“I’ll ride here,” announced the beast, and he managed to fold himself into the backseat’s confines.
When Simon and Salvadore approached the vehicles’s front, Alisdare separated himself from the Saint and directed the remaining men to take the other car.
Major League spun the .38’s cylinder and uttered his first line of dialog — an elongated expletive of one sylable stretched to imply several, followed by the disclosure that Simon Templar, alias the Saint, had held them at bay with an empty revolver.
“Oh, you finally noticed,” chirped Simon, “I guess we’re all about as disarmed as we can be, except for the .45 under Salvadore’s shirt.”
Alisdare was fumbling for the automatic even as Simon spoke, but the Saint slid behind the wheel with charactistic self-assurance.
“Put that away before you hurt yourself,” advised Simon, “Get in and sit down.”
Viola Berkman, through a veil of tears, saw Salvadore Alisdare do exactly that. The BMW’s dome light remained on as Alisdare entered, and when she looked desperately at the Saint, his smile was the one reassuringly resplendent ray of sunshine in what was for her a most dark and depressing situation.
The way Vi Berkman tells it, Simon Templar’s performance that evening was nothing short of astounding. It was not, however, a performance. Simon Templar was simply being the Saint — maddeningly mischevious, mercurially manipulative, and ultimately heroic.
He remained disconcertingly untroubled during the brief transport back to Alisdare’s domicile. Even the obligatory shoves by Snookums on the way into the house didn’t phase him. Arraigned before his unsavory host, there was nothing but mocking laughter in those clear blue eyes and hell-for-leather delight in his radiant countenance. Despite recent forays into rough and tumble fisticuffs, his clothing appeared as fresh and unruffled as his demeanor.
The Saint in a tight corner had even been the most entrancing and delightful sight in the world, and not a shadow of uneasiness darkened the Saint’s brow as he crossed the threshold into Alisdare’s informal dining room. The two damaged thugs were at the small kitchen table doctoring their wounds while Milo spat blood into the sink. They growled like dogs on chains when Simon gave them a friendly wave.
The agitated host paced back and forth with a grandiosity which, considering his unimpressive physical attributes, seemed strangely reminiscent of any number of would-be tin-pot dictators who’s egos and ambitions towered over their morality.
In this alternate reality of armed order-takers, lackeys, and drug manufacturers, Salvadore Alisdare reigned with Napoleonic presence. But both men were standing, and Simon was taller.
The Saint’s poise had never been more easy and debonair, nor the chilled steel masked more deceptively in the mocking depths of his sapphire eyes, than it was as he stood there smiling as if he were an honored industrialist accepting an award from the Chamber of Commerce.
Salvadore Alisdare’s dilated pupils fixed steadily on the Saint. He didn’t like what he saw.
“Sit down,” he ordered, and the Saint glanced at Viola, flanked by Snookums and Major League, before sliding out one of the straight back chairs from the table and offering it chivalrously.
Alisdare winced and allowed Vi to join Simon at the table before walking over and positioning himself above the Saint. He enjoyed the view, and Simon watched a twisted snarl distort the little man’s lips. Alisdare’s ears turned crimson when the Saint smiled warmly and fluttered his eyelashes.
Snookums and the two others hung back against the wall smirking as their commander continued to pace.
“Take a load off your tiny feet and join me in conversation,” suggested the Saint, “I think an honest evaluation of our mutual positions will bring us once again to conclusions not far from those previously outlined.”
His captor stopped pacing and sat down at the head of the table.
“Who’s in control now, Mr Saint?” gloated Alisdare. “Where now are your threats and bravado?”
Simon flicked a piece of lint from his immaculate trousers and smiled the smile of the unconcerned.
“Right in front of you as before,” responded the Saint honestly, “I don’t see how anything has changed, except your ears seem to be losing their rosy glow.”
Salvadore banged his fist on the table in a weak show of intended strength. His hand hurt, but he concealed his discomfort.
“I am in control,” asserted Alisdare, “that’s what’s changed. I have captured you, outwitted you...” the little man’s mastery of verbiage exhausted itself quickly.
“Poo-poo,” stated Simon, “I would characterize the situation differently. Here we sit, two businessmen with similar interests. Why, earlier tonight you were extolling my virtues and insisting we could work marvelously together. Now, I admit to being somewhat pushy when I first arrived, but let’s ascribe that to my haphazard upbringing. Had you not raised such a ruckus and been so reticent to release those two boys, we would be toasting our profitable friendship by now. After all, I could have left your lovely estate had that been my intention, so don’t think I only hung around because of her.” Simon pointed towards Vi without bothering to watch her reaction. “The contents of your safe are still with my gang, Talon remains my primary target, and that .22 with your prints on it will soon be joining the archives. You have me, but I also have you. In a way, we’re even. There is no reason why we cannot reach an amicable arrangement.”
Alisdare eyed the Saint with contempt.
“You storm into my house, terrorize me, kick down doors, smash windows, shoot people, and all this after I have paid you ten thousand dollars. Where is your gratitude, Mr Templar?”
“Beneath the waves of Neah Bay,” answered the Saint.
Alisdare smoldered before spitting out his next sentence.
“I’ll take back my ten thousand dollars. That should cover the damage you’ve inflicted on my house and amend for your rudeness.”
“The damage has yet to begin in earnest,” advised Simon helpfully, “and my rudeness is worth far more than ten grand. I really must put in more time on the pistol range,” remarked Simon as he glanced toward the kitchen, “I can’t believe I only clipped such a large and ugly target. Besides, I can’t hand back the loot, old fruit, I gave it to Little Buzzy to pay for a new hair style. Although,” the Saint looked Alisdare directly in the eye as if what he was about to say was meant for him alone, “even with that haircut, she looks like a good deal of fun, and I have always been an outspoken advocate of old fashioned fun as an accompaniment to newly acquired wealth.”
Vi choked and Snookums laughed either at the off-color implications or Simon’s blatant bravado. The Saint’s smile was now neither mocking nor insulting, it was the sly grin of a man whose moral fabric was cut from lesser cloth than his wardrobe. Salvadore’s face flushed slightly and his eyes wandered. Simon could see the chemically greased wheels turning. Talon’s proclivities, encouraged and photographed by Alisdare, put the adipose detective directly under his thumb. If the Saint were subject to similar temptations and unsavory pastimes, he could be similarly ensnared or creatively distracted.
Alisdare attempted deep thoughts, but his success was spotty at best. His brow furrowed and eyes narrowed.
“Yes, Little Buzzy,” said Salvadore coldly. His attention suddenly snapped to Snookums. “Where is Buzzy? I told you to bring her here. Where is she?”
“She wasn’t where she usually hangs out,” explained the giant, “not the donut shop by Elmo’s, or the old Penny’s building, none of em, maybe Talon’s got her...”
Vi’s voice, trembling with anger, sliced through their conversation.