An intense chill crossed Simon’s shoulders and slid down the length of his spine. With one hand raised to shield his eyes from the rain, and the other resting on his hip, the Saint felt strangely akin to his icon’s icy replica.
The windshield wipers of the Grey Top cab slapped a sloshy rim-shot rhythm as the taxi began its crawl into the line of downtown traffic. Through the fogging window Simon discerned Salvadore Alisdare mouthing unfavorable epithets regarding the Saint’s matrilineage and personal proclivities. Whatever amusement Simon Templar had derived from his brief yet profitable interaction with Mr Alisdare seemed suddenly shallow and distasteful. The little man, at best, had appeared peculiar, eccentric, dishonest, possibly delusional, but decidedly harmless. The Saint’s opinion had, in the course of the last few minutes, shifted by seismic degrees.
Simon glanced at his watch, made a few quick calculations of time and distance, turned briskly on his heels, re-entered the hotel, and made a direct path for the elevator. Crossing the lobby, the Saint sighted writer K.K. Beck making her way towards the hotel’s southwest exit. Simon caught Beck’s eye, veered off in her direction, and motioned hurriedly for her to meet him mid-lobby.
The Saint appreciated Kathryne’s witty and lighthearted fiction, and was especially pleased with her shooting script for ‘The Pirate’. The last in a trio of hired writers, the tall and talented K.K. Beck was the only one who actually read his book before attempting an adaptation.
Similar in temperament to Simon Templar, Kathryne Beck shared any intelligent person’s disdain for cocktail parties, but resigned herself to the practical necessity of such self-aggrandizing promotional events as the recently concluded media reception. The Saint admired the way she and director Karl Krogstad worked the room like troopers, all the while amusing themselves with in-joke references to their divergent personal interests — Krogstad’s affection for surrealism, and Beck’s encyclopedic knowledge of seafood acquired during her years as associate editor of a prestigious trade journal dedicated to edible items from the briny deep.
“Kathryne, I have something suspicious I want you to smell,” declared the Saint as if offering her the opportunity of a life time.
“I beg your pardon,” Beck pulled back slightly, “If I had the desire to smell something suspicious there are containers in the back of my refrigerator which could offer ample opportunities.”
Templar, aware that Beck’s reputation for Nordic tidiness almost exceeded that of her award-winning prose, doubted her assertion.
“This will only take a moment and will be dazzling testimony to the trained discernment of your olfactory senses,” explained the Saint, fishing into his pockets.
“Close your eyes and open your nose.”
Beck laughed, lowered her eye-lids, lifted her chin and flared her nostrils.
Simon proffered Alisdare’s invitation.
“Name that aroma,” prompted the Saint.
“Lobster fra diavolo. That was easy. What do I win?”
“Good, now one more.”
“Don’t I get a whiff of coffee beans first?”
“You’re not buying perfume, Dearest. Now, close your eyes and get ready for item number two.”
Simon waved the cashier’s check under Beck’s performing proboscis. Her brow furrowed in concentration.
“This one is a bit trickier.”
“Just name that smell.”
Beck suddenly brightened with self assurance, opened her eyes, and proudly identified the aroma as belonging to Neptune Salad, a marketing euphemism for a low-cost concoction of mayonnaise and imitation crab meat which, while popular at numerous cafeterias and take-out counters, was not among the items at the evening’s buffet.
“Thank you, Ms Beck, O Queen of American Mystery,” intoned the Saint, gently genuflecting in her general direction.
“Thanks for the unexpected coronation,” she curtsied. “Is there a rational explanation for your sudden fascination with my sense of smell, or has this promotional tour resulted in some sort of Saintly breakdown?”
The Saint was already moving quickly towards the elevator when he gave reply.
“I will explain everything in 48 hours. Whatever dinner you want in Portland is my treat. And thanks for the loan of your nose. If this adventure ever becomes immortalized in the official chronicles, I’ll make sure it gets credit.”
Beck sniffed in playful derision. She intended launching a clever verbal rejoinder, but Simon Templar’s elegant personage was already aboard the elevator, his mind rapidly planning the balance of what he perceived as a decidedly hectic evening.
The Saint, relieved that thugs, thrushes, and post-pubescent collegiate types were not blocking his door, freshened up, placed three important phone calls, and emerged from his suite ready for action, but ill-prepared for the two young men now stationed like grinning totems outside the vestibule — one lean, lanky, and dark; the other short and pudgy with sheepdog hair. A healthy dollop of villainy would render their pairing an invariable cliché torn from the yellowed pages of pulp adventure fiction, but the Saint knew immediately that they were not villains. Had they been representatives of the ungodly, he could have punched them in the nose and been on his way.
Regrettably, they were fans.
“Mr Templar!” The tall one thrust out his hand in a threatening gesture of friendship.
“He just left,” growled the Saint unconvincingly as he pushed past them, “he threw himself from the window in a fit of dismay when he discovered the actress never met the bishop.”
“It is him!” exclaimed the pudgy one, moving in hot pursuit.
The Saint turned to face them, walking backwards as he did so.
“I’m sorry, fellas, not now. I would love to chat, sign autographs, answer questions, commit mayhem, the works, but not now, not tonight.”
“But Mr Templar,” pleaded the taller of the two, “we’ve read every book...”
“In the world? Congratulations, you must be brilliant. Now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with my Rabbi.”
Simon repeatedly pressed the elevator call button as if he could nag it to a prompt response. Turning towards the boys, the Saint saw their crestfallen demeanor and took pity. Simon sighed, smiled, and apologized for his brusk behavior. Surprisingly, the two youths seemed to enjoy it.
“I imagine we appear the worst type of smug self-congratulatory devotees, Mr Templar,” admitted the lanky lad, “But we know all about you; we’ve read every Saint book...”
“I haven’t,” interrupted the Saint. “Oh, I’ve glanced through most of them. A lot of it is fairly accurate, some of it is...” Simon saw the look of preparatory dismay creep across their eyes as if he were about to prick their happiest holiday balloon with an oversized pin. “very accurate,” the Saint concluded with emphasis.
The two smiled the smile of affirmed illusion, brimming with adoration and unabashed hero-worship. The Saint had seen the look often enough, although he preferred finding it affixed to attractive members of the complimentary gender.
“OK boys, you have until this elevator reaches the lobby to ask whatever you want and receive an honest answer. My romantic relationships are the only subject off-limits.” The pudgy one, blatantly disappointed, turned to his companion and spoke as if the Saint were deaf and invisible.
“Does that mean we can’t ask him whatever happened to you-know-who?”
His pal blinked rapidly, giving this conundrum serious consideration.