Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Thank you, Mr. Ronweicz. If you will provide me the telephone number, I’ll confirm the appointment today.” Saint-Germain looked directly at Hirshbach. “You must be pleased to have such an industrious salesman working for you.”

  Hirshbach’s smile was sour. “Yes. Ronweicz is a good man on the job.” He scowled at the paper in the typewriter. “Now, where were we?”

  “You have my address; you have still to fill out the specific information on the auto itself, and then you will have to calculate the cost of the vehicle.” Saint-Germain inclined his head. “Then I should speak with your insurance agent.”

  “Yes. Of course,” said Hirshbach. “You’re an alert fellow, Ragoczy. No doubt about it.” The way he said it, this was not entirely complimentary.

  Saint-Germain chose to ignore the unpleasant undertones of Hirshbach’s remark. “Thank you. I find it incumbent upon me, as a foreigner, to be on the qui vive.”

  “Of course,” said Hirshbach, taking an index card from a drawer made for them. He very carefully copied the information from the card onto the paper in the typewriter, and was about to put it away when Saint-Germain stopped him.

  “I know you’re a diligent man, Mr. Hirshbach, but I think it would be wisest to compare your record here with what is on the Packard itself, if you don’t mind. I’m probably being overcautious, but I know how easily numbers can be transposed in a long string.” He spoke so blandly that it was impossible for Hirshbach to protest. “A man in my position—a foreigner in your country—is under constant scrutiny.”

  “As you say, such things can happen, and it would make things difficult for you,” he muttered as he shoved himself out of his chair and made his way around the end of the desk. “Let’s go make sure this is all accurate—engine number and car serial number. Better safe than sorry.”

  “Exactly,” said Saint-Germain, following him out into the showroom and over to the Packard.

  Hirshbach shoved up to the Packard and opened the driver’s door. “There is the registration number.” He read it off, comparing it to the card he held. “Oh,” he said as he came to the last two numbers. “I reversed them.”

  “An easy thing to do,” said Saint-Germain smoothly. “Shall we correct the form?”

  “Yes,” said Hirshbach, moving away from the Packard and back toward his office. “How astute of you, Mr. Ragoczy.” He plunked himself down and xed out the inaccurate number, typing in the corrected one above it “There. I’ll need you to initial this when I’m done.”

  “Fine.” Saint-Germain opened his valise and took out an envelope filled with hundred-dollar bills. “What is the total?”

  “Just a moment,” Hirshbach said, and turned toward his large adding machine. He punched in numbers and cranked them up. “You told Ronweicz you’d pay four thousand four hundred—”

  “Four thousand three hundred,” Saint-Germain corrected gently. “Plus all other required fees.” He counted out four stacks of ten bills each. “Four thousand. What is the balance?”

  Hirshbach cranked in another sum, and said, “With state license fees and all applicable taxes, it comes to four thousand four hundred seventy-eight dollars and thirty-six cents.” He tore off the adding machine paper and handed it to Saint-Germain. “Check my calculations, if you like.”

  Saint-Germain glanced over the figures. “They appear accurate to me,” he said, and counted out five hundred dollars more. “I believe you owe me twenty-one dollars and sixty-four cents in change.”

  “Just a moment,” Hirshbach said as he took the money and counted it. When he was done, he nodded. “I’ll get your change.” He pulled a key from his trouser-pocket and opened the middle drawer of his desk where a change tray sat. With great deliberation he counted out the change and handed it to Saint-Germain.

  “My bill of sale?” Saint-Germain asked politely.

  “Just a moment.” He rolled the completed transfer of title form out of his typewriter and put another one in. This time he filled it out quickly and gave one of the carbon copies to Saint-Germain, along with a pen so he could provide his signature. “Sign on the lines I’ve indicated, and initial where the number is corrected. This is all you’ll need. Between these two documents, you have undisputed and unencumbered title to the Packard Twelve.” As soon as the forms were completed, he held the two pieces of paper out to Saint-Germain. “Congratulations, Mr. Ragoczy. It’s a wonderful car. I know you’ll enjoy it” These practiced sentiments were recited as if by rote. “You may talk to Brendon Shelly about insurance.”

