“I would be delighted to meet your family, but thanks aren’t necessary: believe this,” Saint-Germain said with conviction.
“I will have to disagree with you, Conte,” said Pietragnelli. “But not while I’m eating.” He pinched a bit of bread off his portion and dipped it into the soup. “Country manners, signora; I know. But we are in the country.”
Rowena laughed and did as her host had done. “This is very good bread. What’s in it?”
“It is pugliese, Italian country bread. Chopped ripe olives and pine nuts are kneaded into the dough.” Pietragnelli smiled at her. “I used to make this, too; before Mrs. Barringstone came. I still do occasionally, but my daughter Adrianna makes it for me when she and Enrico come on Sundays.”
“This doesn’t taste three days old,” Rowena observed.
“No; it was baked this morning, for this occasion.” He took some more of it and dipped it in his soup.
Lunch went along pleasantly enough, the conversation steered artfully away from politics and other vexing matters. By the time it was finished, both Pietragnelli and Rowena had eaten most of their soup and had had a second glass of his excellent wine and a good wedge of cheese. Pietragnelli had summoned Mrs. Barringstone from the kitchen and ordered coffee.
“It was a superb meal, Mr. Pietragnelli,” Rowena approved as she finally put her napkin on the table.
“I am glad you found it so,” Pietragnelli said, and looked over at Saint-Germain. “No coffee, either, I suppose?”
“No, thank you,” said Saint-Germain. He was so much at ease that Pietragnelli was convinced of his sincerity.
“Perhaps another time?” Pietragnelli suggested.
“It is kind of you to ask, but probably not,” said Saint-Germain.
Rowena drank the last of the wine in her glass. “This is so good.”
“I will provide you some to take home with you,” Pietragnelli exclaimed. “You will do me the honor of taking it with you.”
Trapped by her good manners as much as her liking of the wine, Rowena nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Pietragnelli. I will appreciate every drop of it”
“Well and good!” Pietragnelli said, pushing back from the table. “You must excuse me. There is a car coming—” He went off toward the front door.
Rowena was a bit startled. “Goodness. Do you think anything’s wrong?”
Saint-Germain shrugged but there was worry in his dark eyes. “I don’t know. He wasn’t expecting anyone, was he?”
“He didn’t mention anyone,” said Rowena cautiously.
“No.” Saint-Germain rose and went toward the entry-hall. He paused under the arch of the staircase and watched as a small Oriental man came in through the front door with Pietragnelli.
“—if you won’t go to the authorities,” Pietragnelli was saying.
“But they do nothing! Nothing!” the Oriental man insisted in disgust. He was wiry, shorter than Pietragnelli, and about forty. His clothes proclaimed him a fanner as much as his hard, chapped hands. His English was slightly accented; he had obviously spoken the language most of his life.
“If you keep at them, they will. I’ll come with you,” Pietragnelli said, going on forcefully, “They can’t ignore these thefts forever.”
The Oriental man laughed bitterly. “And why not? Why should they listen to a Japanese or an Italian? They don’t want us here in the first place.”
“Well, perhaps they don’t, Hiro, but they have to enforce the law. Otherwise there can be trouble.” Pietragnelli looked up and saw Saint-Germain watching them. “Come in. I want you to meet my guests.”
The Japanese farmer stopped still. “I didn’t realize you weren’t alone,” he said, attempting to back out of the room.
Pietragnelli would have none of it. “You can speak in front of these people. They won’t think the less of you.” He propelled the newcomer forward, saying as he did, “This is my neighbor Hiro Yoshimura. He raises vegetables, about half-a-mile up the road. He’s been losing his crop to the midnight harvesters. I believe I wrote to you about the problem?”
“That you did,” said Saint-Germain, holding out his hand. “I am Ferenc Ragoczy.”
Yoshimura bowed. “A pleasure,” he said, looking as if it were anything but.
“You have to excuse Hiro. He has had a hard month, and it is only getting worse.” By now he had guided Yoshimura into his dining room; Saint-Germain offered the chair he had occupied and took the one next to it. “Was it the Leonardi boys again?”
“I don’t know,” said Yoshimura miserably. “I didn’t catch them. It could have been men from the hobo camp outside of Windsor.” He made a gesture of futility.
