Capture the Saint

1

Barney Malone eyed Simon suspiciously before tapping the long white ash from the end of his aromatic cigar and turning his gaze to the serulian blue waters of Lake Washington.

“How much of that story has any association with reality?”

“Why? Do you want to buy the movie rights?”

“I’m not sure I buy much of it at all,”

“Mr Malone,” protested the Saint, feigning affront, “do you honestly believe that I would lure you out here on such a beautiful day to pull your leg — especially one as aged as yours?”

To validate his truncated version of the preceding narrative, the Saint handed Malone recent editions of Seattle’s two daily newspapers.

“Criminal Caterer Killed in Alley,” recited Malone aloud, “Detective Indicted in Downtown Slaying,” “Rabbi to the Rescue,” “Duvall Drug Deal Explodes.”

The Saint smiled smugly.

“Believe me now?”

Malone tossed the papers aside.

“There’s nothing about the romantic nuptials of Judge Crater and Amelia Ehrhardt.” objected Barney, “and I thought that was the best part.”

Simon dropped his head as would a penitent schoolboy.

“Alright, I made that up, but the balance of the story can be completely verified by Roger Conway and Peter Quentin.”

Barney Malone puffed fresh life into his cigar.

“I haven’t seen those two in years,” muttered Malone, “the last I heard, Conway and Quentin were lolling about the UK disguised as oil slicks on the road to prosperity. Why they’re not at least under house arrest is beyond me.”

Simon bit the inside of his cheek to avoid grinning too broadly.

“Those two rascals would verify you having danced the night away with Archdeacon George Townshend in the vestibule of St. Patrick’s Cathedral” deadpanned Malone perfectly, “the very fact that you would invoke them in defense of such a far-fetched yarn is almost adequate testimony to it’s manifest falsity.”

Barney’s ability to keep a straight face during the final three sentences of the previous paragraph was not up to the task, and both he and the Saint burst into laughter.

“OK, Templar, I’m hooked,” admitted Malone good naturedly as they regained their composure. “what’s the truth about the Costello Treasure?”

Simon checked his watch, noticed the craft’s approach to a lakeside mooring, and pulled a small photograph from his inside pocket.

“Here’s your first clue,” said the Saint, handing Malone the picture. Barney stared at it for sometime before speaking.

“I’ve never seen this one before,” he acknowledged, “its a perfectly wonderful candid snapshot of John Barrymore and Dolores Costello. Who took it? Where did you get it? More importantly, can I keep it?”

“Yes, you can keep it; I got it from my friend Olav T. Lunde; it was taken by his father who was once an employee of the Barrymore’s,” answered Simon, standing and pointing towards the dock, “and here comes complete validation for the story you’re so reticent to believe.”

Boarding the ship were Roger Conway and Peter Quentin, carrying a large cake and a gift wrapped package. Barney almost dropped his cigar.

“Surprised to see us, Barney?” kidded Conway as he stepped aboard.

“Only considering the long standing extradition agreements between America and Great Britain,” joked Malone, his true pleasure unconcealed and amplified by an excited smile.

Hugs, handshakes, and backslaps were soon well distributed and as the Thea Foss resumed its Lake Washington cruise, these men of long acquaintance settled down to admire the cake and watch Malone unwrap his gift.

The cake itself was an icing work of art, decorated with multi-colored fish, diamonds, waves of water, and an old-fashioned hand-cranked movie camera. “Happy Birthday Barney” was spelled out in Art Deco edible font. One understated candle adorned the cake’s mid-point.

“We’ll cut the cake after lunch, but first Barney must open his gift,” commanded the Saint.

Malone complied, pulling away the festive wrap and revealing a 1920’s style marine log book. The vessel’s name, written in elaborate script, was embossed on the cover.

“INFANTA”

Barney recited the name, recalling it as one of the cryptic clues quoted in the Costello Treasure scenario.

“Open it,” prompted an encouraging Peter Quentin.

He did, and was momentarily speechless. Each leaf of the exquisite book was adorned with another rare photograph of Barrymore, Costello, and their coterie of famous show business friends cavorting on Barrymore’s personal yacht; each large page featured handwritten details of fishing trips and sight-seeing excursions of the Great Profile, his beautiful wife, and numerous luminaries from Hollywood’s Golden Age.

“These photos are priceless,” whispered Malone emphatically, “none have ever been published, not in Silver Screen Magazine or any hardback collection, and I ought to know. This book is beyond value. I have never seen anything so spectacular. Who did you have to kill to get it?”

An awkward silence followed the question as Conway and Quentin looked to the Saint.

“He knows the story, fellas,” said Simon, “I told him all about our rousing adventure, Alisdare, Talon, Little Buzzy, the works.”

“What story?” Conway and Quentin asked impishly in unison; the Saint closed his eyes and shook his head.

“If Simon told you some wild yarn and it didn’t end with one or both of us saving his skin, then you know it can’t possibly be true,” advised Roger with all the intensity of a politician campaigning for re-election.

“Actually, Roger saved him this time because I was tired of doing it,” added Peter helpfully, “the Saint didn’t try to sell you some whopper about us being involved with the Corrupt Cop Kills Caterer story, did he?”

Malone chuckled, insisted he didn’t care about anything in the paper except the entertainment page, and allowed that this fabulous book must indeed be the famed Costello Treasure.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” confirmed Simon, “The rare photos were duplicated from the private collection of Olav Lunde, formerly belonging to his father who accompanied Barrymore and his guests on those excursions. In fact, the senior Mr Lunde was captain of the Infanta and he took the original pictures; the handwritten text from the Infanta’s log book was replicated from the original historical document found only in Foss Maritime’s private collection.”