  “Thank you. I’ll attend to that at once.” He folded the papers and put them into his inner breast-pocket. “When will I receive the official documents from the state?”

  “In ten days or two weeks, or thereabouts. In the meantime, carry those two papers with you in the car at all times.” He pressed his mouth closed, then asked, “Is there anything more?”

  “Oh; yes, there is,” said Saint-Germain as he got to his feet. “The surety deposit I left with Mr. Ronweicz? Five hundred dollars.”

  “Of course,” said Hirshbach, very nearly pouting. He reached into his drawer again and counted out the five hundred. “What would you have done if the Packard weren’t to your satisfaction?” he asked as he handed the money over. “What better were you going to buy?”

  Saint-Germain gave a quick smile. “Fortunately the auto suits me very well, so neither of us will know the answer to that.” He tucked the envelope back into his valise and slipped it under his arm.

  “Do you always travel with so much cash?” Hirshbach asked, trying not to sound too curious.

  “When it is necessary, I do.” He opened the door and stepped back into the showroom, where he caught sight of Ronweicz hovering near the Packard. “Thank you for all your help, Mr. Ronweicz. I hope you will not have to give up too much of your commission on this sale.”

  The wry tone in Saint-Germain’s voice caught Ronweicz’s attention. “I hope the same thing,” he said in a lowered voice.

  “Then I will provide you a recommendation, should you want it, for seeking out a less greedy employer,” Saint-Germain said, and saw Ronweicz blink in astonishment. “You did well for me; the least I can do is return the favor. I will give my attorney a letter for you in the next day or two, and you may call for it at any time you wish.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Ragoczy,” said Ronweicz, becoming flustered.

  “I have had some fluctuations of fortunes in my life,” Saint-Germain told him as his thoughts filled with remembered images: his father’s enemies in the Carpathians; the Temple of Imhotep; the Roman arena; a riot in Antioch; the Huns attacking on Greek hillsides; a frost-blighted summer in Mongolia; Spain, Franksland, and Saxony; the lamasery in Tibet; Heugenet’s castle; Delhi besieged; Fiorenza and Venezia; the mountains of Peru; Russia and England; Italy and France. “I know how difficult they can be to endure.”

  “It’s still real nice of you,” said Ronweicz. “Even to think of it.”

  “I will do as I’ve said: my Word on it,” said Saint-Germain, offering his hand. After they had shaken, he asked, “About the insurance?”

  “That door,” Ronweicz said, pointing. “Brendon Shelly’s the agent here. He’ll explain it all to you.”

  “Very good.” He turned away, then said over his shoulder, “I wish you every success, Mr. Ronweicz.”

  “You too, Mr. Ragoczy.” For the first time Ronweicz looked at ease.

  “Thank you,” said Saint-Germain, and continued on to the desk of the insurance agent. Their conversation was brief and to the point; at the end of it, Saint-Germain handed Shelly fifty-six dollars for a full-coverage policy for one year, took the copy of the policy Shelly had filled out for him, and put it into his inner breast-pocket with his other papers, thanking the agent as he did. He glanced at his wristwatch: it was two forty-one. He had purchased the Packard before three, just as he had intended to do.

  Now that the auto was his, he got into it and drove to Horner Bi
shop Beatie Wentworth & Culpepper. He parked in the lot next to the building and went inside, taking the elevator to the sixth floor, where a receptionist in a heat-rumpled linen suit kept him waiting for ten minutes before admitting him to J. Harold Bishop’s tome-lined office, where the attorney was waiting, a cigarette in one hand held the same way Franklin Roosevelt held his, but without the ivory holder. He was wearing a three-hundred-dollar navy-blue, pin-striped, double-breasted suit that was admirably tailored to conceal a slight paunch; his shirt was white linen and his tie was blue-and-red-medallion foulard silk. Bishop had well-barbered hair cut like Cary Grant’s, and manicured nails that had been buffed to a subtle shine. Only his pocket handkerchief—pale blue silk—could be said to be a bit overdone, but for Chicago, Saint-Germain recognized that Bishop was conservatively dressed.

