.

She had one minor moment of suspicion, but the man smiled so sweetly, and was so deliriously handsome, that he could never be a burglar or a purse snatcher.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” said the woman sweetly as the elevator door enclosed her with the Saint.

“I’m in town on business,” said Simon without elaboration.

“How nice,” she responded automatically, “My son-in-law is an accountant. He and my daughter took me to see that silly Pirate movie with Emilio Hernandez in it. It had all sorts of noisy action, but you know young people like that sort of thing.”

The Saint smiled and nodded.

“What kind of business are you in?” The woman’s desire for conversation remained acute, and although the elevator door opened on the 3rd floor, she waited for his answer before exiting.

“Diamonds,” said the Saint warmly, “I evaluate Diamonds.”

“Oh. Well, if you have any spares...”

They both laughed, she left, and Simon pushed the button for floor number 8. The night’s events were clicking together with the predictability of precision tumblers. He pictured Talon parking that old Plymouth on upper Madison, preparing for the penultimate rendezvous. As for Salvadore, Simon was not concerned about the little man with the wet brow and unsavory predilections. He knew Alisdare was in good hands.

2

“Unhand me, you villains!” Alisdare wailed and flailed but to no avail. The two elegant men had him sussed and trussed, having first tossed him as a chef would a reluctant salad.

“Templar and I had a deal, honest,” objected Salvadore, who had been bleating and pleading ever since the two malevolent gents manifested themselves unannounced within the supposedly secure confines of Emerald City Catering.

Prior to the dramatic interruption, Alisdare disconnected his make-believe SeaQue answering machine and checked the contents of his personal safe. As he expected, it was essentially empty. The jittery fellow made several unkind comments to himself about Simon Templar, and wished that the Saint had at least left him his micro-recorder.

“You are the noisiest little fellow,” remarked Peter Quentin as he disdainfully stuffed a serviette in Alisdare’s gapping yammer.

Salvadore, bereft of speech, yelled with his eyes.

“Calm down, fruitcake,” advised Roger Conway, “you’re liable to pop a ventricle.”

“Really,” concurred Quentin, “if you realized how committed we are to your eternal future, you’d be waxing positively rhapsodic.”

“Rhapsodic?” Conway questioned the word’s very existence.

“Similar to Quixotic, only more syncopated,” explained Peter.

As for Alisdare, he was unamused and thoroughly traumatized. He had allowed himself several moments of self-congratulatory indulgence on his way into Seattle during which he gloated over his superior intelligence, celebrated his outwitting of Simon Templar, and anticipated further milking of a reluctant bovine named Dexter Talon. Now, much to his dismay, two roughs cut from cloth similar to the Saint’s were making his life a living hell.

Conway and Quentin’s immediate leap from Sea-Tac’s British Airway’s terminal into the mid-most heart of a full-throttle Saintly adventure was the perfect antidote to international jet lag. With nothing to hide and minimal luggage, they passed swiftly through airport security, discovered two young men holding aloft a clumsily scrawled drawing of a familiar stick figure, and immediately knew there was more adventure on the menu than simply a birthday surprise for Barney Malone.

They quickly absorbed the verbal rush of information and admiration poured forth by Dan and Ian, experiencing an adrenaline tinged nostalgia for those precious years past when nights of adventure and days of danger were common occurrences. A brief perfunctory reunion and strategy session with the Saint outside the Westin strengthened their resolve to reinforce their reputations for justifiable outlawry — reputations modified in recent years by enviable financial success in diversified business interests consolidated under the auspices of their self-named firm. The inescapable fact that their empire’s initial capitol funding derived from exploits chronicled in earlier editions of the Saga was never far from their minds, nor were they from the thoughts of a devil-may-care rascal with fire in his ice-blue eyes and a never-ending penchant for improbable and profitable escapades. Roger Conway and Peter Quentin long ago resigned themselves to the unalterable reality that their lives and fortunes were forever wedded, directly or indirectly, for better or worse, to the sign of the Saint.

“How many times have you saved the Saint’s life,” asked Ian as the battered Volvo rattled Northbound on 1–5 from Sea-Tac to the Westin.

“One time too many,” joked Conway.

“That makes us about even,” said Quentin dryly, and the two post-adolescents in the front seat grinned unabashedly from ear to ear.

Salvadore Alisdare failed to appreciate either Peter’s dry wit or Conway’s upbeat mannerisms until such time as the two offered a cursory explanation for their intrusive and abrasive behavior.

“We have a gift for you, shortstuff,” announced Peter graciously. He held Alisdare’s micro-recorder lightly in his right palm. “As you’re the rightful owner, it’s only proper for you to keep it close to your heart.”

Salvadore vibrated silently, the serviette’s tail flapping against his chin.

“And we have a charming little tape to go with it,” added Roger, “I previewed side one and discovered a disgusting exchange between Dexter Talon and a certain underage street kid — a conversation custom made for blackmail — and decided you should record an incriminating sequel on side two.”

Alisdare’s pleading piggy eyes begged questions; Peter yanked the gag from the squirming victim’s mouth.

“You’re not gonna hurt me?” Salvadore was near incredulous.

“Heaven’s no,” said Roger seriously as he leaned down into Alisdare’s wet little face, “we want you happy, healthy, and wired for sound.”

Bleary eyes darted back and forth between the Saint’s two elegant henchmen.

“Templar and I...”

“Yes, we know,” interrupted Roger Conway who had located a handy cache of Brine Time Pickles and was crunching his way through a large, flavorful, dill, “you had a deal. You still have a deal. We’re just making sure everything goes as planned.”

“True,” concurred Peter dispassionately, “we strap this recorder to your svelte and alluring self, you get even more incriminating verbiage on tape, plus pocket a few hundred bucks in the process. More power to you, Mr Alisdare.”

Conway, rummaging happily through various drawers and cupboards, retrieved a roll of reinforced packing tape and eyed Alisdare as if measuring him for a new suit.

“Unbutton that unflattering shirt, Alisdare,” prompted Peter. Salvadore, seeing unfettered cooperation as his most viable option, daintily complied.

“Toss me that recorder,” interrupted Roger, “I almost forgot something.”

Alisdare looked nervously at Conway and Roger rolled his eyes mockingly.

“No, I’m not hooking it up to some sort of high-tech detonator so we can blow you and Talon to a billion disgusting bits, although that is a cheery thought,” said Conway, “there is simply a little touch, requested by the Saint, which I almost overlooked.”

With the recorder in his possession, Roger turned his back and slid open the cassette compartment. Alisdare could hear the ripping of hard paper and he wondered exactly what this emissary of Simon Templar was up to.

“There we go,” confirmed Conway as he handed the recorder back to Quentin, “let’s turn this little man into a walking sound studio.”

And that is exactly what they did before the two dapper gents escorted Salvadore Alisdare out the door of Emerald City Catering.

A sharp damp breeze swept up from Puget Sound and swirled the scent of salt and sea through the sullen side streets of Capitol Hill. Alisdare turned up his collar, checked his watch, and stared at his shoes. He desperately wanted this night to be over, or at least fast-forwarded to more enticing interaction at either the Tropicana or a non-descript motel in White Center.

A Camaro rumbled by with its windows down and dance music vibrating its uniframe construction. The rhythms reminded Alisdare of Elmo’s Arcade where dancing girls of limited financial means had unlimited weaknesses for men with adequate money or unending supplies of stimulating chemicals. He found temporary comfort in memories unfit for description augmented by fantasies of getting one up on Simon Templar.

The dark sleek ribbon of Madison Street stretched like an asphalt incision across the belly of Seattle. Alisdare, flanked by Conway and Quentin, wished for daylight. He knew that somewhere under the fleeting cloud cover and erratic nocturnal illumination was Diamond Tremayne. He would have to give her a good talking to, that was for sure.

“Treasure,” muttered Salvadore under his foul breath, and for one fleeting moment he wondered if he had been played for a sap all along.

“Nothing personal, dear fruit,” advised Conway, “but I must confirm that we don’t really like you very much.”

“I’m sure we could have all been dear friends,” replied Alisdare sarcastically, “if Simon Templar wanted it that way.”

Peter tossed a threatening arm around Salvadore’s hunched shoulders.

“The Saint is a most practical pirate,” explained Quentin, “he understands your peculiar talents, sympathizes with your habits, and shares many of your more exciting interests. It is simply that he doesn’t trust you, especially after Snookum’s did his best to cut short Simon’s adventurous career. A silly, useless effort, to be sure.”

Salvadore’s heart almost exploded in his chest, and his knees began to quake. Peter squeezed him comfortingly.

“Now, don’t be concerned. Simon’s fine; Snookums has never been better, and the Saint has no intention of ever telling anyone about your meth lab or anything else. His only concern is that you meet Talon as planned and that you get even more juicy blackmail material.”

The two men guided their reluctant companion towards the brighter lights of Madison.

