As Igor was about to knock down the door to Templar’s actual suite, Simon was already on the ledge outside his second-story window. Below, a stately Bentley was moving past.
The driver. Dr. Terry Mannering, was lighting a Spur cigarette when he heard the thump of Simon Templar landing on his roof. He raised an eyebrow and paused his carcinogenic inhalations. That was the extent of his reaction. He kept driving.
As Mannering turned the corner, Templar rolled off the Bentley and blended with the crowd surging across Sloane Square.
Ilya, Igor, and Vlad were compelled to admit failure. The Fly had flown.
As for Dr. Emma Russell, she could only cry for so long.
Her eyes were still red and wet when she related her tale of woe to Inspector Rabineau at Scotland Yard. Halfway through her tearful, rambling explanation, Rabineau abruptly interrupted her.
“Wait, wait, wait. He used the named of a what?”
Emma sniffled before answering. “Saint. He called himself—”
“Excuse me,” interjected Rabineau. “I think Inspector Teal needs to hear this.”
When the pretty blond American first arrived at Scotland Yard ranting about Shelley, a South African sketch artist, and a secret formula, Rabineau didn’t consider the matter urgent nor Dr. Russell’s story credible. When she mentioned the artist’s alias, Rabineau’s interest was significantly piqued.
When alerted by Rabineau, Teal lazily suggested that Dr. Russell be escorted to his private office. With both detectives in attendance, Emma began her story from the beginning. Teal insisted on hearing every detail, especially about the man who claimed he was named for a saint.
Emma revealed each embarrassing, humiliating particular, and dampened half a box of tissue in the process.
Her story completed, Teal and Rabineau exchanged glances. A nod from her superior encouraged Rabineau to begin.
“This man has more names than the phone book,” asserted Rabineau. “We’ve confirmed a handful of false identities used on visas, passports, leases...”
She picked up a computer printout.
“Nicholas Owen, Louis Guanella, Peter Damian, Paul M. James, Charles Borromeo, Ian Dickerson...”
Emma leaned back and laughed ruefully.
“Of course, like ‘Thomas More,’ all names of saints or hagiographers.”
“Hagiographers?” Rabineau squinted when she asked questions.
“Saint experts,” explained Emma.
Teal cleared his throat and plopped another piece of chewing gum into his mouth.
“That’s why we’ve named him the Saint,” stated the detective flatly. “We have a name for him, and a criminal signature.”
He spread out the numerous computer composite portraits and enhanced surveillance camera photographs.
“The Saint around the world,” intoned Teal, “one crime after another, each in a different clever disguise.”
He encouraged Dr. Russell to examine the 8x10 glossies of the Saint in action.
Emma surveyed the photos and her stomach sank.
“The Saint in New York, the Saint in London, the Saint in Miami...” Teal recited the captions in a droning litany.
Emma turned the last one on its side, hoping for improved clarity.
“I can’t see the resemblance in this one at all.”
Rabineau tossed down one from Heathrow. “Is this more like it?”
It was him, all right. No doubt.
Emma offered Teal the young poet’s sketchbook.
“I doubt there’s anything worthwhile in here. The poetry’s not that great — well, there is one I like — but at least you have a handwriting sample and perhaps some fingerprints. I’m surprised he forgot to take it with him.”
Teal flipped through a few pages, stopped chewing, and read aloud:
“ ‘To give light to them that sit in darkness...’ ”
Emma blushed.
Teal rolled his tired eyes and handed the journal back to her.
“He has multiple identities, steals millions of dollars, absconds with your life’s research, and leaves behind his poetry. As evidence of anything, it’s useless. I’m sure he knew that when he left it. You can keep it as a souvenir if you like, Dr. Russell. He may be a poet, but the Saint is no saint.”
A sudden tingle raced along Emma’s arms, and her eyes brightened.
“Excuse me,” Emma said with an assertiveness that surprised even herself, “but could you ascertain the passenger list of every plane that left Heathrow in the last six hours?”
Teal sighed. “We’ll be waiting for him if he ever attempts to reenter the U.K.,” the detective assured her. “We’ll have plenty of questions for him.”
“No, I want that list, and I want it now.” She was insistent. “Trust me. My objective is the same as yours — capture the Saint.”
Teal complied with Emma’s wishes and did not bother to mention that the odds of actually pinning any charges on the Saint were beyond remote.
The fingerprints left behind would match nothing in Interpol’s database, nor would there be any way to prove that her sticky-fingered poet was an international criminal.
Dr. Emma Russell, armed with a passenger list for every flight from Heathrow, exited Scotland Yard and piloted her VW Bug back to the scene of the crime.
Teal masticated pensively as Rabineau paced.
“We don’t have a damn bit more than we had before,” mumbled the portly detective. “We have one more crime, if you can call taking notecards from the nightstand a crime fit for Scotland Yard. We have a suspect we can’t identify, about whom we know absolutely nothing, and upon whom we can pin even less.”
Rabineau stopped pacing, shuffled through the photographs of the Saint at large, and waited for Teal to add something to his negative assessment of the situation.
“Of course,” added Inspector Teal, “we’ll catch him, prosecute him, and see him sentenced to Wormwood Scrubs by year’s end.”
Rabineau doubted it, and Teal knew it.
“Defrock the Saint,” said Inspector Teal while attempting to smile, “that’s my ambition: defrock the Saint.”
“Saint, my arse!” Rabineau blurted.
Teal adjusted his tie and cleared his throat.
“Beg pardon, Inspector.” Rabineau pulled an imaginary wrinkle from her freshly pressed skirt. “A Saint he ain’t. He’s just another rat. A tricky rat, but a rat nonetheless.”
2
“May the best rat win!” bellowed an inebriated Tretiak, and a dozen large rats began racing on a neon-lit mini-track in Tretiak’s private club.
Rat racing had not yet become the rage in Russia, but it was the entertainment of choice in Tretiak’s lair. American-style cheerleaders shook pompoms under flashing lights while well-fed rodents scrambled in a frenzied dash. Money flowed like wine, and wine flowed like wine as well.
Tretiak, always able to either pick a winning rat or create one, pocketed more hard currency as his guests drank up booze and felt up dancing girls.
“How is it you always win, Ivan?” asked a jovial General Leo Sklarov as he tasted the perfume behind a Georgian beauty’s ear.
“It’s simple!” exclaimed Tretiak. “I back the biggest rat!”
Everyone within earshot laughed as if it were the funniest remark since his previous remark. It wasn’t, but he was rich.
Even the wealthy, rude, and powerful must surrender to certain inevitable weaknesses. Tretiak’s well-lubricated digestive system was under more pressure than the second-run rat.
He excused himself, stumbled across the dance floor, and entered the rest room as the maître d’ distastefully herded rats into a burlap sack and carried them back to the service entrance.