Diamond Tremayne carefully watched the Saint’s face as he spoke, searching for signs of judgement or condemnation. She saw neither.
“If all I’m raising is questions,” she answered coyly, “then I will pose a few of my own: what’s your mother’s maiden name? Do you have brothers and sisters?”
Simon Templar smiled.
“To appreciate a rose,” agreed Simon, “you inhale its fragrance, not sniff the soil from which it grew,”
Diamond swiveled her long legs from his lap and leaned in to him.
“Let us agree that you are the Saint and I am Diamond Tremayne,” she suggested in a secretive whisper, scrunching her adorable eyes into cute little squints and moving her dangerous lips close to his, “and, for the sake of discussion, let’s accept that characters such as myself sometimes simply appear full blown and fully grown.”
“You certainly fit the criteria,” said the Saint, the rest of the sentence and the balance of the chapter silenced by demonstrations of appreciative affection.
Chapter 6
How Barney Malone Did a Dance, and Simon Templar Became Inspired.
1
Barney Malone eyed Simon suspiciously before tapping the long white ash from the end of his aromatic cigar and turning his gaze to the serulian blue waters of Lake Washington.
“How much of that story has any association with reality?”
“Why? Do you want to buy the movie rights?”
“I’m not sure I buy much of it at all,”
“Mr Malone,” protested the Saint, feigning affront, “do you honestly believe that I would lure you out here on such a beautiful day to pull your leg — especially one as aged as yours?”
To validate his truncated version of the preceding narrative, the Saint handed Malone recent editions of Seattle’s two daily newspapers.
“Criminal Caterer Killed in Alley,” recited Malone aloud, “Detective Indicted in Downtown Slaying,” “Rabbi to the Rescue,” “Duvall Drug Deal Explodes.”
The Saint smiled smugly.
“Believe me now?”
Malone tossed the papers aside.
“There’s nothing about the romantic nuptials of Judge Crater and Amelia Ehrhardt.” objected Barney, “and I thought that was the best part.”
Simon dropped his head as would a penitent schoolboy.
“Alright, I made that up, but the balance of the story can be completely verified by Roger Conway and Peter Quentin.”
Barney Malone puffed fresh life into his cigar.
“I haven’t seen those two in years,” muttered Malone, “the last I heard, Conway and Quentin were lolling about the UK disguised as oil slicks on the road to prosperity. Why they’re not at least under house arrest is beyond me.”
Simon bit the inside of his cheek to avoid grinning too broadly.
“Those two rascals would verify you having danced the night away with Archdeacon George Townshend in the vestibule of St. Patrick’s Cathedral” deadpanned Malone perfectly, “the very fact that you would invoke them in defense of such a far-fetched yarn is almost adequate testimony to it’s manifest falsity.”
Barney’s ability to keep a straight face during the final three sentences of the previous paragraph was not up to the task, and both he and the Saint burst into laughter.
“OK, Templar, I’m hooked,” admitted Malone good naturedly as they regained their composure. “what’s the truth about the Costello Treasure?”
Simon checked his watch, noticed the craft’s approach to a lakeside mooring, and pulled a small photograph from his inside pocket.
“Here’s your first clue,” said the Saint, handing Malone the picture. Barney stared at it for sometime before speaking.
“I’ve never seen this one before,” he acknowledged, “its a perfectly wonderful candid snapshot of John Barrymore and Dolores Costello. Who took it? Where did you get it? More importantly, can I keep it?”
“Yes, you can keep it; I got it from my friend Olav T. Lunde; it was taken by his father who was once an employee of the Barrymore’s,” answered Simon, standing and pointing towards the dock, “and here comes complete validation for the story you’re so reticent to believe.”
Boarding the ship were Roger Conway and Peter Quentin, carrying a large cake and a gift wrapped package. Barney almost dropped his cigar.
“Surprised to see us, Barney?” kidded Conway as he stepped aboard.
“Only considering the long standing extradition agreements between America and Great Britain,” joked Malone, his true pleasure unconcealed and amplified by an excited smile.
Hugs, handshakes, and backslaps were soon well distributed and as the Thea Foss resumed its Lake Washington cruise, these men of long acquaintance settled down to admire the cake and watch Malone unwrap his gift.
The cake itself was an icing work of art, decorated with multi-colored fish, diamonds, waves of water, and an old-fashioned hand-cranked movie camera. “Happy Birthday Barney” was spelled out in Art Deco edible font. One understated candle adorned the cake’s mid-point.
“We’ll cut the cake after lunch, but first Barney must open his gift,” commanded the Saint.
Malone complied, pulling away the festive wrap and revealing a 1920’s style marine log book. The vessel’s name, written in elaborate script, was embossed on the cover.
“INFANTA”
Barney recited the name, recalling it as one of the cryptic clues quoted in the Costello Treasure scenario.
“Open it,” prompted an encouraging Peter Quentin.
He did, and was momentarily speechless. Each leaf of the exquisite book was adorned with another rare photograph of Barrymore, Costello, and their coterie of famous show business friends cavorting on Barrymore’s personal yacht; each large page featured handwritten details of fishing trips and sight-seeing excursions of the Great Profile, his beautiful wife, and numerous luminaries from Hollywood’s Golden Age.
“These photos are priceless,” whispered Malone emphatically, “none have ever been published, not in Silver Screen Magazine or any hardback collection, and I ought to know. This book is beyond value. I have never seen anything so spectacular. Who did you have to kill to get it?”
An awkward silence followed the question as Conway and Quentin looked to the Saint.
“He knows the story, fellas,” said Simon, “I told him all about our rousing adventure, Alisdare, Talon, Little Buzzy, the works.”
“What story?” Conway and Quentin asked impishly in unison; the Saint closed his eyes and shook his head.
“If Simon told you some wild yarn and it didn’t end with one or both of us saving his skin, then you know it can’t possibly be true,” advised Roger with all the intensity of a politician campaigning for re-election.
“Actually, Roger saved him this time because I was tired of doing it,” added Peter helpfully, “the Saint didn’t try to sell you some whopper about us being involved with the Corrupt Cop Kills Caterer story, did he?”
Malone chuckled, insisted he didn’t care about anything in the paper except the entertainment page, and allowed that this fabulous book must indeed be the famed Costello Treasure.
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” confirmed Simon, “The rare photos were duplicated from the private collection of Olav Lunde, formerly belonging to his father who accompanied Barrymore and his guests on those excursions. In fact, the senior Mr Lunde was captain of the Infanta and he took the original pictures; the handwritten text from the Infanta’s log book was replicated from the original historical document found only in Foss Maritime’s private collection.”