“There is only one condition upon which we insist,” added Roger emphatically, “and that is that you make no mention of the Saint, Mrs Berkman, or us when conversing with Talon — after all, you don’t want to blackmail yourself, now do you?”

Alisdare wobbled his head in resigned agreement.

“Good boy,” affirmed Conway, “and you can feel confident that we will be keeping close watch on you the entire time. And if you’re worried about Talon, don’t be. We won’t let him do anything to jeopardize our plans.”

As they came close to the designated rendezvous, Peter reached inside the miserable little man’s shirt and activated the recorder, then roughly squeezed Alisdare’s pudgy, putty cheeks. Salvadore flinched and pulled back. The two men stared at him ominously and sent him on his way.

Salvadore Alisdare inhaled Seattle’s mist-washed air and filled his mind with ugly thoughts. Partially due to the disease of conceit, he could convolute any situation’s implications to reinforce his self-aggrandizing perspective. All life’s scenarios spotlighted him at the center of attention, the man in control, the one with others under his thumb. He pictured himself lording it over Talon and, in the final analysis, outwitting the Saint for possession of the Costello Treasure. He even entertained an unmentionable mental illustration involving Diamond Tremayne — the distance between the image and any probable reality was even a stretch for him — but he allowed the fantasy to linger precariously on the ledge of his consciousness while he put one small foot before the other and disappeared forever down the dark alley off Madison.

Detective Dexter Talon of the Seattle Police Department recognized the tell-tale clatter of Alisdare’s tiny shoes echoing off the back street’s graffiti covered walls. He had preceded Alisdare to their oily rendezvous by several minutes, and although well prepared for their planned consultation, he was not thinking about Alisdare — he was thinking about the Saint, and doing so with begrudging appreciation.

Were it not for the Saint, Talon rightly reasoned, he would not be rehearsing murder in his mind, mentally planting a finger-print laden revolver in Salvadore’s limp hand, or preparing an official explanation of how he happened to kill a caterer in self defense. Were it not for Simon Templar’s emphatic assurances that certain incriminating photographs and negatives were destroyed, that the Saint would never lend the weight of his reputation nor the muscle of his rapid-fire mind to any blackmailer’s efforts — no matter how repulsive the victim — Talon would not feel empowered to give Salvadore anything beyond the payoffs and tip-offs the little weasel demanded. Tonight was different; tonight was a night of justice and vindication during which Talon would be released from the little leech with reptile eyes who gorged himself on other’s sins. From now on, thought Dexter Talon to himself, things would be different. Maybe he would leave the force, take his concealed wealth and make the move about which he often fantasized. Perhaps he would quit smoking, lose weight, stop drinking, take a geographic cure by relocating to California, and do something safe, normal, and moral.

Staring up into the night’s soft darkness beyond the blaring neon of a nearby cocktail lounge’s battered service entrance, he saw himself in sunnier southern climes, a hundred pounds lighter, clean and sober, happy and smiling, cheerfully opening a school bus door, greeting the children one and all as they clamored aboard chattering of classes and carrying their lunch pails. He sensed the redolence of inexpensive perfumes and colognes mixed with scents of hairspray and skin cream — obligatory olfactory identifiers of energetic adolescents, children Buzzy’s age, the age of his own daughter when he committed that which repelled and revulsed her, denying him her affection forever.

The final thought thrust the immoral man’s mind back to unpleasant reality, and Talon’s grip tightened around the butt of his weapon. He cursed an involuntary outburst of self-loathing, spewing smoke, phlegm, and weak regrets into the filthy drain grate at this feet.

He wasn’t going anywhere and he knew it. He was never going to change his weight, his habits, his passions. He would kill Alisdare, cover his tracks, and return to haunt and hunt his easy prey. He relinquished all illusions and unblinkingly acknowledged his personal identity: a crooked cop and predatory pedophile about to become a cold blooded murderer. And he didn’t regret any of it. Not now, not with Salvadore Alisdare standing ten feet away grinning coldly with that sick expression of slimy superiority.

Talon felt bile rising in his throat and the desire to see Alisdare die was almost overwhelming. He didn’t know if he would vomit before or after pulling the trigger. Talon swallowed hard, squared his enormous shoulders, and began his final conversation with the man who, with no motive beyond exploitation of another’s moral weaknesses, connected him to Little Buzzy and had made him pay and pay over and over again.

Roger Conway and Peter Quentin did not wait to hear the gunshots that punctuated the final unsavory conversation between two equally disgusting men. Those shots, as the next-day’s newspaper would dutifully detail, were from a .38 service revolver. They perforated the lungs of an allegedly armed and dangerous low-life miscreant named Salvadore Alisdare and killed him dead. It was, according to Detective Dexter Talon’s written report, an act of self defense. In reality, it was an act of justice orchestrated with justifiable pride by Simon Templar, alias the Saint. Far removed from the alley of death, the relaxed and unperturbed embodiment of masculine charm was admiring the Lake Washington view from Dexter Talon’s Madison Park condominium.

The Saint had easily entered the high-priced apartment and quickly uncovered the luxurious lair’s concealed secrets — the box of souvenirs, the wall safe, the hollowed out books — and conservatively estimated the combined value of illicit currency and illegally obtained gems at approximately fifty-thousand dollars. Despite the valuable booty, expensive locale, and expansive view, Talon’s secondary domicile reeked of bad taste and unpleasant associations.

The Saint helped himself to a single shot of fine whiskey from the cherrywood liquor cabinet, and settled back into the one comfortable leather-clad lounger.

“I’m betting on the roof,” said Simon evenly to the empty room, “I’m wagering on less than ten minutes, and the Saint bids diamonds.”

He was, of course, absolutely correct.

Seven minutes later, the first fleeting shadow moved across the outer patio. A single black cord descended to within three feet of the deck, and down it came a comely shape fashioned for adult tastes. The inky figure softly slid aside the patio door and crept cat-like into the room. The night sky’s scant illumination silhouetted a sleek feminine form of breathtaking beauty. Her movements, fluid and graceful, primal and elegant, were animated art in three dimensions. The Saint’s night vision clearly perceived her outfit’s impressive imitation of jet black epidermis, and he suppressed a soft whistle of honest appreciation.

To describe her as draped head to toe in skin-tight fabric would be a reversal of visual reality. It was more as if her alluring curves were lovingly hand ladled into sheer ebony, or a dedicated cadre of classical sculptors concentrated their combined talents in fashioning her perfectly proportioned figure from the finest onyx.

With stealth and self-assurance she removed a slim black flashlight from her waist pouch and triggered a thin beam of illumination. The light shaft slowly swept the room. As it approached the corner where Simon silently sat, he triggered a matching beam of his own.

“My, my, my,” murmured the Saint.

“Said the spider to the fly,” completed Diamond Tremayne melodically.

Beam to beam they faced each other, two pinpoints of light merging into one. The Saint reached up and switched on a small reading lamp, increasing the room’s illumination by enough minimum wattage to further highlight his visitor’s enchanting characteristics.

“I’m pleased to see more of you, Ms Tremayne,” began the Saint honestly, “and you’ve never looked better.”

“I’ve certainly seen better,” countered Diamond, blinking her eyes into adjustment, “were you anticipating someone else?”

“I did have a momentary twinge,” confessed Simon as he stood and approached her, “that some unexpected secondary character would come crawling out of the heat ducts dripping with unrevealed associations and hidden motives.”

“You’ve read too many mass-market paperbacks, Mr Templar,” she said conversationally, and her smile was exceptionally inviting. “In real life, women such as myself are consistently guilty of being as clever as we seem.”

The Saint found her more than attractive. In fact, she was beginning to manifest positive perfection. Simon gestured toward the liquor cabinet, offering her refreshment.

“No thanks, I never drink when I’m working.”

“You appear dressed for play, if you ask me,” observed the Saint, “and I believe you’re not the least bit surprised to find me waiting for you.”

Diamond cocked an irreverent and questioning eyebrow at her debonair host.

“Your perfume entered the room well before you,” explained Simon. “Were solitude your honest expectation, the thought of daubing pulse points with pheromones would never occur to you. What’s the fragrance, Midnight Marauder?”

Tremayne slid her sleek physique to the long couch and curled up in the corner as would a petulant school girl.

“No,” she replied with criminal pride, “Grand Theft.”

She was good. Very good. Simon Templar had known women of all calibers on both sides of justice, and the delicious damsel calling herself Diamond Tremayne ranked right alongside such assertive heroines and lawless ladies from his notorious past as Jill Trelawney and “Straight Audrey” Perowne. The Saint regarded her with iron sight before sitting down and leaning dangerously close. She slowly uncurled, stretching her long legs languidly as would an awakening cat.

“You’re name is not Diamond,” he said smoothly, “and unless this adventure has more coincidences than even I can accept, you are also not a Tremayne.”

