“So that’s your game,” said Alisdare with a sweaty smirk, “I thought...”
“Don’t think,” interrupted Simon roughly, “You don’t have the qualifications.” He began to jab his finger into the small man’s chest. “Talon told you I was on his side, but you knew that was probably bogus. But you wanted me out of town, out of the game, because you couldn’t take the chance that I’d interfere. I loved the Costello Treasure story, I really did. I especially loved the ten thousand dollar cashier’s check. If you hadn’t come to me with that whopper I wouldn’t have seen the photos of little Buzzy until tomorrow morning.”
Salvadore turned several lighter shades of beige.
“I’ll cut to the chase, Mr SeaQue Salvage. The way I figure it, you’ve got Talon over a barrel and that barrel is full of cash — corrupt cash but cash none the less. Someone told you I’d fall for that Costello story faster than a boxer taking a dive. Even if I didn’t believe it, my curiosity would compel me to go along for the ride. Whoever it was, they were right, except I bumped my schedule ahead by fifteen hours and this has been a most educational evening.”
Alisdare, his piggy eyes wide as dish plates, instinctively and defensively took a step backward with each of Simon’s pokes.
“I’ve had bad beer with Detective Talon, met Arthur Rasnec and Diamond Tremayne, paid a little visit to Emerald City Catering,” continued the Saint with assertive bravado, “and brought back a few souvenirs.”
The Saint shoved the photo negative and the torn page from the little black book into the sweat-drenched weasel’s face.
“Look familiar?”
Alisdare wanted to throw up. He wished Simon Templar would simply vanish. His heart pounded ferociously and the room swirled around him. He put an arm out to steady himself, but there was nothing within reach. He began to list dangerously to one side, but Simon’s strong hand steadied him.
“You can’t drop dead on me, my little rodent,” cautioned Simon, “we have so much nefarious planning to do, so much wealth to confiscate, so many details to work out.”
“Please,” pleaded Alisdare weakly, “let me sit down.”
Simon plopped the plump lump of agitated flesh into an unpleasantly upholstered armchair and leaned over to squeeze Alisdare’s cheeks with his strong brown fingers.
“You have a meth lab cranking away out back and protection from a Seattle detective because he is under your thumb. He can’t have you busted ’cause you hold all the cards and all the photos. But I’ll tell you the one thing you have going for you that I really appreciate even more than your crisp, delicious pickles or your scrumptious lobster.”
Alisdare looked up into the Saint’s clear blue eyes for a hint of mercy and found only a dangerous mocking humor.
“You have the world by the tail. You really do.”
Simon’s voice was light and full of admiration while his grip was tight and unrelenting. The trembling blob in the armchair imagined the Saint must be a madman.
“You see, Salvadore ol’ pal, I despise Dexter Talon even more than I dislike you. He has nothing going for him except bad habits and part ownership of a sleazy arcade. But those habits and that arcade are earning him payoffs from the old enemies of Uncle Elmo. You remember dear old Elmo, don’t you? You must, because I found his name in your little book. You’ve managed to tap into the easiest flow of money in the criminal kingdom — extorting payoff money from a corrupt cop. The poor leech is just a conduit of cash. It builds up in his hands and then, after you insist, it moves on to you. So what if you toss ten grand at me, there must be five times that much just waiting to be snared.”
Alisdare nodded his head violently in affirmation.
“But you’re even more greedy than I am, Salvadore. You had to send your pickle-packing compatriot to get your check back. He failed of course, so he comes back with a gun. Where was your big beast going to take me if I had gone along with him?” The Saint wanted an answer and released just enough tension on Alisdare’s cheeks for him to squeeze out words through pursed lips.
“Here. He was going to bring you here. I wanted... I wanted to explain things to you, make you my partner, honest... the Costello story, you’re right about that... I figured you were tipped off when you and two of your gang took off for Uncle Elmo’s...” Alisdare, babbling foolishly, rambling and stumbling, hoped for an opportunity to make sense, to say something that would make the Saint go easy on him, “We’re two of a kind, you and me. We can work together, really we can. You’ll see.”
The Saint would have laughed out loud but he didn’t want to step out of character. He reached back and pulled Snookum’s gun from his waistband. Alisdare recoiled in fear.
“Give me your hand,” insisted the Saint, and Salvadore held up one weak wet hand.
Simon spun the gun around and slammed the butt into Alisdare’s reluctant grip.
“Take it,” Simon insisted.
He took it.
“Shoot me,” demanded the Saint, and the little man’s hand shook violently.
“Pull the trigger!” Simon slapped him across the face. “Pull the trigger!”
CLICK!
The gun was empty.
“Thank you,” said the Saint happily and thrust a pen into the gun’s barrel and lifted it out of Alisdare’s sticky palm. The tremulous blackmailer, immobilized by fear, watched as the dangerous buccaneer pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and deposited the weapon inside.
“I had to shoot a few people tonight and your fingerprints on the murder weapon will be most convenient,” stated Simon with a straight face, “Even Talon won’t be able to get you off the hook.”
Under the circumstances, and despite the absurdity of the Saint’s assertion, Alisdare had no choice except to take Simon’s word for it.
“Now, let us agree between you and me, that we will have no more secrets,” intoned the Saint in the most silken of tones, “I’ll tell you right out that I’ve given my gang the contents of your safe. If you have Talon over a barrel, we have you. But I’m not on Talon’s side; I’m not on your side. I’m on my side. It just happens that my side is closer to you than it is to Talon. We both want what Talon’s got — money and plenty of it. And together, were going to get it and get it all at once.”
Alisdare squeaked out a question.
“All at once?”
“Simple, my little cucumber,” intoned Simon as if Alisdare was a complete idiot. “You are going to arrange one of your little meetings with Talon — a meeting of the minds. Tell him you want to negotiate an arrangement for your long term prospects together. He’ll fall for it. All you have to do is keep him busy in a neutral area, maybe by that little bistro on Madison, while I have my gang, including the about to be liberated ‘young toughs,’ ransack his hideaway in Madison Park.”
“But,” Alisdare began to object, but Simon cut him off with a glare.
“But that would kill your golden goose? Too bad. I’ll split the loot with you, fifty-fifty. Or maybe sixty-forty, depending on your degree of cooperation. You see, I’m only in town for a day or two so raiding the hen house instead of waiting for eggs doesn’t bother me a bit. You should just be happy I don’t kill you right here, right now. I could, you know. I’ve done that sort of thing before.”
Alisdare considered the Saint’s notorious reputation and Talon’s previous threats. He bought it.
“You do what I say and I won’t do a thing to harm you, your meth lab, or your pickle business,” growled the Saint, “Cross me in any way and I’ll smash you and everyone associated with you.”
Salvadore Alisdare wished he had never heard of the dangerous rogue who held him captive with nothing more than attitude and inflection. The same dashing gentleman who listened so patiently to the Costello Treasure story now intimidated him with wholesale threats and an awe-inspiring presence that gave even the unimaginative Alisdare images of india-rubber, freshly lubricated lightning, and high explosives. The little man was afraid, and nothing fuels hatred faster than fear. The Saint watched the animosity boiling in the whites of Alisdare’s eyes.