Simon Templar had seen so many astounding and unexpected items in his adventurous career that to say he was agog, stunned, or speechless would stretch the credulity of any enlightened follower of these chronicles. But the honest and accurate report must document that Simon Templar’s eyes, while not bugging cartoon-like from their sockets, widened by a perceptible degree while his jaw’s resolute ratchet mechanism involuntarily slipped several noticeable notches.
Representational of the human form in intent, yet minimalist in expression, the wet work of frozen art featured straight line limbs and body. Above its balloon-like head was a rakishly tilted electrically illumined halo blinking in irritating synchronization to music blaring from overhead speakers.
“Nothing exceeds like excess,” quoted the Saint under his breath. His logo was everywhere, on everything, dancing around the room on posters and placards placed strategically throughout the suite, as were one-sheet and three-sheet theater lobby posters for “Simon Templar’s The Pirate, Starring Emilio Hernandez. Screenplay by K.K. Beck. Directed by Karl Krogstad. Produced by B. Malone.”
Simon’s gaze shifted from the slowly dripping icon and the myriad match-stick logos to the event’s more animated participants. Connie Cain, recovering from her afternoon encounter with our endearingly dangerous central character, talked shop and sampled scampi with her co-anchors, weathermen, and assorted representatives of Seattle’s electronic media. A reporter from the Seattle Times and a columnist from the Eastside Journal discussed surrealism and screenwriting with Karl Krogstad and K.K. Beck as caterers served fresh lobster fra diavolo.
The invitations summoning luminaries from Seattle’s press, politics, and civic organizations to the Westin Hotel to meet The Pirate’s lead performer, director, producer, screen writer, and the famous Simon Templar, were also embossed with the Saint’s stick-man logo. A small encircled “R” by the figure’s left heel indicated the distinctive drawing was a legally registered trademark. The Saint found this contemporary addition to his crude artistic creation both amusing and disquieting. When he first hastily chalked the haloed figure on the doors of vice-traders, murderers, and blackmailers, he had no idea of its eventual commercial value.
Simon slid his souvenir copy of the invitation into his inside jacket pocket as journalists and individuals of distinguished social standing abandoned the crab and oysters to surround him for handshakes and introductions. As was his obligation, Simon Templar smiled broadly and entered the party with buoyant, honest enthusiasm.
As the social pleasantries passed, the predictable questions answered, the practiced one-liners delivered, and the guests shuffled off to the adjacent suite to meet the handsome and eligible Emilio Hernandez, the Saint noticed a short, moderately attractive, no-nonsense woman in conservative business attire holding back from the posse. Her eyes seldom left him. As the crowd thinned, she approached the Saint.
Holding her invitation as a calling card, she tapped the Saint’s rakish trade-mark with the well-manicured nail of her right index finger and cast an amused glance at the Saintly glacier.
“I remember the night you drew one of these for me on a torn scrap of paper,” she said coyly, offering Simon her hand.
“It must have been a night to remember,” said the Saint as if he remembered the night, the woman, and the significant particulars. His mind raced to place her face with an event.
“I am not surprised that you don’t recognize me, Mr Templar. It was long ago. Perhaps this will refresh your memory: You said ‘Give this to your Daddy and tell him The Saint brought you home’.”
The Saint’s memory was immediately refreshed. He remembered the night, the woman, and the highly publicized body count. He even recalled the first time he heard her name uttered by the impersonal metallic voice from a police car radio in New York’s Central Park:
“Calling all cars. Viola Inselheim, age six, kidnapped from home in Sutton Place...”
The Saint’s ability to relive each moment of that long ago night on New York’s Long Island had not dimmed through the veil of years. He could still hear her shrill cry of terror, see spitting flames of gunfire, feel his own shouts of ‘run!’ tearing through his throat as he spurred the child’s flight from captivity.
Released from vivid reverie, Simon realized he was still gripping the adult hand of little Viola Inselheim.
“Your fist was tiny then,” remarked the Saint softly, looking at her hand as if surprised it was not miniature and dimpled. “And the last time I saw you, you were wearing a white frock.” Simon paused. “And your father?”
“My father never wore a white frock, Mr Templar.”
They both laughed, releasing tension born of time, trauma, and little or no true familiarity.
Relaxed, she resumed.
“I still have the note, and the newspaper clippings. My father...” the intonation indicated that Zeke Inselheim was no longer living. “...saved it all. I pulled it out and looked at it when I knew I was going to see you again.”
Simon gestured towards a fresh gaggle of noshing and nibbling professional communicators devouring the remnants of Seattle’s finest seafood in his honor.
“I still hold a certain attraction for the press” commented the Saint in self-deprecation. He was attempting, by diversion and without success, to move the conversation to the next plateau.
“Saint Rescues Viola! Saint Battles Kidnappers!” quoted Viola, “The headlines were at least two and a half inches high in big bold black letters.”
Simon Templar felt oddly uncomfortable. Not with Viola, but with himself. He had rescued the child in a spectacular display of reckless bravado, but her rescue was secondary to his primary motive: killing her criminal captor, Morrie Ualino. The Saint accomplished both, admired the coverage of his escapades in the subsequent newspaper publications, and allowed little Viola Inselheim to become the one tender footnote to an otherwise violent and treacherous evening.
“I am now Vi Berkman, my husband is assistant Rabbi at the Reform Temple. We have lived here for a few years.” Viola took a deep breath, stretching her next word as if it were physically malleable. “And...”
The Saint recognized the intonation of “and” as the intonation preceding detonation. The Rabbi’s wife was no femme fatale, but despite her unquestioned integrity Simon knew there was something explosive coming, and he could feel it all the way up his spine.
Viola Inselheim Berkman turned her attention to the latest brigade of broadcasters and bigwigs abandoning the scampi to sample the Simon Templar, and smiled the smile of radiant acquiescence. The Saint sensed from her very bearing that she had become a woman of strength, dedication, purpose, and consummate courtesy.
“Time for you to play celebrity. We’ll talk later. Then maybe make some Big Bangs.”
The Saint sensed a sizzling fuse.
“Big Bangs, Mr Templar. Big Bangs.”
With finger food appetizers and spoon fed quotes, the trained professional broadcasters and local luminaries were not left hungry. Some of them — most notably Connie Cain — did not leave alone. She and Emilio Hernandez retreated to the dashing star’s personal suite where, during a more animated moment of interaction, she misplaced half a set of false eyelashes.
When the ice sculpture watered down and the contemporary soundtrack music no longer strained the sensitive components of the Westin’s sound system, Simon Templar and Viola Inselheim Berkman shared coffee at a quiet corner table.
After surface discussions of the Saint’s earlier completed Seattle itinerary — lunch at Leif Erikson Lodge in historic Ballard with Olav Lunde followed by preparation for his live television appearance — Simon and Viola exchanged observations on the differences between New York and Seattle life styles. When the small talk was depleted, Viola commented lightly on the pleasure of renewing their acquaintance, then asked an unexpected question.