“No? And would that be because one of your early friends — one of that dedicated band of reckless young men so brilliantly led — was named Dicky Tremayne, later husband of the notorious Audrey Perowne, alias Anusia Marova, who, along with her beloved, fled to South America oh so many years ago?”

Simon knew she was toying with him, demonstrating a detailed scholarship of his personal history thorough enough to rival even the encyclopaedic erudition of Daniel and Ian. He found her easy familiarity oddly endearing and peculiarly affectionate. She searched his eyes for reaction and found gleaming chips of sapphire tinted encouragement.

Pleased, she laughed aloud while tossing back her luxurious hair and raising her rib cage provocatively, which is not to say that provocation was her intention, but rather Simon Templar’s involuntary reaction.

“Coincidences are always coinciding,” she teased, “it is one of their peculiar attributes.”

The Saint patiently waited for her laughter to subside, which it did momentarily before beginning again. At length, her excursion into humor fulfilled, she admitted the falsity of her moniker.

“I chose the name ‘Tremayne’ especially for your benefit,” she confessed easily, inching slyly in his direction. “Because of the association with your past, I figured you’d spot it as an alias immediately, especially with ‘Diamond’ stuck on the front. And you must admit,” she continued moving closer, “dreaming up that Costello Treasure scenario was a stroke of genius, and I happen to be the strokeable genius of whom I am speaking.”

The previous sentence was spoken by lips no more than a sweet-scented breath away from those of Simon Templar. Her seductively libidinous inclinations thus succinctly telegraphed and aromatically augmented by the near intoxicating impact of her liberally applied attar, a moment of lithe silence suspended their interaction in soft, musk-laden limbo.

The Saint could feel the heat and pulse of her, and it is no detraction from his pre-ordained role as our story’s stalwart and uncompromising hero to affirm his response as decidedly and thoroughly human.

“Were I a younger man of easy virtue...” began Simon, but the pearls of his utterance remained unstrung.

“Were you a younger man of easy virtue,” completed Diamond Tremayne, her lips touching his as she spoke, “I would not be doing this.”

It will no more surprise readers of this saga than it did Simon Templar that she kissed him passionately, and with honest, vigorous enthusiasm. The Saint, forever the gentleman, returned the favor with equal ardor, commensurate ebullience, and consummate skill. Whether from years of experience, or simply by virtue of the situation’s electric spontaneity, it must be said that what he did, he did quite well.

A period of interaction devoid of dialog interrupted the adventure’s narrative until such time as her soft cheek rested on his shoulder and one black sheathed calf twined around his perfectly tailored trouser leg.

“I love poetry,” she intoned softly, wistfully.

The Saint could not resist such an obvious opportunity.

“There was a young lady from Exeter, and all the young boys wanted...”

She pushed him roughly off the couch and snapped a caustic jest regarding male sensitivity and chivalrous romanticism. They laughed at the absurdity of the moment.

Diamond Tremayne, from Simon’s vantage point on the carpet, appeared delightfully disheveled for a cat burgler. He took hold of her right foot and massaged the arch. She purred, squirming in her Danskins.

“Now, Ms Tremayne,” said Simon Templar as if interviewing her for a potential position in the secretarial pool, “tell me where you fit in this puzzle of evil predators, pickle packers, real estate attorneys, and drug crazed caterers.”

“Really, Saint, do you mean to tell me that the 20th Century’s Brightest Buccaneer hasn’t deciphered all the clues?”

“I’ve never claimed a degree in detection,” stated Simon as he increased pressure on the ball of her well-formed foot. She resisted his touch slightly by pulling her leg up, but he coaxed it back down. “It’s apparent that you know almost everything about me there is to know, have been tracking me since the moment I arrived in Seattle...”

“Before Seattle,” clarified Tremayne with a podiatristic wince, “I’ve been either right behind you or two weeks ahead of you for over six months. I was inventing the Costello Treasure story Alisdare told you long before the hydrofoil docked from Vancouver, and when you met Olav Lunde for lunch in Ballard...”

The Saint, impressed, increased his pressure on the reflexive sensitive pleasure-centers as he interrupted her explanation.

“And what do you know about Olav Lunde?”

“He’s a Krigsseiler — Norwegian Seaman War Veteran intimate with every detail of the USS Amber, aka the Polaris. In 1930, his father was employed by John Barrymore and Dolores Costello. That’s why you had lunch with him, Saint. You were after the real Costello Treasure the minute you came to town, which is exactly the reason I convinced Alisdare to pitch you on recovering it. I knew you would smell more than lobster fra diavola, and jump into the fray like a trouper.”

“My outlaw’s intuition told me I’d entered a play that was already in the third act,” admitted the Saint, “playing my part as close to someone’s imagined script as possible. Am I that predictable?”

Diamond smiled with as much compassion as good humor.

“Well, you’re the Saint. When I made my career choice, you became the object of my living masters thesis because you are the living master.”

“That sounds half-esoteric,” noted the Saint sarcastically, his strong fingers working the area between her toes.

She loosed a short laugh and quick gasp as he pressed a tender spot.

“Really, you are the original modern-day Robin Hood, the headache of cops and crooks alike.”

“You forgot to say ‘the devil with dames’.”

And with that, she was on him. It was a fluid pounce worthy of the finest female panther. In truth, he saw it coming and did not resist. She sat astride his chest, her knees atop his shoulders, her exquisite features and full red lips precariously close to his own.

“Considering they call you the Saint, you sure don’t act like one.”

“Perhaps I dropped my halo behind the couch,” suggested Simon. He could have tossed her off with no difficulty, but he rather enjoyed her playful one-upmanship. Besides, he wanted answers. An illusion of ascendency may be the position most conducive to truth-telling. As usual, his intuition was right on target.

“I made a complete study of you, Simon Templar. Every caper, every crime attributed or undeniable. I’ve examined your methods, both mercurial and predictable. But most of all, I’ve scrutinized your motives.”

“Please, go on”

“Justice — the best beloved of all things in your sight is justice,” insisted Tremayne.

“Well, I’ve also had a fond appreciation for precious gems and negotiable currency,” added Simon.

She shook her head. She was astonishingly beautiful.

“You’ve had enough loot to last anyone several lifetimes — at least you would have if you didn’t keep giving the bulk of your booty to charity. No, despite whatever crazy concepts of adventure got you into this game, you’ve become the man of your own legend, the embodiment of your own image, private enterprise personified with a heart of gold.”

She kissed him again, and while it is not germane to the plot, it is a fact that he kissed her in return.

“You forgot to mention that I’m a published author and frequent guest on America’s most asinine talk shows.”

She smirked and continued her lecture.

“I always wanted to be just like you, but not make the big mistake you made.”

The implication that he had made a big mistake dampened any enthusiasm for an immediate return to kissing volleys.

“Mistake?”

“Leaving that silly stick man logo all over the place in the old days.”

“It’s now a registered trademark,” added the Saint.

“You couldn’t resist being the famous Simon Templar.”

“And obviously,” countered the Saint, “neither could you.”

“Touché,” she said, and stood up. “There were pirate women who sailed the seas, Simon, many of them as keen, crafty, and adventurous as any parrot-toting brawler with a peg leg.”

“Knock on wood,” agreed Simon, pegging her legs as those of a dancer.

She regarded him seriously for a moment.

“You’re very charming, Mr Templar, but I didn’t come here for a high-school date. Besides, this place gives me the creeps. Where’s the loot?”

The Saint politely gave her the guided tour of Talon’s lair, concluding with a full inventory of cash, gems, and less attractive elements of the detective’s life-style.

“We both came here for the same reason, Saint,” stated Diamond with near corporate inflection, “and I hope we have the same plans for Talon’s ill-gotten gain.”

Simon divided the booty in half on the kitchen table.

“Ten percent for me, ninety percent becomes an anonymous donation to Viola Berkman’s humanitarian efforts,” explained the Saint, “I’ll trust you with half and expect that you’ll do the same.”

“Something along those lines,” responded Tremayne slyly as she filled her black bag with booty.

She turned towards the patio door as if she could exit as enigmatically and unhindered as she arrived. The Saint seized her arm firmly, but not roughly.

“I believe I’m entitled to a few more answers,” insisted the Saint, but he let loose her arm lest she fear his intentions.

She smiled with pride and studied his face for some time before responding.

“If you really want the complete story, keep that appointment at the Islands Airlines counter at Sea-Tac at 10am. Neah Bay is lovely this time of year.”

Simon was not about to be put off. For all he knew, Diamond Tremayne would never be seen nor heard from again.

“I’m taking a chance letting you leave as it is,” said the Saint, and everything about him confirmed that he was certainly capable of restraining her, and that was not lost on Ms Tremayne.

“You’re simply not used to friendly competition,” said Diamond, “and it was not even really competition. I needed you to arrange the one part of this caper that I couldn’t do myself — the one part I knew the Saint would handle perfectly, as I am sure you will. As I also wanted the opportunity to, shall we say, make your acquaintance, it was killing two birds with one stone.”

