“You know, I get the feeling you don’t like me,” said Simon with a slight pout. “You don’t want your partner to feel unappreciated, do you?”
Alisdare, convinced that Simon was both deliberately dangerous and decidedly insane, did his best to humor him.
“No, no. I appreciate you, I really do. After all,” insisted Salvadore, “you are the famous Saint. Everyone knows you; everyone marvels...”
Simon cut the absurd flattery short.
“Enough!”
The Saint pulled Alisdare roughly out of the chair.
“We are not going to be the best of friends, but we will certainly pretend we are. Before you offer me your comraderie and fellowship, I suggest you reunite me with my youthful gang members. Then we will all sit down together for some delicious Brine Time pickles and discuss the limited financial future of Dexter Talon.”
Alisdare’s eyes darted nervously towards the back door.
“Oh, yes,” added the Saint, “when your chemistry class is dismissed and the kids come home from school, feel free to introduce me as your long-lost Auntie Ethanol. You can doubt me if you wish, but I assure you it will be fatal. Now, where are the boys?”
The little man wiped a sleeve across his dripping brow and raised his eyes.
“Upstairs.” The reply was without enthusiasm.
Simon threw a muscular arm around Alisdare’s hunched shoulders and squeezed him as if they were dear old pals.
“C’mon, let’s go liberate the youths, and don’t even think of pulling a fast one or tipping off your Bunsen-burner buddies. That one gun may be empty, but I’m a walking arsenal,” lied the Saint, “I’ve got more firepower on me than you can imagine.”
As Alisdare could imagine extensive firepower, he trembled in acquiescence as the two men traipsed up the curved stairway to the upper floor. Simon paused to offer a critical commentary on Alisdare’s choice of lime green shag carpet, but the words washed over Salvadore like sea water over the sunken Polaris. Lost beneath the waves, Alisdare was in no mood for interior design consultation.
Beneath the Saint’s surface, he was neither as buoyant as he behaved nor as malevolent as he appeared. Simon enjoyed being back in action, but that was his choice. Dan and Ian, however, were simply fans whose admiration and eagerness merited fellowship and an autograph, not kidnapping and captivity. He had blithely sent them on their way, entrusted with a few simple errands designed to give them an exaggerated feeling of adventurous involvement, never imagining he was consigning them to even the most minimal degree of danger.
The Saint had earlier categorized the night’s priorities. Now that Dan and Ian were located, the first task was to assure their freedom. Beyond such immediate concerns, there were other matters occupying Simon’s thought processes. He fully grasped the methods and motives of Alisdare and Talon, despite their mutual antagonism, but the exact roles of Diamond Tremayne and Arthur Rasnec remained enigmas. As mysteries go, she was the more captivating of the two. Simon trusted time, fate, and the gods of adventure would assure complete disclosure of Ms Tremayne and her Costello Treasure. As Diamond had manipulated Salvadore Alisdare into revealing himself to the Saint, she was obviously on Simon’s side. But the Saint knew from experience that sides can be characterized by slippery borders and abstract boundaries.
No less slippery was the diminutive Mr Alisdare who led the way upstairs with predictable reluctance and appreciable trepidation. The top of the stairs merged into a hard-wood hallway decorated by an antique floor radio and one struggling palm. The long languid plant leaned listlessly to one side, the dirt in its terracota pot caked from benign neglect.
“Really, Salvadore,” commented the Saint, “your green thumb seems to have deserted you.”
Alisdare stopped in his tracks, turned toward the plant and allowed his gaze to move bravely back to the Saint.
“It’s supposed to look like that,” snapped Salvadore acerbicly. With the remark still dripping from his lips, the little man suddenly bolted down the hall with an astonishing animated velocity. Simon, close behind, reached out one strong arm, grabbed the ferociously peddling fellow by the nape of neck, and lifted him off the ground. Despite an inability to achieve traction while suspended in space, Alisdare’s feet maintained their repetitive rapidity while his hands flailed furiously like a pair of flapping geese.
The Saint lifted and twisted Alisdare around until the agitated character faced him eye to eye. The struggling subsided and Alisdare seemed to resign himself once again to the Saint’s control. Simon eased him down until his toes skimmed the floor’s surface.
“Behave yourself or there will be no pickles for dessert.” The Saint’s tone was only moderately paternal. Alisdare, his lower lip vibrating, nodded penitently. Simon set him solidly on the ground, swiveled him around, and placed both his hands firmly on Salvadore’s shoulders.
“Lead the way, partner,” commanded the Saint.
There were doors on either side of the hall and one of them featured a small buzzer-like device with wires running up the outside frame and disappearing into the wall. The Saint had seen these before — electronic door releases operational only from the outside. Both the device and the wires were painted over in the same dull peach as the wall and door frame.
Salvadore shuffled towards the entry on his left with understandable resistance.
“Can’t we just leave them be while we talk this over?” asked Alisdare weakly. The Saint’s expression discouraged any continuation of that particular line of reasoning. Then, with the same speed with which he had bolted at the head of the stairs, Alisdare thrust out one short pudgy finger and pressed the button with such force that the tip of his finger blanched. It did not release the door, rather it unleashed a blaring electronic wail of piercing intensity rivaled only by Grand Theft’s encore at the Seattle Center. And all hell broke loose.
In retrospect, Simon acknowledged that Salvadore’s mad dash down the hall made perfect sense, as did his illusory penitent attitude. Having regained control of Alisdare, the Saint mistook trickery for temerity. His captive was dashing towards that very buzzer when apprehended. His goal, although momentarily delayed, was achieved. The electronic bleating which ensued the moment Alisdare pressed the button threw the previously silent house into an uproar. Alisdare, as unlikely a Gabriel to ever blow the trumpet of ungodly summons, sent a danger signal to the men in the shed and alerted any malefactors of which Simon was unaware.
The Saint tossed the little man aside as one would a stuffed toy and kicked in the door. It was a garish bedroom accented by metallic green wallpaper and black satin sheets. It was empty. Alisdare cackled in nervous laughter. Simon spun and faced the opposite door. As Simon lunged, Alisdare threw himself at the Saint’s knees. Perhaps Alisdare thought his grip and weight could abort the Saint’s mission or negate the explosion of power in Simon’s legs. If such were his intentions, they were ill founded. Rather, it was more as if Alisdare had locked his arms around a rocket at the moment of lift-off. The Saint was airborne, his strong right shoulder impacting the solid wood door with sufficient force to rip out the striker plate and tear the door frame asunder. Alisdare, like the tail of a cat, was along for a short but eventful ride which culminated in painful collision — first with the floor and then with the sole of Simon’s shoe. The later did not impact Alisdare’s forehead entirely by accident.