Berkman allowed the canister to hang by her side.
“He was?”
“No, I was, back in the days of my wayward youth.” Simon stood and playfully tossed the torn pant seat at Viola Berkman. She caught it in her left hand. “And our friend Snookums is a pickle packer.”
Vi’s eyebrows aimed for her hairline.
“I beg your pardon.”
“When he had his hand around my throat, I smelled the vanilla,” said Simon as they walked back into Vi’s office, “People who work with pickles rub vanilla on their hands to dispel the smell of brine.”
Vi put the canister and pant seat aside as Simon and she picked the folder and other scattered items off the floor.
“Simply telling me Mr Snookums reeks of vanilla and packs pickles leaves me clueless as to why he ran in here with a pipe and tried to smash your head in,” muttered Vi, as if expecting in-depth exposition of the intruder’s motivations, short term objectives, and long term goals.
Her expectations were not unrealistic, and Simon Templar answered.
“Snookums is not a professional thug. Despite his size and strength, he had to augment his attitude by artificial means — drugs of some kind — before he could take the assignment. His motivation was either promise of reward or fear of punishment, and his failed objective was to liberate a cashier’s check for ten thousand dollars from my pocket.”
“How did he know...”
“He knew because, I firmly believe, the man who gave me the check sent him to get it back.”
“And who...”
“My new business partner,” said the Saint. “but I don’t have much faith in the long term prospects of our relationship. Right now my focus is on more important things, such as your predatory pedophile,” Simon threw a glance at the window, “and the curious misadventures of Daniel and Ian.”
Vi sighed, checked her watch, and reached for the telephone.
“Your pal Snookums cut into our time. I suggest we take the file with us back to my house.”
She punched a rapid succession of buttons, paused, and brightened when her husband answered.
“Hi, hon. Listen, we’re on our way. Yeah. OK. Well, someone who packs pickles and smells like vanilla tried to assault Mr Templar, but,” continued Vi with an affected breathlessness, “the Saint pantsed him and threw him out the door.”
Simon growled.
Off the phone and by his side, Vi Berkman tapped the Saint on the shoulder.
“It is alright to tease you a little bit, isn’t it, Saint?”
Simon, redepositing the last errant item into her black bag, gave her the warmest of smiles.
“Viola, my dear, true adult professionalism manifests itself as childlike play.”
“Which means?”
“You can tease me all you want,” said the Saint comfortably, and he meant it.
2
The slender silver key slid into the precision ignition and the momentary whir of the starter died into the smooth sibilant whisper of a perfectly tuned engine as Vi Berkman’s BMW came to life. She depressed the clutch, eased the gear lever into first, and heard the subdued click beside her as Simon Templar fastened his seat belt.
“You’re a good boy, Saint,” said Vi with maternal intonations.
Simon leaned back against black leather and allowed himself a moment of nostalgia, speaking in accents peculiar to the late and unlamented Prohibition Era crime boss, Dutch Kuhlmann.
“Yes, you vas a goot boy, Saint.”
Vi shifted smoothly into second gear. Simon sighed, ran his hands through his dark hair, and opened the passenger side window for a breath of Seattle’s night air.
“I was just thinking of someone I shot once,” remarked the Saint, “or maybe I shot him twice, hard to recall. Memories and carbon monoxide make an intoxicating combination.”
Vi drove; Simon scanned Seattle’s streets with eagle vision for Dan and Ian’s Volvo wagon. At the intersection of 3rd and Denny he noticed an aqua and white Nash Metropolitan in which the driver, Mr Surush Josi, was belting out the theme from “Oklahoma” at the top of his lungs.
Of Nepalese birth and impressive girth, Josi was as ignorant of Simon Templar as the Saint was of Mr Josi. Seldom demonstrably sociable, Surush was usually quiet, introspective, and impressively efficient. The occasional rocks tossed into his life’s pond by the hand of happenstance created only minor ripples, leaving both his inner being and outer countenance essentially undisturbed. As befitted his employment at the King County Morgue, the sight of blood, decay, dismemberment and decomposition bothered him not in the least. And Surush Josi was a man of secret appetites. His duck pin build attested an earnest appreciation of Nepal’s cuisine, but the passion of his solitude was Broadway show tunes. Be it “South Pacific,” “Gypsy,” or “Brigadoon,” Surush knew and loved them all.
Simon Templar smiled at the sight of Josi belting out Broadway standards to the silent audience of his windshield. Josi, oblivious to all details beyond the generalities of traffic, continued Eastbound while Vi Berkman turned Westbound. The paths of Surush Josi and Viola Berkman were never destined to cross, nor would he recall catching a brief glimpse of either the attractive female driver or her piratical passenger.
To pry Josi’s attention from the twin demands of safe driving and singing show tunes required either an element of quiet curiosity or a thunderclap of cognitive dissonance. The only curious item on his nightly pre-work drive was the earlier sighting of a bright red luminescent stick figure topped by an absurd elliptical halo adorning the side of a Volvo wagon as it entered the northbound lane of Interstate 5. He had no idea of the insignia’s intended meaning, what product it advertised, political position it endorsed, or the sociological implications of its application to a Swedish vehicle. He only knew that he had never seen it before and would certainly recognize it if he saw it again.
“Not pleasant to contemplate, is it Mr Templar?”
Rabbi Berkman, looking more akin to a collegiate linebacker than a Rabbi, poured fresh brewed coffee into Simon’s cup. Husky, rugged, and athletic with sandy brown hair and deep dark eyes, Nat Berkman appeared as ready to wrestle Jacob and the angels as he was to unravel intricacies of Talmudic scholarship.
When Vi and the Saint first arrived, the muscular Rabbi ground fresh coffee beans, measured them on the heavy side, and prepared the perfect pot of coffee as his wife and her guest shared full details of the evening’s adventures. As an additional treat, the Rabbi pulled a cardboard carton of pre-fabricated cinnamon roles from the refrigerator’s freezer compartment, microwaved them, and squeezed out a decorative white topping from an accompanying pouch.
Savoring the aromatic Sumatran blend, Simon enthusiastically complimented Nat Berkman on the superlative quality of his coffee; eating the rolls, the Saint commented solely to himself, was rather like chewing on plastic.
“Not pleasant at all,” confirmed the Saint, placing the final picture back into Vi’s manila folder.
The three sat comfortably in the Berkman’s well appointed condominium on the south slope of Queen Ann hill. The living room view encompassed the Space Needle, making the bright Seattle landmark resemble a colorful backyard souvenir.
Having examined Vi’s disturbing collection of amateur photographs, the possession of which would to grounds for prosecution in more than one State, Simon understood why she requested that the Saint intervene. Had the photos featured consenting adults he would have merely cocked an eyebrow at their inventiveness. But the central figure featured in the photos was neither adult nor consenting. The snapshots, Vi explained, were lifted from the scene of humiliation by a fourteen-year old street child known only as “Buzzy”.