  “Good afternoon, Comte,” Bishop said, rising to shake hands. “Have a seat. I guess since you’re here, you bought a car?”

  “A Packard Twelve, the ’34 model,” Saint-Germain confirmed.

  “That’s a swell car,” Bishop said, his enthusiasm kept in check by his contained demeanor. “You’re registering the address as this one?” He sat down as soon as Saint-Germain had chosen a chair for himself.

  “I have done so, as we agreed,” said Saint-Germain. “I will tell you where to send the registration when it arrives. Shall I allow five weeks?”

  “That should be about right,” said Bishop, then conscientiously added, “If you take up full residence in another state, you’ll have to re-register the car there.”

  “I understand that,” said Saint-Germain. “But I don’t know yet what my long-range plans will be.” He ducked his head as if to imply an apology for any inconvenience this might cause.

  “Just as well to have this as your address of record, then.” Bishop leaned back in his fine leather chair.

  “I accept your advice in this regard,” said Saint-Germain, and reached into his breast-pocket, removing the copies of the registration, the transfer of ownership, and the insurance policy. “Here. Your secretary may use these to make your file on my affairs current.”

  Bishop opened the pages and perused them swiftly. “All standard. And the most thorough insurance available on the open market.” He pressed a button on his desk, signaling his secretary to come in. “Miss McAllister will take care of this for you, Comte.”

  Miss McAllister, middle-aged and plainly dressed, came into the office. “Yes, Mr. Bishop?”

  “You know the pertinent data we’ll need. Take them down, if you will. The Comte will wait for his documents.” Bishop handed them over and motioned Miss McAllister away. “She’s the most efficient woman on our staff.”

  “How fortunate for you to have her services, then,” he said.

  “You can have no idea what a difference she makes,” said Bishop, then resumed his most professional manner. “Do you know yet when you plan to head West?”

  “A week at most, three days at least. I’ll leave a message with you when I depart.” Saint-Germain smiled at him. “I have obtained a driver’s license, and so has my manservant.” He had not wanted to supply a thumbprint, but it was required, and so he had done so.

  “Very good,” said Bishop. “Do you have your temporary copy?”

  “In my wallet, as you advised me,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Excellent. Make sure you keep your registration and your insurance information in the car at all times. The registration certificate must be fixed to the steering column.” The attorney did his best to be cordial. “I’m sure similar laws prevail in Europe.”

  “In certain countries, yes,” said Saint-Germain.

  Bishop coughed delicately. “I have your memorandum about inquiries regarding your whereabouts. I am authorized to only reveal that information to inquiries coming through the attorneys you provided for me on your list, from Manitoba Chemicals, and from duly authorized governmental agencies. No one else is to be given any information I may have on your location, of which you will keep me apprised by telegram every two weeks.” He paused. “Have I understood your instructions correctly?”

  “Yes. And you are to inform me of any inquiries made in regard to me,” Saint-Germain reminded him. “You will have up-to-date information through which to notify me.” He looked up as Miss Dorothy McAllister, Bishop’s secretary, came back into the office with a large manila envelope in her hand.

  “This contains your documents, Mr. Ragoczy,” she said.

  Saint-Germain took the envelope. “Thank you, Miss McAllister.”

  She looked at him in surprise; she was unused to being thanked, especially by clients. She nodded to him as her cheeks flushed. “You’re welcome, I’m sure.” With a glance at Bishop, she turned and left the office.

  “So,” said Bishop. “I think this will take care of everything for the time being.” He rose and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure serving you, Comte.”

  “Thank you,” said Saint-Germain. “I’ll settle my current bill on the way out.”

  “Your retainer is more than sufficient to cover it,” Bishop assured him.

  “Still, I would prefer not to have any ends dangling, as the saying goes,” said Saint-Germain as he started to the door.

  “I’m not one to turn down money. Miss McAllister will take care of the bill for you.” Bishop laughed theatrically. “I wish I had more clients like you.”

  “Do you,” said Saint-Germain with an irony that was wasted on the lawyer as he went out of J. Harold Bishop’s office to pay his secretary for the man’s opinions and time.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM DESMOND REEVES IN LONDON TO FERENC RAGOCZY IN AMERICA, CARE OF MILES SUNBURY IN LONDON; SENT AIRMAIL TO CHICAGO AND FORWARDED TO OSCAR KING OF KING LOWENTHAL TAYLOR & FROST IN SAN FRANCISCO.

