The Saint was momentarily perplexed, but only momentarily. Two loud bangs, separated by a one-second pause, suddenly rattled the delivery door as if someone was entreating entry. As two knocks are almost always followed by a third, Simon threw open the window as the third shockwave hit the door. Success.
“What the hell?” Dave tossed his official Emerald City cap on the table next to the discard pile, set down his cards, and headed for the loading dock’s entrance.
“Oh, jeeze, it’s probably some nut,” offered Bud, the older and more experienced of the two. He had been through this more than once.
“We’re closed!” he yelled to the air, and watched his companion open the back door next to the large delivery entrance.
Weaving mildly in an excellent and accurate impersonation of a slightly sloshed and obviously inebriated upper class patron of Seattle’s nightspots was Mrs. Nathanial Berkman. She smiled and blinked, steadied herself, and raised her palm in a gesture so authoritative that any word attempting escape from the lips of the capless employee stopped short of expression.
“Pickled herring,” began Viola stepping forward with the determination of a steamroller about to descend a steep hill, “I’m looking for that pickled herring. Not the big rolled herring, not the wine herring, not the sour cream herring, but the pickled herring in the tall jars with all the onions. Not that I object to onions, mind you, but onions are no substitute for herring, a certain number of onions are obligatory, like ablutions before prayers.” Having propelled herself placidly through the opening, she panned her gaze around the interior of Emerald City Catering. Two guys, coffee, cards — one of the men sipping his java while watching his young compatriot handle the situation.
“You do understand about herring, don’t you?” She smiled hopefully.
“I understand we’re closed,” said Dave patiently, “and we don’t sell herring to walk-in customers anyway. We’re a catering service, not a deli.” He would have continued his explanation, but the coquetry look on Viola’s attractive face curtailed any further commentary.
He gently guided the well-groomed intruder back across the threshold and shut the door before Viola Berkman could say another word, and that was fine with her. Vi’s intent had been simply to ascertain the degree of tension behind the door, and as there was none, either the Saint had escaped or remained undiscovered. If a distraction were useful, useful she was.
“Are you sure you can’t spare a herring?” giggled Viola with a slight slur, the final request adding further authenticity to her performance as a slightly sozzled socialite. The only response was no response, and that too was fine with Mrs Berkman.
The Saint was squirming out the window when he heard the source of his fortuitous distraction. It was difficult to make out any details of the conversation, but Simon Templar silently thanked his providential guardian angels for once again ladling out preposterous amounts of delightful luck. With his strong fingers curved over the edge of the sill, Simon hung at his full arm’s length. Transferring to the narrow stone ledge running along the side of the building was effortless, and he moved quickly to the nearest corner.
From this vantage point he surveyed much of the neighborhood. Unfortunately, much of the neighborhood could, should they bother looking, survey the Saint. The closest streetlight shot glare across his vision. Simon considered a blind forward leap into mid-air would certainly result in crippling impact with either pavement or gravel; a calculated jump to the side could, if he were correct in his estimation of distance and positioning, allow him to land several feet below on the flat roof of a small retail outlet christened with the grandiose title “Prosthesis World.” Overestimating ability or underestimating distance would qualify him as a potential customer.
Deciding that another moment of blatant public exposure was unacceptable, the Saint took a leap of faith. It was a leap not dissimilar from any of the numerous leaps which find their way into these stories, except that mid-distance between the point of departure and the point of arrival, the cassette tape stashed in Simon’s pocket became independent of its human carrier and sailed off alone into the night, its clear plastic case shimmering with reflected light for one brief moment before plummeting into darkness and pavement. Simom heard the sharp treble crack of the cassette hitting the asphalt strip running between the two buildings only a millisecond before his strong legs delivered him unbroken atop Prosthesis World.
Crouched rooftop under moonlight, Simon Templar considered the familiarity of this nocturnal environment. Countless times he had scampered across similar roofs, swung from balustrades, dangled from sills, and stretched his lean athletic frame from drain gutter to lattice. The Saint could not deny that tonight was somehow different. There was an uncomfortable ache along the length of his calves and a mild cramping in his upper arms. Despite continued formal workouts, Simon regretfully acknowledged to himself how distant in actual experience were the once common physical rigors of demonstrative outlawry.
He watched another Metro Transit bus spark its way up Madison, noted the green neon sign of the Italian bistro, and leaned gargoyle-like over the roof’s edge. He retrieved the thin black flashlight from his jacket and aimed the pinpoint beam downward, but it revealed only the pavement’s predictable location.
The safest place to drop was from the roof’s far west side. Simon eased himself over the edge and let go. The ground, accented with a liberal sprinkling of gravel, was more uncomfortable on impact than he anticipated. He rolled once, stood quickly, straightened his clothing, and merged back into the tall foliage sprouting alongside the building.
Stepping from the shadows, he walked over and picked up the tape.
“Boo!”
3
Simon spun around and found himself facing a gleefully grinning Viola.
“Hey Mister, what’s a man your age doing jumping around like that?”
“C’mon,” urged the Saint as he took her arm, “Let’s go. What in the world are you doing here?”
“I’m the one who distracted the employees so you could do your nightly calisthenics,” declared Vi proudly as they strolled quickly, but not suspiciously, back to the bright lights of Madison.
“I’m glad that you’re having so much fun, Ms Berkman,” drawled the Saint. “But if you’re going to accompany me to the last rural lair of corrupt caterers and deviant pickle packers, I insist on taking the wheel.”
“Only if you tell me everything,” bargained Vi.
The Saint drove.
The BMW passed over the Evergreen Point Bridge towards the affluent eastside suburbs, and by the time it turned north on I-405, Simon had recounted his version of events and discoveries at Emerald City Catering. Vi poured through the pages of Alisdare’s little black book of names, dollar figures, cryptic notations, and references to ingredients not smiled upon by advocates of environmental protection.
“I don’t think this is a recipe for pickle brine,” said Vi jabbing a fingernail into the page. “Ferric chloride, ephdedrine sulphate, ammonia gas, benzaldehyde...”
“Don’t forget a liberal sprinkling of formaldehyde and acetic acid,” added the Saint, “that’s what makes Brine Time pickles so crunchy and Snookums so cranky.”
Vi shut the book.
“Cranky indeed. That’s what the kids call it — crank. They also call it speed, the poor man’s cocaine. I’ve seen kids on that stuff more nervous than a bag full of cats. They stay up for days without sleep, get paranoid and unpredictable...” Her voice trailed off as her jaw tightened in anger and determination.