The Saint understood.

“The two dead birds being Talon and Alisdare.”

She nodded.

“At least those two, if not more. I could do everything else — manipulate, infiltrate, investigate, influence who got invited to your media party and even suggest the caterer — but wooing and winning, cajoling and controlling, is not the same as killing. I was after Talon and Alisdare with a vengeance.”

“What about Rasnec?”

She chuckled.

“He’s a sweetheart, with the emphasis on sweet, if you get what I mean. I made perfect window dressing for his personal life. Smart when it comes to real estate investment, dumb as a post when it comes to who he allows to be in business with him. The only real interest he has in Chesters or Elmo’s is the monthly profit and loss statements and how soon he can do something respectable with the property. He may put a good portion of his wealth in Karl Krogstad’s latest venture, among other things.”

“Lucky Karl,” murmured the Saint.

“The crooked real estate investor is one cliché you won’t find in this story, Simon.”

He regarded her thoughtfully, glanced at the clock above Talon’s television, and realized they didn’t have much time. Diamond shifted her weight and stepped closer to the patio.

“Alisdare believed I was going to keep you away from Berkman and Talon,” continued Tremayne, “He also believed there really was a valuable Costello Treasure, which, of course, there is. He was clueless about the name SeaQue — he wouldn’t know that you would recognize the name — so he went right along with my plan. But you and I know that the treasure isn’t in Neah Bay and there are no gems of inestimable value aboard the sunken Polaris.”

“Because the Polaris never sank,” asserted Simon, “and there was never a Norwegian cryptologist named Dagfinn Varnes. You tipped your hand early on to Viola Berkman, fabricated the Costello Treasure ruse for several inter-related reasons; (a) to con Alisdare into approaching me and giving me $10,000, (b) to have me take off to Neah Bay with, of all people, you to stay at a bed and breakfast owned by Arthur Rasnec. Was Arthur going to cook us eggs and sausage?”

“Be at Sea-Tac at ten in the morning and you’ll find out exactly what Arthur is cooking up,” answered Diamond cheerfully, “now, shouldn’t you be off doing something horrid to Alisdare and Talon?”

“It’s been done.” He said it with such icy finality that a shiver raced down Diamond’s spine and her scalp felt a size too small for her head.

“But you’re here and they’re meeting way up on Madison,” she stammered, her further objections stopped short of expression. She knew he was serious.

“How did you do it?”

She was obviously and honestly mystified. Simon realized at that moment that she had no idea that Roger and Peter’s SeaQue enterprise was, relative to the adventure, anything more than an oblique bit of arcane trivia.

Simon flashed his famous saintly smile, appearing as pure and innocent as his sobriquet could imply.

“The most simple explanation in the world.”

She waited to hear it, and it was worth the wait.

“I am the Saint,” said Simon Templar, and that settled that.

3

Detective Dexter Talon stood over the lifeless body of Salvadore Alisdare and admired his handiwork. He couldn’t afford to gloat, not with patrolmen standing around taking notes. It was good. Very good. The little weasel was greatly improved by death, and the gun clutched in his dead hand bore convincing testimony to Talon’s assertion of self-defense. An autopsy would confirm massive amounts of illegal intoxicants in Alisdare’s system — drugs known to stimulate aggressive, violent, and unpredictable behavior.

Talon’s sausage-like fingers fumbled their way into his tiny cigarette pack, extracted another plain-end length of nicotine, and stuffed it between his large leathery lips. He looked again at Alisdare, rejoicing in silence. There was paperwork and official explanations ahead of him, but they were gratifying closure to a repellent relationship. From whatever angle it was viewed, this episode was more cut and dried than a shoot-out during a convenience store robbery.

Salvadore’s little carcass was scooped into a black body bag, transported to the King County Morgue, and delivered as a matter of routine to Mr Surush Josi, the Nepalese lover of Broadway show tunes who whistled while he worked.

The Saint whistled as well — a melodic ditty of short duration distinguished by a lilting repetitive motif — as he drove his rented Chevrolet up Madison and past a bustling crime scene. There was no reason for Simon to slow down. He knew the perpetrator, the victim, and the eventual outcome. Simon Templar had other musicological items on his mind — according to authoritative KOL radio reporter George Garret intoning from the dashboard, Grand Theft was nearing their grand finale at the Concert of the Decade where, if one were to believe Mr Garret, the crowd was going crazy.

“Due, no doubt, to auditory discomfort,” said the Saint.

While Simon Templar amused himself with jest, Grand Theft set new standards in high decibel distortion before an acre of wildly flailing fans. The screaming multitudes — all sizes, a variety of ages from pre-pubescent to second childhood, and arrayed in overstated costumes revealing greater and lesser degrees of flesh and taste — seemed not only impervious to the ear splitting blare, but positively delighted by it.

The screaming crowd rolled in waves of manifest adrenalin, squealing and squirming, leaping and writhing, smashing themselves again and again against the hard wood of the high rise stage and the equally immovable barricade of beefy security guards. Above the band, a large screen pulsated with pinks and paisleys projected in combination with repetitive clips of public domain industrial films by Seattle’s famed Retina Circus Light Show.

Crowbar Schwartz wiped a fresh, dry towel across his dripping forehead and beamed with delight at his ocean of adoring fans. His bandmates, equally pleased, repositioned microphones and double-checked amp volume in preparation for the second selection of their first encore.

“Here’s a real memory maker for ya,” yelled Crowbar, “a million seller from our first album...”

The roar was deafening.

“Its a foot-tappin’ latin number — Lux Sit and Dance!”

His right arm swooped down in dramatic overstatement, striking something resembling a chord in intent but sounding like a train wreck in reality. The audience cheered, a renewed wave of undulating humanity surged with one rampant will towards the stage — the singular and noteworthy exception being an attractive, if waif-like young woman whose hair appeared to have been shaped by the jagged edge of a broken milk bottle. With stoic silence and singularity of purpose, she seriously contemplated the finer points of backstage security, She knew what to do. She had heard the story countless times before — the episode of braggadocio and verve which allowed her mother to pierce the shield of fame — a story who’s anecdotal climax resulted in her own birth, her mother’s disillusionment, and a street-wise adolescent’s disastrous quest for identity.

“Like mother, like daughter,” murmured Buzzy. Ruffling her hen-house haircut and squaring her little shoulders, she swung her hips and leaned her lips to the receptive young man entrusted with guarding the Coliseum’s most private recesses. His eyes widened when she whispered a detailed litany of false promises and enticing innuendos. Little Buzzy, soon adorned with an all-access backstage pass, crossed the Coliseum’s inviable perimeter and headed for the dressing rooms. She knew the routine; she could almost hear Mom’s voice, strangely sober, guiding her through the concrete labyrinth. If backstage needed a map or guide, Mom knew where X marked the spot.

“If you’re inside the dressing room,” Mom once reminisced over a bottle of rum, “all you have to deal with is the catering service’s cold cuts, warm beer, and a dozen other groupies just like you — all pirates after the same treasure.”

The Saint swung right on 6th Avenue, maneuvered his way to west of Aurora Avenue and finally into the southside parking lot of a brightly lit Denny’s Restuarant. Next to him sat a distinctive, cosmetically distressed, and battle weary Volvo; situated across the side street was the Tropicana Motel. Simon Templar exited his car, meeting two men emerging from the station wagon.

“I saw a gaggle of cop cars convening on Madison Street,” commented the Saint.

“Of course,” confirmed Quentin, “they were celebrating Talon’s expert marksmanship.”

“And Alisdare’s impersonation of a grounded flounder,” added Conway with no remorse.

“No doubt you’ve been keeping our twin sycophants entertained with exaggerated stories of your ignominious past,” said the Saint.

“The past has been very good to me, I’ll have you know,” asserted Peter, “and ignominious is too big a word.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” Roger jumped in, “violates the minimum syllable ordinance.”

“When verbosity is outlawed, only outlaws will be verbose,” agreed the Saint.

Peter lifted the Volvo’s rear hatch, pulled out a bundle of clothing and handed it to the Saint.

“The outfit you ordered Mr Templar, and a little badge to go with it. All this high fashion is courtesy of Emerald City Catering and the late Salvadore Alisdare, as are the delicious pickles Roger’s been eating.”

“Oh, I thought he simply found a new vinaigrette cologne,” responded Simon waving to the two smiling fans gesticulating at him from the front seat, “did you pull your Child Protective Services act for the folks at the motel?”

Peter nodded.

“In this suit, I look respectable enough to be Chairman of the Childrens Home Society,” confirmed Quentin, “I showed them one of those cropped shots highlighting her hairdo. If those thugs show up, even if they’ve got Buzzy stuffed in the trunk, it’ll be one quick call to 911 with Viola Berkman waiting in the wings.”

“I’m wagering it doesn’t get that far,” said the Saint seriously, “and towards that end, I’m prepared to make the supreme sacrifice.”

