“There is no way to identify the perpetrators of this outrage,” remarked Simon, and they knew exactly what he meant. “Aside from Buzzy who, judging from her haircut, was also attacked by a blind barber, no one could be picked out of traditional line-up.”
“And she refuses to go to the police,” completed Vi. “She confided to me that one of the men is Detective Dexter Talon, but if you were to ask her right now, she would deny any ability to identify either the men, the location, or admit that she is the girl in the photos.”
This was not, according to the Berkmans, an isolated incident. A group of men, including Talon and an amateur photographer, centered their personal proclivities on underage and defenseless children. Shielded by an aura of professional respectability, they operated with immunity and impunity, violating the fragile dignity of the street’s most vulnerable victims.
“You’re sure about Talon?” Simon asked as he stood and walked towards the window.
“Absolutely,” confirmed Vi.
“Does he know that you know?”
“I don’t think so, but it is possible.”
Simon’s gaze took in the multi-colored highpoints of Seattle’s skyline, the gentle meandering of slow-moving vehicles, and romantic couples strolling along the Queen Ann side-streets. He noticed one young woman’s golden hair reflecting the metropolitan illumination of moonlight and neon. For a moment, the Saint was far away.
So was Viola Inselheim Berkman.
Throughout her adulthood, Viola held to the indelible impression of the Saint retained from her childhood. She saw him as almost more than human, shamelessly reckless and impudent, capable of accomplishing the near impossible with nary a hair out of place nor a wrinkle to his wardrobe. Viola Berkman was, of course, absolutely correct.
As for the Saint, he knew she perceived him as a knightly hero, slayer of dragons, and righter of wrongs. Simon Templar, by his own admission, had never gloried in that particular role. To himself he was always an outlaw, pirate, and adventurer. If he were a champion of justice, it was his own justice that he championed — one neither inscribed in books of law nor reached by general consensus — a justice derived from inherent integrity. Simon Templar also realized that on nights such as these, he was more than a soldier of fortune; he was an agent of fate.
“I would be most interested to know,” said the Saint in a voice of strangely ethereal detachment, “a good deal more about our illustrious Detective Talon.”
“Well,” offered the Rabbi as if announcing a sports score, “I can tell you plenty. He’s been around at least a good decade and a half. He has, or had, enough of a reputation to survive the big purge they had on the force about ten years ago.”
“Purge?” Simon turned to face the Rabbi.
“Yeah, a big one.” Berkman cracked his knuckles in emphasis before reaching for another cinnamon roll. “Corruption and cover-ups went all the way to the top, but some clean cops spilled the proverbial beans to reporters after all sorts of clandestine meetings at the Dog House restaurant. It came out in the paper, big shakeup, heads rolled, and most of the department was flushed. Only the strong or the upstanding survived.”
“Either Talon was clean,” said the Saint, considering options, “or simply slippery. Or then again, maybe his unsavory ‘hobby’ is of recent acquisition.”
Vi gave a cynical laugh and brushed crumbs from the front of Nat’s sweater. “You mean like his acquisition of Uncle Elmo’s Good Time Arcade?”
“As you said earlier,” Simon admonished in a manner neither harsh nor light-hearted, “there’s nothing illegal about Talon having business interests, and the assisted suicide of dearly departed Uncle Elmo is no indication that Talon had anything to do with it. We must be careful not to allow our distaste for his alleged abhorrent behavior with little Buzzy to color our perception. What we need are facts.”
A look of surprise and minor disappointment passed over the face of Viola Berkman. She couldn’t believe the Saint doubted Talon’s thorough corruption.
Simon sat down, leaned forward, and looked back and forth between Vi and Nat as if he were about to share a deep, dark, secret, but a playful spark glimmered in his ice-blue eyes.
“Confidentially, despite my considerable criminal savvy and almost unerring brilliance,” said the Saint, “I have, believe it or not, made mistakes. Back in New York, years ago, there was a man named Valcross. I thought he was a paragon of civic virtue; he was the biggest crook in town.”
Vi nodded. She knew the story.
“And there was another time,” continued Simon with a self effacing grin, “when I thought an honest and hardworking Portland businessman named Irv Jardane was a bunko artist. Only a simple twist of fate saved me from making a ghastly mistake. As it turned out, I helped Irv make a bundle in the food preservation business. And while we never became what you’d call close friends, at least he wasn’t swindled out of his honest earnings, thanks to the Saint.”
“So,” said Viola Berkman with a questioning lilt, “the omniscient Simon Templar is telling us that omniscience has its limits?”
Nat washed down his latest mouthful with a large gulp of dark coffee, his finger raised to make a point.
“No, dear,” observed the Rabbi, “Mr Templar is the Saint. Hence, ‘to err is human; errant Divine’.”
Vi scowled and kicked at Nat’s shin as if it were an irritating Pekinese; Simon considered tossing a couch cushion at him or beaning him with the remaining cinnamon role.
“Henny Youngman, you’re not, hon,” drawled Viola affectionately as Simon stood, stretched, and strolled towards the window.
“Seriously, Mr Templar,” said Nat, changing his tone, “considering the attack on you earlier this evening, the questionable disappearance of those two young men, and that other character who wants you to run off to Neah Bay to search for the Costello Treasure, why don’t you simply call this Talon character on some pretense...” Before the sentence could be finished, Simon turned in obvious interruption.
“Yes, I do need to use your phone if you don’t mind,” said the Saint, and he picked up the sleek, black, cordless resting on the end table.
“Just a quick call to the Westin to check for messages,” explained Simon.
Vi raised her coffee to her lips, but her eyes never left the Saint. She heard him identify himself, request messages, and she saw him smile at the two of them as he listened. She also saw his eyes momentarily narrow, then suddenly brighten.
“My, my, my,” said the Saint with bemused wonder. He depressed the new call key and punched in seven digits as he turned back towards the windowed view of the Emerald City.
Nat and Vi eyed Simon with mounting curiosity.
“Hello,” the Saint began with a solid, business-like delivery, “this is Simon Templar returning your call, and I must say that I am most eager to hear what you have to say.”
The Berkmans looked at each other and shrugged.
“Yes. Yes. Uh-huh. I see. The Checkerboard Room?” Simon looked over his shoulder at them for confirmation. They nodded, not knowing what they were confirming, nor to what they were agreeing. “OK. Half hour. I will? Alright. Thank you.”
Simon returned from the window, replaced the phone on the table, took his seat, and savored another sip of Nat Berkman’s superlative coffee.
The Berkmans were, as the saying goes, on the edge of their seats.
“Well? What was all that about?” asked Vi in a voice that was almost too loud.
The Saint laughed.
“Ah, the marvels of voice mail,” said Simon with absolute sincerity, “I had three messages waiting for me. The first was from Barney Malone informing me that if I had a brain in my head I would be watching ‘Trial Without Jury’ on Channel 13; the second was from Bill Farley of the Seattle Mystery Bookshop requesting additional autographed copies of ‘The Pirate’ to meet the rising and inexplicable demand; the third was from a Detective Dexter Talon. I returned his call immediately and I shall see the gentleman in person about a half-hour from now at Ernie Steele’s Checkerboard Room on Capitol Hill.”