Simon, not about to credit Buzzy’s captor with enough prescience to reload Milo’s weapon, laughed derisively.
“And whom do you plan to shoot? The girl? Me? Perhaps yourself?”
The Saint stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, wrapping the broad rubber band from Alisdare’s kitchen around the first two fingers of his left hand and easing out several tacks with the other.
“You have neither bullets nor options,” explained Simon happily, “but hopefully, an ear for classic music hall compositions.”
The Saint, it must be admitted, broke into song. And while the tune was that of a well-known standard, the lyrics were modified especially for the occasion.
Viewed from a distance, the trio seemed to be either performing a lackluster number from an off-Broadway musical, or reviving an ancient human sacrifice ritual with a four cylinder sedan as centerpiece.
Buzzy’s improved vision and comprehension coincided with Simon’s resonant baritone and the increased frequency of rain drops splashing on her with mounting rapidity. The rain was a dark night’s cold shower, and her awareness was on the rise. The relevant high points of the scenario in which she found herself were easily grasped — one rough and ugly man had bloodied her nose and kidnapped her; a smooth and handsome man, currently singing a song with her name in it, wanted to rescue her. Her sympathies and support were certainly not for the former.
Simon ceased his vocalizing and slowly backed up, altering his position as Major League inched closer to the car’s driver’s side.
“I’m surprised the young lady is still standing,” called out the Saint, “considering how hard you hit her, she should be down or dead.”
Buzzy, despite her beating or because of it, read the Saint’s message as if it had been projected in paisley with full illumination by the Retina Circus. She understood completely and complied immediately, throwing herself at the wet pavement behind the car’s fender. Major League’s grip was too tight to release, the sudden drop pulling him off balance and sending him stumbling stupidly after her until his revolting face was well-lit and perfectly positioned in the headlight’s blinding glare.
The Saint instantly swung his makeshift slingshot from waist height to eye level, took precise aim, and fired. Several steel pointed projectiles sailed through the rain and smacked painfully into the wet flesh of Major League’s face. He shrieked, throwing his hands up to claw away the pain. In the process, and without forethought, he released the girl and the gun.
“Run!” The command tore through the Saint’s throat as she scrambled to her feet and raced past the red taillights into the dark. She knew what she was running from, but no ideas what she was running to until she bounced off something large yet resilient that sent her stumbling back to fall on her petite and rain soaked behind. Through the drenching downpour, and off to the side, she saw a circular flash of repetitive blue light. Looming above her was the massive bulk of Detective Dexter Talon. She screamed.
The Saint, momentarily torn between chasing after Buzzy or engaging in a death fight with Major League simply on general principles, now had no choice — the scream simultaneously summoned him and sent his enemy diving for the driver’s seat. In a flash of inspiration, Simon threw himself at the windshield as Major League slammed the door. The Saint landed on the hood, locked his hands around the windshield wiper, and snapped it off as he rolled across and hit the ground running.
Tires squealed, and the sedan shot sightless out the service lane as Simon Templar raced to Buzzy’s cries.
Major League’s adrenaline pumped stronger than the engine’s unleaded octane and Mercer Street was only seconds away, but he couldn’t see anything beyond one absurd image: a silly stick man with a balloon shaped head and jaunty halo. It was iridescent, red, and growing in size. By the time the realization struck him that the image was attached to the passenger side of a Volvo wagon crawling through the post-concert traffic directly outside the service lane exit, there was nothing he could do but increase panic and lose control. The final rational thought passing through his paralyzed mind was the realization that his flimsy American sedan was no match for the tank-like construction of a Volvo. He jammed the brakes and spun the wheel. His car careened off a concrete abutment, scattered a herd of frightened pedestrians, and smashed grill first into a large metal pole owned and maintained by Pacific Power and Light. Had he bothered to buckle his seat belt, he might have lived. He did neither.
Horns honked, lights flashed, people yelled, and the mistreated youngster known as Little Buzzy found herself reluctantly consoled in the dark by an enormous object of fear and loathing.
“It’s OK baby,” murmured Talon, pressing her needlessly close, “all the bad men are gone.”
“All except one,” corrected the Saint.
The downpour was incessant, and time was of the essence. Simon had never expected to see Talon again.
“Look at her, Saint,” said the Detective as if showing off a prized collectable, “you can see how I was fooled.”
Drenched to the skin through her inadequate clothing, Buzzy’s undeniably well-developed feminine figure was being offered up as some sort of justification.
“I can’t thank you enough, Templar,” insisted Talon, “I really owe ya. Now beat it. I’ll take care of the little girl.”
Simon stood momentarily immobilized. The phrase “little girl” reverberated through his mind. Any moment the scene would be crawling with reputable law enforcement, rubber-necking onlookers, and press representatives from backstage. A good car wreck such as Major League’s tends to bring everyone together.
The Saint’s personal plan of remaining out of the headlines was being seriously threatened, but Simon Templar refused to leave Buzzy alone for even one moment with Dexter Talon. Somewhere behind the detective, a police radio crackled; behind the Saint shone the headlight configuration of a Jaguar XKE.
Odd shafts of light criss-crossed the scene with jagged shadows, the rain was subsiding, and there were people arriving from all directions.
Simon turned to confirm the identify of the vehicle behind him; Talon turned to face rapidly approaching footsteps.
Buzzy broke free from the detective’s repellent hug and ran towards the most welcome sight of her life — Viola Berkman flanked by several Seattle police officers, including Stroum and Goldblatt. She threw herself into Vi’s arms, half laughing, half sobbing.
“You’re a little late, officers,” explained Talon in a most professional manner, “some crackpot tried to kidnap that poor kid. That’s him wrapped around the power pole.”
Stroum walked to Talon’s car and opened the door to the back seat while Goldblatt approached the detective cautiously.
“You know something, Talon?” called out Officer Stroum, “You’re really sick.”
Talon’s skin froze.
“I’m afraid you’re under arrest, Detective,” stated Goldblatt officiously, “I’ll need your gun and your shield.”
The ex-detective’s excess flesh vibrated furiously.
“What the hell am I under arrest for?”
“The murder of Salvadore Alisdare, for one thing,”
“Jeeze, Dexter,” called out Stroum from Talon’s back seat, “the whole damn thing was tape recorded for God’s sake. Hey! Add possession of child pornography to the charge, Allen, the car’s loaded with it.”
Talon face turned purple with rage, he pointed his big fat finger in the direction of Simon Templar and shook it violently.