Roger coughed mockingly.

“Let’s see, for Simon Templar the supreme sacrifice would mean...”

His punchline remained undelivered because the Saint provided his own accurate explanation.

“Hearing more than ten seconds of Grand Theft.”

A few more items were exhanged between cars before Conway and Quentin signalled Dan and Ian.

“Gentlemen, start your engines.”

The roars and screams merged into auditory mayhem bearing traces of mechanical devices, unearthly demons, and throats rasped from hours of abuse. Grand Theft had turned their guitars towards the massive wall of amplifiers, and the feedback alone was enough to send any British citizen with war time recollections scrambling for the nearest air raid shelter.

The band’s double-ramped U-shaped stage plunged into shadow, a gigantic strobe light flashed in relentless intensity, and fifteen thousand concert goers held flickering lighters aloft as if demonstrating ignited butane could summon Crowbar and his cohorts back to center stage. Footstomping vibrated the concrete floor, rumbling the very ground surrounding the venue, and a clamour of activity reverberated through the Seattle Coliseum’s inner sanctum.

“Outa da way, outa da way,” barked stage manager Joe Fiala, peppering his exclamations with predictable expletives as the evening’s headliners dragged themselves to the dressing room for a change of costume, measured inhalations of oxygen from a green medical cylinder, and a cursory perusal of the female fans presumably weighing their odds in the romance lottery.

Buzzy found herself ahead of the pack, her tennis shoes squeeking as she ran towards what was obviously the main dressing room — obvious because a female space alien, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, held the door open as if she were the elevator operator at the Waldorf Astoria Towers.

Buzzy ducked inside and flattened herself against the far wall. She was not alone. Several other females, some garish, others naturally attractive, all older than she, leaned their partially bare backs and denimed derriers against the same rampart. Buzzy felt as if she were in a police line-up. She had valid reference points, having been in line-ups before.

Spread before them as the stark room’s culinary centerpiece were coldcuts, a veggi plate, a variety of iced juice drinks, and a simmering pot of hot herbal tea. Two men in Emerald City Catering uniforms placed garni on the carrots.

“No beer, huh?” Asked Buzzy of her fellow female wall hanging, a bleached blond with impressive coal-black roots. Her outfit was New York’s idea of Native American beadwork via a Malaysian factory.

“These guys? No way,” deadpanned bleach-woman, “it’s nothing but healthy living for the boys nowdays. They even make the road crew stay clean and sober.”

Bleachy looked Buzzy up and down as if appraising her for retail.

“You related? A cousin or something, or do you work for the concert company?”

“Why?”

“I’m the bass player’s wife,” she answered proudly as the band poured through the door, “and our daughter there is the space alien.”

“Oh. I’m a relative, too. Sort of a space alien myself — or space cadet, anyway,” muttered Buzzy, looking at her laces. Bleach-woman-in-beads cocked her head maternalisticaly, her grin widening to full-scale smile as she watched her scraggly hubby splash cold water on his face, wave to her, and toddle off to change into his next set of encore clothing.

Joe Fiala attempted shielding the dressing room complex from further invasion. A mounting number of men and women managed, by right, art, or artifice, to have backstage passes pinned to their outfits.

“C’mon, give em a break,” pleaded the professionally exasperated Fiala. “stand back, they got another encore. Be patient.”

Buzzy, silent against the wall and situated at least on the periphery of Grand Theft’s family circle, felt both safe and invisible. Fiala’s attention and protection was focused on those attempting to follow the band into the room, not those already ensconced with the cold-cuts.

Crowbar and his band re-emerged from the back room almost as quickly as they entered it, their perspiration soaked stage clothes replaced by fresh denim pants, shirts, and fringed leather vests — exact replicas of the oufits worn on the cover of their first album from two decades ago. A gimmick, to be sure, but a crowd pleaser guaranteed to turn fashion nostalgia into a screaming fit of cultural affirmation.

Grand Theft’s lead guitarist stopped to pour himself a short shot of hot tea, his eyes following his refreshed bass player’s comical walk to the open arms of an adoring bleach-blond spouse. When Crowbar saw the outlandish haircut of the young girl standing next to her, he almost dropped his cup.

“That’s it,” shouted Fiala, tapping his watch, “never-ending encore time! Let’s go, guys, your fans have either run out of lighter fluid by now or they’ve all set fire to themselves.”

The bass player loosed himself from his beloved, the drummer stuffed another carrot into his bearded mouth while winking at chintz adorned leggy beauty batting her store-bought lashes in well-rehearsed pseudo-abandon, and the lead guitarist couldn’t take his eyes off the pretty young woman with the chop-shop coif. He backed away from the condiment tray, reluctant to release her gaze from his, and allowed himself to be ushered out the door, down the hall, and up the short fight of makeshift stairs leading to the custom crafted multi-million dollar stage.

A new, freshly tuned Fender Stratocaster stood at the ready, a single red spotlight shone down from a heavenward scaffold, and before him surged an enthusiastic mass of humanity radiating near idolatrous adoration. The roar and rush swirling round his mind was nothing compared to the retained image of the waif-like youngster in the dressing room who’s eyes revealed a long-ago loss of innocence, more the a modicum of hopelessness, and a pleading portion of personal desperation.

The drummer started the downbeat, the final encore began with all the refined subtlety of a rocket launch, and far, far behind the stage, Little Buzzy thoughfully dipped a piece of cauliflower into a tangy, white dip. She had never tasted raw cauliflower before. It crunched. She liked it. A warm hand squeezed her small shoulder, and she turned to smile at Blond Bead Lady. It was not Blond Bead Lady to whom she turned.

“Hi, sweetheart. Remember me?”

She did, but not with warmth. There was a moment of brain-numbing cognitive dissonence caused by seeing someone from one aspect of her life in a completely different dimension of her existance. She had imagined that somehow being in the Coliseum’s secured area would protect her from her own recent past and excessive moral lapses. No such luck. The uniform said Emerald City Catering, but the predator grin and sticky hand belonged to Major League.

He leaned down to her multi-pierced ear, bit the lobe lewdly, and intoned offers of high-quality crank and all the amusement she associated with its effects.

“Really, kid. This is the best stuff yet.”

Her tender heart pounded recklessly in her chest, her mixed emotions stretched between established physical cravings and deeper childlike longings. Despite every degrading and self-destructive act commited over her past few months on the street, the higher level of life achieved ascendency — Little Buzzy felt honestly innocent, hunted, and trapped. She instinctively jumped back from the sound of his voice, her left hand knocking over the dip dish and sending it crashing to the concrete floor.

“Hey!” It was Bead Lady, her maternal instincts summoned by Buzzy’s unspoken distress. “What are you doing to that kid?”

“Shaddup!” Major League was not known for his refined manners. Recalling Alisdare’s instruction to not make a scene, even he was caught short by his rudeness. Buzzy bolted for the door.

“Stop!”

She was already running.

Major League lunged for her, but was grabbed harshly from behind by Bead Lady. He spun, slamming his palm into her chest and propelling her backwards as if she were shot from a circus cannon. Her unintentional target for touchdown — the entire refreshment table — collapsed under her impact with noisome racket. Cold cuts, vegetables, tea, and one would-be Native American princess splashed and spilled messily across the floor. A teen-age space alien screeched in dismay at the sight of her mother so forlorn, but the balance of the backstage gaggle seemed more concerned with the loss of free food than any outcries of human distress.

Buzzy was out the door, Major League was right behind her, and Nondescript tossed aside his cap as he dashed in hot pursuit. The backstage girls later agreed that the second caterer was exceptionally difficult to describe. They were eventually even more nonplussed when the Coliseum’s contracted custodian opened the utility closet in search of a mop and discovered two authentic and docile Emerald City Catering employees, sans uniforms, bound and gagged along side the bucket. The first one said his name was Dave and expressed concern over missing the encore.

The single red spotlight was now joined by sweeping arcs of multi-hued illumination punctuated by flashpots, flashbulbs, laser beams and obligatory dry-ice fog. The enormous stage and its electronic environs looked and sounded like a futuristic frontier’s battle zone. Amid the mayhem, Crowbar swung his axe with the intensity of a rampaging Viking while the rhythm section pounded out a visceral tattoo calculated to arouse primal instincts worthy of any senseless bloodletting splashed across history’s stained pages.

Buzzy’s tattered high-tops squealed their rubbery wail as she skittered between hangers-on and press personnel detailing the backdrop of Grand Theft’s reunion tour, weaved between stagehands, special effects wizards, concert company personnel, and last minute entrants dropping names and flashing passes. With a deftness reserved for championship skiers and precision skaters, the energetic youngster successfully skirted several human hazards considered precarious by cautious and demure pedestrians, and she was certainly not one of those.

