“And that, of all things, is your main concern?”
In truth, the Saint’s mind was not totally untroubled. Talon, Alisdare, and Little Buzzy were not entirely peripheral, but his concentration was keyed primarily to the cryptic comments and buccaneering bravado of Diamond Tremayne. Viola Berkman gazed at the serene skyline of the Queen City — an appreciative appellative bestowed upon Seattle by virtue of Queen Marie of Rumania’s historic visit several decades earlier — and watched one of Boeing’s signature homegrown aircraft arc across the starlit sky.
Chapter 5
How Simon Templar Entered an Elevator, and Little Buzzy Consumed Cauliflower.
1
Seattle, seen from heights of freeway overpasses or aerial overviews, appeared as a pleasant mix of modern technology and small town warmth. For thousands of residents, such was the reality of life in the Pacific Northwest. If she could turn a blind eye to the pain of exploited children, the city would seem perfect. She knew better. For some, there was little or no justice.
Every city needs a saint, and all saints supplicate for assistance. Vi’s supplication brought her Simon Templar, and he had given his assurance that before the sun rose over the Cascades, there would be justice.
The Saint maneuvered easily through the light late-night downtown traffic and soon the distinctive profile of the Westin Hotel loomed before them. Before Simon swung the BMW into the broad circular drive, Vi espied Dan and Ian’s distinctive Volvo wagon parked facing eastbound on Olive Way.
“Bless those boys,” exclaimed the Saint, “they are as fast as they are efficient. Now the fun begins.”
“What fun? What are you talking about? What are we doing now?”
Simon stopped the car, popped the trunk’s release, left the engine running, and opened the door.
“You’re going home to your husband; I’m going to raise hell with the ungodly.”
“Not without me you’re not,” objected Vi. “You’ve put me through too much to put me out now.”
Simon tooted out a rhythm on the car’s horn. The doorman tossed him a quizzical look and the Saint gave him a military salute.
“I’m not ditching you,” Simon clarified as they got out of the car, “you have two important missions to accomplish — first, put on a new pair of hose; second, deposit the check.”
“Check?”
“The one stuck to the front of your refrigerator with a little watermelon shaped magnet,” explained the Saint cheerfully as he retrieved the trunk’s incriminating contents, “It’s a cashier’s check for $10,000 made payable to me and endorsed to you for charitable purposes. It was given to me by Salvadore Alisdare earlier this evening, but save your gratitude for Diamond Tremayne. I’m sure Nat has found it by now, especially if he decided to pummel his innards with more of those pre-fabricated cinnamon rolls.”
As Vi mentally spent the ten thousand dollars, she saw Dan, Ian, and two exceptionally distinguished gentleman respond to Simon’s automotive summons. The two men, elegantly attired and radiating auras of impressive savoir fare, seemed an unlikely pair to accompany Simon’s youthful fans. All four were smiling.
“Look, it’s the Saint!” One of the gentleman was pointing and shouting with mock amazement.
“He’s the Robin Hood of Modern Crime, I hear,” added his companion, “not a bad banjo player, but he spreads melodrama around him like an infectious disease.”
“Oh,” replied the first thoughtfully, “so that’s what he’s been spreading around.”
Vi found herself starring at one of the most juvenile displays ever performed by adult males in public — the Saint dove at the two men, securing one in a playful headlock while the other protested that he didn’t want to wrinkle his suit. Dan and Ian stood aside, beaming with radiant admiration.
“What in the world is going on,” asked Vi, feeling a bit out of the loop.
Having released his willing victim, Simon dragged the two men over for introductions, but it was the taller of the two — a rugged chap with hard bitten features — who spoke first.
“You should know better than to associate with a known criminal, Mrs Berkman, especially one who recycles his old literary efforts and sells them to the movies.”
“Simon and I are old friends,” said Vi extending her hand, “we met several years ago in New York.”
“Yes, but he is a much older friend,”
“I didn’t get your name,” she prompted.
He proffered his card. It was conservative in design and utilitarian in its purposeful understatement. His name — Peter Quentin — was printed in small, dignified type face beneath a larger rendering of his firm’s official name and trademark.
“We’re here for the Maritime Issues Forum,” he explained. The slim, white card also identified him as Executive Vice President of an international corporation who’s logo, designated by two intertwined initials, could have but one anagramatical articulation.
“Exactly how do you pronounce this?” She asked weakly.
“C-Q,” explained the second gentleman as he shook hands. “I’m Roger Conway, the ‘C’ in SeaQue; Peter Quentin here is the ‘Q’ in SeaQue.”
“Simon...” Vi turned to the Saint, her face pleading for explanations. She saw only the world’s most dazzling and irrepressible smile, and eyes sparkling with triumphant mischief.
Dexter Talon lit another stubby cigarette and allowed the smoke to pour out his nose and into the beer hiding in the shadow of his double chin. He nursed the glass’ contents with admirable patience, glanced at the clock above the television, and began putting away the personal mementos of his sordid double-life — a lock of hair, an ankle bracelet, and other scraps left behind by various youths lured to his lair by false promises, or ensnarred to his desires by fear. He placed each item carefully in a shoebox, carried it into the bedroom, and he slid it under the dresser. Ashes dropped from his cigarette’s tip and settled unbroken on the carpet. He smeared them in with his shoe.
Templar had called thirty minutes earlier at least, but Talon tended to lose track of time when admiring his collection. He pulled on his overcoat, took another gulp of beer, adjusted his shoulder holster, and exited his alter-ego’s 8th floor condominium. His big baggy body waddled down the long hallway to the small elevator. While awaiting its arrival, he shoved the brown-stained remains of his current smoke into the bowl-shaped ashtray under the elevator call buttons and looked around nervously. He tried to time his comings and goings as to be of little or no notice to the other tenants. For an incredibly large man, he had mastered the dubious art of the low profile.
The arriving elevator’s musical ding broke his after-hours reverie. Talon poured himself into the cubicle, pressed the parking floor button, and waited for the descent. Less than a minute later, Detective Dexter Talon was ambling across the secured, underground parking garage towards his nondescript, unofficial vehicle — a common brown Plymouth indistinguishable from thousands exactly like it on Seattle’s streets.
As he unlocked the sedan, a strong hand clasped down on his beefy shoulder.
“What ho, Tex,” said the Saint, and his voice was as heated steel slicing through the night’s moist chill.
Talon turned, his keys falling with sharp metallic impact on the gray concrete.
“Saint! How did you get in here,” stammered the Detective, “You said you’d meet me...”
“I say lots of things, butterball,” Simon interrupted, “and any enterprising youth with a bit of patience and a dollop of creativity could make off with every hubcap in sight.”
Simon Templar appeared as self-assured, self-possessed, and completely refreshed as he did several hours earlier. Talon, although he made no reference to the topic, found the Saint’s impeccable personal grooming to be a source of nagging irritation. Rather, the flabby man’s tiny eyeballs seemed to crawl back into their sockets as he nervously looked from side to side. He attempted a gruff retort, but Simon spoke first.