  London, England

  22 August, 1936

  Ferenc Ragoczy, Count of Saint-Germain

  c/o Miles Sunbury

  Sunbury Draughton Hollis & Carnford

  Solicitors and Barristers

  New Court

  London

  My dear Count,

  I make bold to approach you on this most disturbing matter that Mrs. Bell, your housekeeper here in London, has brought to my attention, or more properly, to the attention of my wife, who has correctly mentioned the incident to me, and which I now recount to you: on the 19th of this month, when I was out of your house attending to making arrangement for a few minor repairs, a man called and was received by Mrs. Bell. He was a foreigner going by the name of Ash and claimed acquaintance with you from your days in Spain, and expressed a desire to know where he might find you. Mrs. Bell is an excellent woman in many ways, but she is not inclined to guard her tongue, and so she told this gentleman that you had gone to America. He ventured a guess that it was New York that had been your destination, but Mrs. Bell took it upon herself to correct him, and told him you had gone to Boston. The man said you must have changed your plans from what they had been before, thanked Mrs. Bell, and departed.

  Would that was all there was to it, for I have come to find out that this Ash person has returned yesterday, ostensibly to give a token of thanks to Mrs. Bell, but I fear that was only a ploy to attempt to learn more from her in regard to your travels. Thinking this Ash was an associate of yours—he apparently knows about your airplane business in Spain—she gave him tea, as it was late in the afternoon, in the back parlor and fell to chatting with him. I have not determined how much she revealed, but it is apparent to me that she has said a great deal more than she should. My wife came upon them less than an hour later, at which time Ash took his leave, but not before my wife had the opportunity to size him up, and to learn about the two visits. She has correctly informed me of the two incidents and I have now reported them to you.

  If it seems to you that Mrs. Bell has overstepped herself, you have only to let your solicitor know you want to terminate her services. If you believe she is deserving of another chance, you may rest assured that I have chastised her for he
r poor judgment, and she has promised most faithfully not to forget herself again. I have asked the cook, Mrs. Shoemaker, to be a bit more alert when Mrs. Bell is here alone. Mrs. Shoemaker leaves at half-eight every night but Sunday, which she has off. I can pledge to be here after eight in the evening, which will not provide Mrs. Bell the opportunity to speak to this Ash again, even if he should call here again. I believe Mrs. Bell liked the company of this Ash fellow, and in spite of the trouble he has brought her, she might be inclined to speak with him. I have reminded her that she is a widow with a child to provide for, and it would be preposterous for her to put her livelihood in danger for a smooth-speaking foreigner. I think she has taken my warning to heart.

  I have given a full account of this to your solicitor, Mr. Sunbury, and on his advice, I will inform you of any other incidents of untoward behavior, as well as any attempts to obtain information in regard to your travels, and whatever your instructions may be in regard to this or any other household matters, I will obey them on every point to the limits of my abilities.

  Your most devoted,

  Desmond Reeves

  chapter two

  Doña Isabel stepped out of her mallard-green SS Airline saloon auto and looked around Cross Street in Uxbridge as a nearby church clock chimed one. She read the various signs and finally walked toward the St. Andrew Hotel and Public House, the invitation she had received the week before held in her hand. She was handsomely turned out in a dark teal suit of woolen crepe with a fox wrap negligently tossed around her shoulders; her hat was a feminine navy-blue version of a trilby with a pheasant’s feather and a wisp of a veil that held the sleek roll of her dark hair pulled back and anchored with a small, be-jeweled comb; artfully applied make-up set off her lovely mouth and fine eyes; her gloves and clutch bag matched her suit, the seams of her silk stockings were absolutely straight, and her shoes were navy-blue with three-inch heels and a fashionable ankle-strap. Had she been in Bond Street, she would have turned heads; here she attracted a great deal of attention as she made her way into the pub and went up to the bar. “I am supposed to meet Mr. Sunbury here,” she said.