Major League, bereft of Buzzy’s agility, careened around the corner to collide head on with two burly stage hands who judged his behavior socially unacceptable and worthy of restraint. Encountering their opposition, he struck one of them soundly on the jaw before resuming his pursuit. Nondescript, no more adroit at avoiding collision than his cohort, found himself entangled in an unexpected encounter with numerous arms, legs, and torsos, the majority of which did not belong to him. From his perspective — one which no one would characterize as universal — the most painful aspect was the immobilizing grip locked around his neck by someone who’s fingers displayed the power of banded steel. Before he could make even an uncivil enquiry into his assailant’s identification, terminal darkness overtook any remnants of his limited consciousness.

Little Buzzy, moving in zig-zag form admirable of any downhill victor, didn’t bother to check the progress of her pursuers. There was no turning back and only one place to go — up the makeshift stairs to dive headfirst into the throbbing fog and screaming feedback. Had Major League and Nondescript not chased her, she would not have run; had she not run, she would not have panicked. Now, convinced that continued pursuit implied impending acts of danger, she perceived no choice but to cross the threshold from private fear to public exposure.

Major League’s mid-chase biffing of a backstage lacky in the chops did not go unnoticed by Coliseum security, most especially off-duty Police officers Bill Stroum and Allen Goldblatt who quickly barked details of this potential pop culture upheaval into their city issued multi-band radios. Lest this scene turn uglier than a Grand Theft album jacket, the two detailed the situation as an alert for possible back-up. Every cop in town heard the report, including the downtown bound Detective Dexter Talon. At first, he found the vignette of rock and roll pandemonium amusing, but grasping the details — catering service employee chasing young girl who’s top mop seemed fashioned by a demented hedge-trimmer — Talon turned from his original destination of police headquarters and boring paperwork towards the unmitigated excitement of the Seattle Center Coliseum.

“I thought the crowd was supposed to rush the stage, not caterers chase the kids,” cracked Talon to the dispatcher.

A short whoosh of static preceeded a good natured come-back catching Talon by surprise.

“Hey, that’s the most excitement we’ve had tonight. Even Duvall’s had more action than us. There was a big meth lab explosion, huge fire, the works...”

A lump of hot ice melted in Talon’s enormous gut.

Meth lab explosion in Duvall.

“Saints preserve us,” said Talon with a phoney brogue. He grabbed the single blue light from the floorboard and, rolling down his window, reached up and attatched it to the roof before firing his siren. As he pressed the accelorator to the floor, he thought to himself how fortunate he was to have Simon Templar on his side.

The ignition of multiple encore flashpots showered the stage with eruptions of eye-searing illumination and crowd-pleasing pyrotechnics. The thrashing performers threw themselves about the stage with the religious fervor of an addlepated Saint Vitus; the similarly afflicted multitudes responded with equal ardor and greater enthusiasm, dousing the beefy security line with wet fear and oppresive apprehension.

Concert promoter John Bauer, watching from the VIP seats, covered his eyes and prayed for the encore’s conclusion. He sensed mob mentality taking possession of fifteen thousand former individuals, transforming them into one howling beast of massive mindless reaction. He blanched at the thought of anyone suffering physical injury. Besides, the term “rock n roll riot” was bad for business. Bauer remained unaware that the stage’s southward perimeter had already been violated by a plucky youngster fearing for her life. It was only moments, however, before the crowd caught their first glimpse of what appeared to be one of their own cavorting unhindered with Grand Theft. If she could do it, so could they. The security line locked arms in futile attempt to stall a crowd as determined to swarm over the stage as would a rapacious cloud of army ants consuming a helpless water buffalo.

“Stop the music! Stop the music!” It was Joe Fiala bleating orders at the band, but it was Surush Josi in the Seattle morgue who pressed the stop button on the Walkman clipped to his belt, cutting short the rousing rendition of “Tradition” from Fiddler on the Roof.

He bent over the body of Salvadore Alisdare and loosed a low whistle unrelated to any Broadway musical. Strapped to Alisdare’s body was a sleek black micro-recorder who’s tiny tape had yet to complete recording the entire length of side two. Josi pressed the stop button, a slight whirring sound ceased, and the cassette lid popped open from his finger’s pressure. A small piece of cardboard ejected with the tape and fluttered unnoticed to the floor. Josi walked to the telephone and placed an evenly worded call to the on duty Chief of Detectives. He, in turn, called the Chief of Police who’s eventual obligation was to make late-night contact with Seattle Mayor Walter Crowley. If the Mayor was upset over the lateness of the hour, he was even more outraged over the contents of the little tape found on the body of Salvadore Alisdare — the vocals were clean and crisp, somewhat stacatto, and devoid of musical accompaniment. The words embedded on the thin strip of mylar were illuminating beyond any known candlepower.

The brash intrusion of megawatt houselights scattered the Coliseum’s mood if not the audience. Crowbar ceased strangling his six-string and opened his eyes to the reality of immediate danger from the fans who loved him. Scrambling to vacate the stage, his peripheral vision snared Buzzy struggling against the grip of a uniformed caterer. But even that vision was soon obscured by dozens of other youths — male, female, and undecided — scuffling with the security crew and clawing and pawing towards his own famous personage.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Fiala pulled at Crowbar’s fringe, entreating him to make a quick getaway.

The riotous pandemonium, although beginning to slack, poured over the stage, toppling bodies into the corridors and holding areas. The sound of smashing guitars and ravaged drumsets told Grand Theft that the tools of their trade were being both demolished and stolen — ironically, “Demolished & Stolen” was the title of track two, side one of their second LP.

With rented security chasing fans from the dry-ice fogged ramps, and Grand Theft’s own road crew making valiant attempts to protect the remaining equipment, no one noticed Little Buzzy being dragged off-stage by an officious looking man in a caterer’s uniform.

Buzzy thrashed wildly, resisting captivity with youthful muscle and few good nails which she forcefully raked down the side of her assailant’s cheek.

“Ya little brat,” growled Major League, shaking her violently, “you think you’re hot stuff.” He pulled back his ham-sized fist and slugged her full force in the face. Her head snapped back like a Pez dispenser, an ugly carnival of green and red lights swirled stupidly behind her eyes, and blood poured from her tiny nostrils. The pain erased all vision, replacing sight and will with dull throbbing numbness. Her little body collapsed, trembling with shock and fright. If she ever got out of this alive, she vowed to kill herself once and for all. She would go along with anything, everything, until they were done with her. Then, in her own way, in her own time, she would prove ultimate control of her own life by ending it. The prospect didn’t fill her with morose fascination nor moribund delight — it was simply an admission of exceptional desperation coupled with resigned recognition that her life was not, and would never be, anything resembling healthy, happy, normalcy. For now, the only escape was to shut down all response in a limp, tear soaked faint.

With Buzzy out cold, her captor quickly unzipped his Emerald City coveralls and tossed them aside. In the process, he spied a matching costume waving to him from the first tier above stage right. Cradling Buzzy in his arms as if he were a compassionate adult concerned for his child’s well being, he motioned towards the building’s East entrance — the one closest to the service lane and his vehicle — signaling his partner to join him away from the pack of backstage security bundled by the rear West exit.

Thousands were streaming out of the Coliseum, and all would make way for a man lovingly holding his sadly injured daughter.

The trek from center stage to the desired egress was a tiresome and enervating obstacle course of altered state hippies and stumbling aficionados of American nostalgia. Major League wanted none of it. In fact, he resented carrying Buzzy’s near dead weight. Alisdare would hear about this, and cough up hazard pay besides. In fairness, it did occur to Major League that the reward wasn’t worth the effort. Although the drugs were good and the women were easy, lately his boss was getting stranger and stranger. This Talon scam was getting out of hand, but at least the irritating Simon Templar had been taken care of — he was either on their side or dead on the sidelines. As for Buzzy, a street kid was a disposable commodity — the breath drawing equivalent of non-refillable butane lighters. “Use ’em and throw ’em away,” was his attitude, and the sooner he could dispose of Buzzy, the better.

Once outside the East entrance, the crowd poured left while Major League and his limp burden turned to the right, heading towards the dark service lane running along side the Coliseum. The weak waif stirred to consciousness, and he brought her down on her rubber soled but wobbly feet. Gripping her arm tightly, he pushed her ahead of him.

The night breeze carried the prepatory aura of oncoming rain, the silent signal of short downpours for which the city is renown. The brisk evening air chilled Buzzy’s once-warm tears; blood caked around her nose and mouth, and she squinted painfully to see where she was going. Devoid of reference points and still suffering pain from the cruel blow to her fragile features, she struggled to make sense of her surroundings. She soon understood that she was being propelled toward a bright set of headlights. She recognized the car’s grill and knew it belonged to the same creep digging fingerprints into her arm. Another man in Emerald City Catering garb leaned nonchalantly against the idling auto. Oblivious to the first large drops of rain, he was reading the evening Seattle Times.

“Stop readin’ the goddam paper,” snapped her abductor, not understanding why a semi-illiterate fool would suddenly be interested in the Seattle Times, “let’s get the hell out of here.”