Barney Malone ran his fingers over the gift with manifest appreciation and admiration, but he didn’t quite understand the connection between the glamorous stars of Hollywood’s distant decades and a fleet of tugboats or ocean-going barges.

“Foss? What do Tugboat Annie or Marie Dressler have to do with Dolores Costello?”

“Absolutely nothing,” admitted the Saint, and the uniformed crewman summoned them to the dining room for a elegant King salmon buffet.

And it was while the four men sat around the dining table savoring salmon prepared to perfection, that Simon Templar thumbed through Barney’s gift, selected a particular page of interest, and offered it to Malone.

“Take a good look at this picture of Barrymore, and tell me he doesn’t look exactly like you,” instructed the Saint.

“We already established that I more resemble Ethel than John,” replied Barney, but he took a good look anyway. He looked again; he looked at Simon; he looked again, then he tossed his bald head back and laughed with glee. The absolute delight being derived by Mr Malone momentarily mystified Conway and Quentin who beseeched an explanation. Barney handed them the book.

The photograph showed John Barrymore, Dolores Costello, and two equally famous guests seated in the Infanta’s dining room. Everything in the photo was identical to their own immediate surroundings. Barney Malone sat in John Barrymore’s chair.

“This is it,” laughed Barney, “this is the treasure of Dolores Costello. The Thea Foss is the Infanta!”

“Originally commissioned by John Barrymore as a gift for Dolores Costello and named in honor of their baby daughter,” elaborated the Saint, “it was built in Long Beach, California by Craig Shipbuilding Company for the sum of $225,000, and designed by well-known naval architect Ted Geary. But even the rich and famous fall on hard times, and in the late 1930’s the ship was repossessed and sold to the Lowe family, Alaska salmon packers who changed her name to the Polaris. The U.S. Navy took her over shortly after the bombing of Pearl Harbor in ’41 and renamed her the Amber. After the war she became a geological research ship, and finally, in 1950, acquired by Foss, lovingly restored, and is now the Thea Foss. She’s a true treasure, alright — the Treasure of Dolores Costello.”

Barney Malone was no longer seated before the remains of his scrumptious salmon. He was dancing on deck, striking a great, joyous, and exuberant profile.

2

After the hub-bub concerning the clandestine tape recording of Dexter Talon terminating the existance of Salvadore Alisdare quieted down, Surush Josi eventually noticed and retrieved the tiny piece of paper from the morgue’s floor, examining the rough-edged rectangle carefully. It was torn from sturdy stock typical of high society invitations. The embossed design was familiar, meaningless, and identical to the stick-man character decorating a certain Volvo wagon seen on his way to work. At the end of his eventful shift, the scrap of paper traveled home in his jacket pocket. A few days later, Surush inadvertently rediscovered it while enjoying a reunion dinner with his cousin, Suniel, at Portland’s stately Benson Hotel.

The little stick figure also meant nothing to Cousin Suniel, but both agreed that someone more knowledgeable of the peculiarities of Western popular culture could explain the logo’s significance. Someone, perhaps, such as the handsome gentleman with tanned piratical features and brilliant blue eyes treating a certain witty scriptwriter to the promised dinner of her choice.

“According to Box Office Magazine, The Pirate just replaced Until Death as the number one movie in America,” commented the Saint, amazed at the cinema habits of the American public. He was about to offer further insights into art, literature, and politics when he was interrupted by a rather rotund Nepalese gentleman who looked vaguely familiar.

“I saw this design on a car and then I see it on this, but I don’t know what it is,” said Josi plaintively, holding the scrap out for investigation.

The Saint was honestly surprised.

“Where did you find this?”

“I found it on the floor at work,” replied Josi, “I think it means something, yes?”

Simon’s female guest looked at the logo and made an amusing face which the Saint ignored.

“What do you do for a living?” asked Simon Templar.

“I work at the Seattle Morgue,” Josi answered proudly.

The Saint smiled and shook the man’s hand.

“And I’m sure you do a fine job with the deceased,” intoned Simon, “I promise to send you all my business.”

“Everyone says that,” responded Surush undeterred, “you know what this is or not?”

“Its called the Sign of the Saint, and it stands for a certain brand of justice. You don’t see it as much you used to, but it is a powerful talisman.”

“Talisman?” Cousin Suniel did not know the word.

“Good luck,” explained Surush, and they both smiled.

The two related Nepalese thanked the handsome couple and headed happily for the cash register. Simon Templar could not resist one last parting bit of advice, calling out in a happy, melodious voice.

“Watch for the Sign of the Saint. He will be back.”

They nodded; the Saint laughed, and his dinner guest rolled her eyes.

Barney Malone joined them for coffee a few minutes later, and drew Simon’s attention again to the rewarding box office figures of The Pirate.

“You realize what this means, Simon,” enthused Malone, “The Pirate II looms on the horizon. There is a clause to that effect in the contract, and the sooner the better. You better ask the hotel if they have a typewriter you can borrow and then pray for inspiration.”

The Saint’s eyes danced with mischief.

“I’m not the least bit concerned about inspiration,” he asserted confidently, looking past Barney’s shoulder at the familiar form of an auburn haired woman of astonishing beauty striding gracefully across the Benson Hotel lobby towards the registration desk. She caught sight of him as well, flashing a smile warm enough to increase his tan.

“I have all the inspiration a man could need,” said the Saint, “In fact, I can see the sequel from here.”