Simon finished double checking the gun and slid it into his back waistband.
“We’re not far from Brine Time, and we’re equally close to Mr Alisdare’s private lair,” explained the Saint coolly, “I’ve known dear Salvadore’s domicile ever since I lifted his wallet back at Nikko’s. In fact, I believe Snookums had every intention of bringing me here earlier, although I wasn’t particularly receptive at the time. Let’s just say I am arriving fashionably late and hopefully unannounced.”
Simon took the black book from Vi, thumbed through it, and ripped out a page. He also removed one unpleasant negative from Alisdare’s collection, kept the plastic bag in which they were contained, and activated the inside trunk release. He stepped out of the car and motioned Vi to do the same. The Duvall air was chilled and moist with the scent of trees. Vi seemed more to fall out of the passenger side than exit gracefully.
“If you think you’re stuffing me in the trunk, you’re certainly mistaken.”
She stood in the damp darkness, her arms folded, her demeanor straining to retain its air of competent professionalism.
“The thought never crossed my mind,” admitted the Saint, and he placed some items lifted from Alisdare’s safe into the trunk, retained others, handed Vi the keys, and provided carefully worded instructions regarding the balance of the evening’s agenda.
A few minutes later, the black BMW slowed to a stop along a single lane road off what passed for the main Duvall highway. Had anyone been watching, they would have seen nothing. The car regained speed and disappeared into the dark. So did the Saint, but he was not in the car.
Simon Templar had every intention of walking up to Alisdare’s front door and ringing the bell, but not before ascertaining a thorough understanding of the property’s features, structures, and hazards. In crime parlance, he cased the joint.
The wooded property was at least three acres. Set back at significant distance from the secondary road was an older house and two minor secondary structures. One was steel, the other was a nondescript wood shed, both were newer than the house and looked distinctly utilitarian. The shed, surrounded by shrubbery, was not noticeable from the entry road. A miniscule border of light seeped through one small rectangular window.
For anyone to sneak up on the building without stumbling over tree roots, especially in the dark, would be next to impossible. For the Saint, next to impossible was the stuff of his legend. He slithered through the darkness in self-assured silence and positioned himself directly beneath the window. He could hear voices, none of which were familiar, discussing one of his least favorite subjects — chemistry.
“The HCL salt is odorless, colorless, and bitter-tasting and it forms needle-shaped crystals in ethanol,” remarked one fellow to another, “Highly water soluble. Less soluble in ethanol. Only very slightly soluble in acetone, toluene, or MEK, more if solvent is hot. Insoluble in ethyl ether.”
“Yeah,” acknowledged a deeper voice with a world-weary tone, “Methamphetamine freebase is a very pale yellow oil, foul tasting as hell, and alkaline enough to irritate the lungs. We’re probably smart to use toluene — less of a fire hazard.”
The Saint, despite a relative ignorance of chemistry, understood that the men were not discussing pickle processing.
He slipped away with the noiseless precision of a military commando and approached the main house from the back side. He could see the outline of three vehicles in a flattened clearing — a 4X4 elevated by absurdly enormous tires, a nondescript medium sized two-door import, and a Volvo wagon. Simon shot a pinpoint shaft of light from the black flashlight to the wagon’s passenger side and a red stick figure’s halo winked back at him.
So precise and noiseless were his footsteps than neither leaf nor twig knew of his existence. He moved up along side the Volvo, peered in, and steeled himself for the possibility of bloodstains.
There was no blood, only crumpled wrappers from peanut butter cups. The Saint surveyed the two story house. It was an older Duvall construction with large front porch, a smaller one in back, and a daylight basement. An open shed off to the side contained a wheel barrow, rakes, a cord or two of wood, an axe, and sundry related items. Stretched out on the ground was an extension ladder, the type painters use. Simon considered it for a moment, judged the distance between the ground and second floor window, and decided to leave the ladder untouched.
He crept around the side of the house, his ears straining to catch every sound. Positioned directly under the main floor window, the Saint stole a peek inside and saw Salvadore Alisdare preening in front of a mirror. Out of his suit and into faded denim pants and wide lapeled lavender shirt, he looked like an overdressed duck.
The Saint continued around to the anterior porch, paused to assure himself that he looked his best, and strode up the five steps to the front door with all the affirmative confidence of an old-fashioned bible salesman.
With a smile on his face and every muscle at the ready, Simon Templar rapped a playful rhythm on the door.
There was a moment of predictable trepidation, for the Saint seriously considered the possibility that he could be gunned down there and then. He dismissed the idea, and not entirely by his traditional justification that such an ignominious demise was not in keeping with destiny. If Snookums had been sent to retrieve him, Simon’s appearance on Alisdare’s doorstep may be a surprise to the domicile’s inhabitants but one they were at least partially prepared to deal with.
Salvadore Alisdare casually pulled open the front door as if anticipating visitors, but from the look in his face, he was obviously not anticipating the Saint.
“Sorry to bother you at home, old fruit,” began the Simon with characteristic charisma and unflappable effrontery, “but I seem to have misplaced two young men and an ugly station wagon.”
4
The Saint strode directly into the room, shut the door behind him and turned the deadbolt before the slack-jawed Alisdare could find his voice-box.
“Now, as the wagon is outside I assume the boys are inside. Would you mind fetching them for me?”
Alisdare’s ears resembled two hot-pink flames rising from the side of his head. Sweat ran in rivulets from his temples down the sides of his cheeks, and his little eyes blinked with astonishing rapidity.
“Mr Templar...,” Alisdare, torn between an imitation of courtesy and an outburst of anger, almost stumbled over his tongue, “this is...”
“A surprise, an honor, a day for celebration,” continued the Saint in his most absurd and irritating manner, “but we must wrap this up quickly as it’s getting late and we need our beauty sleep before we search for the Costello Treasure, don’t we Mr Alisdare?”
Salvadore’s eyes burned with an unnatural fire, and Simon knew its source was the shed behind the house.
“Yes, the treasure,” acknowledged Alisdare, and he struggled to regain his self-control. “Your young toughs are my honored guests. They are in no danger, I assure you. Please make yourself comfortable.” He gestured towards a modest yet comfortable living room ensemble, but Simon didn’t budge. “Please, we have much to discuss.”
“We can discuss how to get more loot from Dexter Talon, for one thing,” insisted the Saint with inflection tinged by criminal conspiratorial intentions.
“That’s the real treasure and I believe there’s enough for both a blackmailer and a pirate. I’m one, you’re the other.”