The accomplice stood firm, for as any astute follower of these chronicles can surmise, the accomplice was non-compliant for the simple reason that he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, in league with Major.

“If the truth be known,” commented Simon Templar dryly, “I much preferred you as a minor character.”

Major League’s expletive laced response has no place in a moral and uplifting story such as this.

“I’ve got the girl,” insisted the thug.

“You’ve got the gall,” corrected Simon.

Buzzy, weeping, said nothing.

“Alisdare, Barry, Milo, and the rest of your little playmates have gone to their eternal lack of reward,” said the Saint conversationally as he un-zipped and stepped out of the uniform, kicking it aside, “And it’s a good thing for you, too. Ol’ Salvadore told you not to make a scene, remember? Were that pink-eared pervert alive today, he’d roll over in his grave if he had one, but I believe they’re still digging bullets out of him at the morgue.”

Major League involuntarily gasped.

“One more thing,” added the Saint as he snapped open the newspaper, “don’t expect your almost-as-ugly buddy to scamper out here and jump behind the wheel — he suffered a tragic neck injury about the same time he relinquished the car keys.”

The Saint leaned back against the grill and turned his attention to the front page, scanning the headlines as if waiting for Metro Transit. Major League tightened his grip and Buzzy sobbed harder. As the Saint spoke again, a limousine’s V-8 engine roared to life in the distance and a police siren wailed.

“Three inch bold type headlines, old boy, right here next to the wedding picture of Judge Crater and Amelia Ehrhardt. ‘Bad Guys Dead — You May be Next.’ I’m speaking in potentialities, of course, although every unpleasant person in this adventure has met a quite timely demise, except for you and Talon, but these piffling details can be wrapped up in a postscript attached to the final chapter.”

The Saint tossed the newsprint prop aside and spread his hands wide in a gesture of finality. “I’d say throw in the towel, but the tender child with whom you’ve mopped the floor is hardly made of terrycloth. She’s a flesh and blood human being, and a young one at that, short eyes.”

Major League blanched at the term “short eyes,” knowing it was prison slang for child molester, the one appellative guaranteed to assure early death or worse from those awaiting you behind bars. Even a false accusation could destroy a man, and a true accusation followed by incarceration would prove deadly.

“You don’t understand, Templar,” objected the man who understood full well that the Saint understood everything.

“I understand that you are going to let the girl go because you have no where to take her and nothing to do when you get there,” explained Simon.

“You ain’t no cop,” insisted Major League, as if that made a difference.

“Which is precisely why I can kill you and not be concerned about paper work,” responded the Saint honestly. Despite being woefully bereft of anything lethal in his possession, the power of his intention, so clearly and flatly stated, made the threat seem terrifyingly viable and immediately eminent.

Buzzy whimpered, and the Saint began walking towards the man and his underage captive.

Major League looked around desperately. With fifteen thousand people within one city block, the three of them were ominously alone.

“Don’t come any closer, Templar,” insisted the aggravated hoodlum, “just step away from the car.”

“I have stepped away from the car. Now, you step away from the girl. I’m not going to bother reading you your rights because (a) I’m not the law, and (b) you have no rights.”

“But I got Milo’s .38,” countered the thug.

The Saint walked to the right of the headlights while the villain and his victim circled to his left. They were fully illuminated, Simon was now back-lit at best.

“I know you do, Cueball, I gave it to you myself.”

Major League yanked the weapon from under his shirt with his free hand while digging his fingers even harder into Buzzy’s soft flesh.

Simon, not about to credit Buzzy’s captor with enough prescience to reload Milo’s weapon, laughed derisively.

“And whom do you plan to shoot? The girl? Me? Perhaps yourself?”

The Saint stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, wrapping the broad rubber band from Alisdare’s kitchen around the first two fingers of his left hand and easing out several tacks with the other.

“You have neither bullets nor options,” explained Simon happily, “but hopefully, an ear for classic music hall compositions.”

The Saint, it must be admitted, broke into song. And while the tune was that of a well-known standard, the lyrics were modified especially for the occasion.

Viewed from a distance, the trio seemed to be either performing a lackluster number from an off-Broadway musical, or reviving an ancient human sacrifice ritual with a four cylinder sedan as centerpiece.

Buzzy’s improved vision and comprehension coincided with Simon’s resonant baritone and the increased frequency of rain drops splashing on her with mounting rapidity. The rain was a dark night’s cold shower, and her awareness was on the rise. The relevant high points of the scenario in which she found herself were easily grasped — one rough and ugly man had bloodied her nose and kidnapped her; a smooth and handsome man, currently singing a song with her name in it, wanted to rescue her. Her sympathies and support were certainly not for the former.

Simon ceased his vocalizing and slowly backed up, altering his position as Major League inched closer to the car’s driver’s side.

“I’m surprised the young lady is still standing,” called out the Saint, “considering how hard you hit her, she should be down or dead.”

Buzzy, despite her beating or because of it, read the Saint’s message as if it had been projected in paisley with full illumination by the Retina Circus. She understood completely and complied immediately, throwing herself at the wet pavement behind the car’s fender. Major League’s grip was too tight to release, the sudden drop pulling him off balance and sending him stumbling stupidly after her until his revolting face was well-lit and perfectly positioned in the headlight’s blinding glare.

The Saint instantly swung his makeshift slingshot from waist height to eye level, took precise aim, and fired. Several steel pointed projectiles sailed through the rain and smacked painfully into the wet flesh of Major League’s face. He shrieked, throwing his hands up to claw away the pain. In the process, and without forethought, he released the girl and the gun.

“Run!” The command tore through the Saint’s throat as she scrambled to her feet and raced past the red taillights into the dark. She knew what she was running from, but no ideas what she was running to until she bounced off something large yet resilient that sent her stumbling back to fall on her petite and rain soaked behind. Through the drenching downpour, and off to the side, she saw a circular flash of repetitive blue light. Looming above her was the massive bulk of Detective Dexter Talon. She screamed.

The Saint, momentarily torn between chasing after Buzzy or engaging in a death fight with Major League simply on general principles, now had no choice — the scream simultaneously summoned him and sent his enemy diving for the driver’s seat. In a flash of inspiration, Simon threw himself at the windshield as Major League slammed the door. The Saint landed on the hood, locked his hands around the windshield wiper, and snapped it off as he rolled across and hit the ground running.

Tires squealed, and the sedan shot sightless out the service lane as Simon Templar raced to Buzzy’s cries.

Major League’s adrenaline pumped stronger than the engine’s unleaded octane and Mercer Street was only seconds away, but he couldn’t see anything beyond one absurd image: a silly stick man with a balloon shaped head and jaunty halo. It was iridescent, red, and growing in size. By the time the realization struck him that the image was attached to the passenger side of a Volvo wagon crawling through the post-concert traffic directly outside the service lane exit, there was nothing he could do but increase panic and lose control. The final rational thought passing through his paralyzed mind was the realization that his flimsy American sedan was no match for the tank-like construction of a Volvo. He jammed the brakes and spun the wheel. His car careened off a concrete abutment, scattered a herd of frightened pedestrians, and smashed grill first into a large metal pole owned and maintained by Pacific Power and Light. Had he bothered to buckle his seat belt, he might have lived. He did neither.

Horns honked, lights flashed, people yelled, and the mistreated youngster known as Little Buzzy found herself reluctantly consoled in the dark by an enormous object of fear and loathing.

“It’s OK baby,” murmured Talon, pressing her needlessly close, “all the bad men are gone.”

“All except one,” corrected the Saint.

The downpour was incessant, and time was of the essence. Simon had never expected to see Talon again.

“Look at her, Saint,” said the Detective as if showing off a prized collectable, “you can see how I was fooled.”

Drenched to the skin through her inadequate clothing, Buzzy’s undeniably well-developed feminine figure was being offered up as some sort of justification.

“I can’t thank you enough, Templar,” insisted Talon, “I really owe ya. Now beat it. I’ll take care of the little girl.”

Simon stood momentarily immobilized. The phrase “little girl” reverberated through his mind. Any moment the scene would be crawling with reputable law enforcement, rubber-necking onlookers, and press representatives from backstage. A good car wreck such as Major League’s tends to bring everyone together.

The Saint’s personal plan of remaining out of the headlines was being seriously threatened, but Simon Templar refused to leave Buzzy alone for even one moment with Dexter Talon. Somewhere behind the detective, a police radio crackled; behind the Saint shone the headlight configuration of a Jaguar XKE.

Odd shafts of light criss-crossed the scene with jagged shadows, the rain was subsiding, and there were people arriving from all directions.

Simon turned to confirm the identify of the vehicle behind him; Talon turned to face rapidly approaching footsteps.

Buzzy broke free from the detective’s repellent hug and ran towards the most welcome sight of her life — Viola Berkman flanked by several Seattle police officers, including Stroum and Goldblatt. She threw herself into Vi’s arms, half laughing, half sobbing.

“You’re a little late, officers,” explained Talon in a most professional manner, “some crackpot tried to kidnap that poor kid. That’s him wrapped around the power pole.”

Stroum walked to Talon’s car and opened the door to the back seat while Goldblatt approached the detective cautiously.

“You know something, Talon?” called out Officer Stroum, “You’re really sick.”

Talon’s skin froze.

“I’m afraid you’re under arrest, Detective,” stated Goldblatt officiously, “I’ll need your gun and your shield.”

The ex-detective’s excess flesh vibrated furiously.

“What the hell am I under arrest for?”

“The murder of Salvadore Alisdare, for one thing,”

“Jeeze, Dexter,” called out Stroum from Talon’s back seat, “the whole damn thing was tape recorded for God’s sake. Hey! Add possession of child pornography to the charge, Allen, the car’s loaded with it.”

Talon face turned purple with rage, he pointed his big fat finger in the direction of Simon Templar and shook it violently.

“The Saint! The Saint!” sputtered Talon irrationally.

“The man’s a Saint all right,” agreed the arresting officer as he snapped on the cuffs, “I can vouch for him myself. After all, he’s my Rabbi.”

Talon stared at the athletic frame of Nat Berkman silhouetted in the Jaguar’s headlights, and realized Simon Templar was nowhere to be seen and even less likely to be referenced by anyone in attendance.

“By the way, Rabbi,” said Officer Goldblatt pointing at the Jaguar, “I like your personalized license plate.”

“Thanks,” replied Berkman, “and its a good sign that you do. After all, it requires a certain moral mindset to recognize it.”

Talon stared at the plate. 1 °COM meant nothing to him. Buzzy, however, understood immediately. So had Simon Templar.

4

“Ten Commandments,” asserted Ian correctly as he shoved another bite of Denny’s pecan pie into his mouth.

“Not as blatant as RABBI,” noted Roger Conway, “but certainly more clever.”

“I thought that other jerk’s car was gonna cream us for sure,” Daniel admitted, shaking his head in wonderment.

Peter Quentin and Roger Conway, who recently assured the Tropicana Motel that Buzzy’s whereabouts were no longer of concern, watched the boys stuff themselves with pie and ice-cream, the most minimal of rewards for their outstanding heroism and coolness under pressure. The Saint, in addition to picking up the tab for the above referenced refreshments, also slipped them sufficient cash to completely restore their authentic Saintmobile.

The celebratory party of four was soon joined by a jovial Simon Templar returning from the pay phone with fresh news.

“The cats out of the bag and the fur is flying furiously,” sang the Saint happily, “the King County Jail has testy old Talon under suicide watch, a transcript of Alisdare’s last tape has been released to the news media, and here’s the best joke of the night: Little Buzzy had a special visitor at the hospital where she’s being kept overnight for observation — Crowbar Schwartz, lead guitar player of Grand Theft. Apparently he thought it good PR to visit such a put-upon fan. Besides, he said her haircut reminded him of an old girlfriend from 15 years ago. When he asked Buzzy if there was anything special he could do for her, she said ‘yes, take a blood test’.”

His compatriots in the Denny’s booth waited several minutes for Simon Templar to stop laughing.

“Wait a minute, Saint,” interrupted Ian, “what about the Costello Treasure?”

“Which one? There are two Costello Treasures,” explained Simon, “one of them has been in my hotel room since about one o’clock in the afternoon, the other has yet to be revealed, although I know exactly where it is.”

Dan and Ian looked at Simon incredulously; Peter and Roger, used to such shenanigans, didn’t bat an eye.

“Finish your pie and follow me back to the Westin for a sneak preview of the Treasure of Dolores Costello, then I must get my beauty sleep — I have an important 10 a.m. appointment.”

“That means a woman,” explained Peter in case the boys were bereft of understanding.

“What’s her name again, Simon,” chided Roger Conway, “Tiffany? Ruby? DeBeers?”

“This week she calls herself Diamond Tremayne. Next week, I haven’t the slightest idea,” acknowledged the Saint. “I can’t wait to see the name on her airline ticket.”

At ten o’clock the following morning, Simon Templar kept his appointment with Diamond Tremayne. She arrived dressed in a conservative business suit, white blouse, dark hose, matching black mid-heel pumps, and her luxurious hair in a lovely French braid.

“Disguised as a librarian?” asked the Saint.

“Librarians can find anything, Mr Templar,” she answered, “even treasure.”

Tremayne, to Simon’s surprise, did not arrive alone. Accompanying her were Arthur Rasnec and Karl Krogstad. Everyone was cordial, but only Simon Templar was ignorant of the exact nature and purpose of the excursion. The Saint did not earn his nickname solely on the basis of patience, although under the circumstances, he was entitled.

As Diamond promised, Neah Bay was beautiful that time of year, and Arthur Rasnec certainly owned a charming Bed & Breakfast. In fact, he owned far more than impressive overnight accommodations. He also held title to a spectacular piece of rustic property, once utilized as a summer camp, now perfectly suited as a retreat, artists colony, or both.

“The way I see it, Mr Templar,” explained Rasnec with professional expertise and remarkable human warmth, “this facility would be the ideal locale for the educational and moral rearmament of displaced street kids such as Little Buzzy. Privately funded, professionally staffed, dedicated to healing, training, and nurturing via an arts based curriculum.”

Krogstad was smiling broadly, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

“And get this, Saint,” added Karl, “you know today’s kids are crazy about media and movies. We’ll set up a complete film and video workshop, teaching them hands on techniques in editing, lighting, scriptwriting, drama, the works. We’ll actually produce original material created by the kids themselves — marketable, of course, and once a year, right here, we’ll have that International Independent Filmmakers Conference and Competition I told you about at the Harvard Exit.”

Karl obviously secured his investor, but it was Diamond Tremayne who put the humanitarian spin on concept and realization. Simon was impressed.

“There are also employees of other enterprises in which I own significant interest,” added Rasnec, “who are most interested in training for new careers and pursuing optional avenues of employment.”

“And what exactly do you want from me, Mr Rasnec?” asked the Saint politely.

“I’m donating the property and substantial funding, but Diamond has also made a generous contribution to the initial start-up of the project, and we were hoping...”

Our penultimate pirate’s bright blue eyes were glorious beacons of supportive assurance.

“The Simon Templar Foundation would be proud to participate,” confirmed the Saint, “and I know a firm named SeaQue will be similarly inclined. Do the Berkmans know about this?”

“I had a chat with Vi this morning,” answered Tremayne, her countenance glowing with an aura of charitable victory.

Diamond, Rasnec, and Krogstad took turns shaking Simon’s hand.

“What exactly is your position, Ms Tremayne?” the Saint later asked, the Neah Bay afternoon sun bathing his private room in warm golden hues.

“I raise collateral,” replied Diamond playfully, kicking off her pumps and wiggling her toes, “it is also my obligation to receive extensive foot massages from notorious and dangerously handsome men.”

To dispel any doubts as to the identity of her notorious man of preference, she reclined demurely on the sofa and stretched her exquisite legs across his lap. Simon’s strong fingers applied appropriate and anticipated pressure.

“Perhaps your little feet are weary from standing on such high moral ground,” commented the Saint.

“I told you I learned from the best,” she said, “As for morality, the world has too much rhetoric and not enough action. Most problems could be simply solved if people actually acted in conformity with their words. Some talk; some actually do.”

“And you, Ms Tremayne, are exceptionally versatile.”

“Mere conjecture, Mr Templar. And as much as you detest playing detective,” continued Diamond, her unbraided auburn hair cascading luxuriously around her shoulders, “I think this caper calls for increased personal investigation.”

“Shall we investigate how much of your story about having a cousin corrupted in Seattle is true? Shall we question how it is that you and Rasnec know each other, and for how long? Shall I raise the possibility that going after Talon was Arthur’s idea in the first place, not yours? Would it be wise to surmise that you have been many things in life before becoming the world’s most attractive midnight marauder, including a dancer with less than professional credentials?”

Diamond Tremayne carefully watched the Saint’s face as he spoke, searching for signs of judgement or condemnation. She saw neither.

“If all I’m raising is questions,” she answered coyly, “then I will pose a few of my own: what’s your mother’s maiden name? Do you have brothers and sisters?”

Simon Templar smiled.

“To appreciate a rose,” agreed Simon, “you inhale its fragrance, not sniff the soil from which it grew,”

Diamond swiveled her long legs from his lap and leaned in to him.

“Let us agree that you are the Saint and I am Diamond Tremayne,” she suggested in a secretive whisper, scrunching her adorable eyes into cute little squints and moving her dangerous lips close to his, “and, for the sake of discussion, let’s accept that characters such as myself sometimes simply appear full blown and fully grown.”

“You certainly fit the criteria,” said the Saint, the rest of the sentence and the balance of the chapter silenced by demonstrations of appreciative affection.