“We have some youngsters who like to commit mischief,” Pietragnelli explained. “They also know the jobbers who take stolen produce. I think they’re the ones who made off with sixty pounds of my grapes three weeks ago, but I didn’t see them do it. But they are the ones who would be most likely to do such a thing, and know how to do it, and are inclined to do it. So I have no proof. All I know is that Sam Petrie bought grapes from Oliver Leonardi, and they weren’t from the Leonardi vineyard.”
“They are criminals,” said Yoshimura.
“They probably are,” said Pietragnelli as he filled Saint-Germain’s unused wineglass with the last of what was in the bottle. “Have some of this. You’ll feel better.”
Yoshimura scowled but did as Pietragnelli ordered. “I can’t afford another midnight harvest. I’ve lost a third of my crops already.”
Mrs. Barringstone came in from the kitchen with a tray on which stood a coffeepot, a creamer, and a sugar-bowl and three mugs. Seeing Yoshimura, she put the tray down and, with an expression of distaste, withdrew to the kitchen.
“You see?” Yoshimura said as he watched Mrs. Barringstone depart. “They all hate me.”
“No, they don’t,” said Pietragnelli. “They think you’re strange, and they’re troubled because of it.” He sat down in his chair again. “Signora Saxon, would you be good enough to pour the coffee?”
“Of course,” said Rowena, and set about doing it.
“What can I do, Carlo? I can’t afford men to guard my fields. It’s all I can do to pay my two hands.” He took a long drink of wine. “If they continue to raid my fields, I won’t have money enough to keep Tochigo and Junimoto on.”
Pietragnelli put his large hand on Yoshimura’s shoulder. “We have to report this to the sheriff. If it’s happening to you, it’s happening to others, and something must be done to stop it.” He turned to Saint-Germain. “Don’t you agree … Signor Ragoczy?”
“Yes. I do, if the police are supposed to protect you.” He took a deep breath. “There are places in the world where that is not what police do, but in this country, as I understand it, they are required to enforce the law.”
“If I were one of their own,” said Yoshimura. “None of them is Japanese.”
“But most of them know farmers, and that is the most important thing,” said Pietragnelli. “Just now, it is the farmers who are keeping this region alive. You more than I, because you grow vegetables, not grapes.” He took the mug Rowena held out to him. “I don’t have to tell you how important vegetables are.”
“Most of those who buy them are Orientals, too, and that doesn’t mean anything to the sheriff.” Yoshimura sighed. “I still have my Chinese cabbage, but none of the other cabbages. I should be grateful for that.”
“Tell the sheriff, or his deputies. You can telephone them from here. The telephone is in the kitchen, on the wall by the pantry.” Pietragnelli rubbed his chin. “There has to be some way to keep your fields from being ransacked.”
Yoshimura drank the last of the wine. “If times were better, I’d sell out and go down to South San Francisco, to join my wife and children. But raising flowers is less profitable than raising vegetables just now.” He coughed once.
“Let them run the greenhouses, as they’ve done from the first,” Pietragnelli urged, “In time, they’ll pa
y off. But you can’t give up your farm. You mustn’t. Not because of thieves and troublemakers, but because it is yours and you mustn’t give up what is yours, not to a gang of rascals.” He slapped his palm on the table; the noise was loud enough to bring Mrs. Barringstone in from the kitchen.
“Is there anything more you want, Mr. Pietragnelli?” She was stiff with disapproval.
“No, not now, grazie. Go back to the kitchen, Mrs. Barringstone.” He waved her away with a hint of impatience.
Rowena poured her own cup of coffee and glanced at Saint-Germain before she held out the third mug in the direction of Hiro Yoshimura. “Would you like some?”
He hesitated, then said, “If you would. With sugar.” He braced his elbows on the table and dropped his head on his hands. “What is there for me to do?”
“Look, I can call Will Sutton in Healdsburg. He’s the nearest deputy. His mother’s Thomas Leonardi’s sister, and he knows what kind of boys his cousins are. If Oliver and Arnold are behind your midnight harvest, you can bet Will can talk sense to them. It’s in the family’s interest to avoid scandal.” He waited while Yoshimura thought about it. “Besides, Sutton isn’t the kind of man who lets the law slide for his kin’s sake. He knows that leads to trouble.”
Slowly Yoshimura lifted his head. “If you want to talk to the deputy sheriff, go ahead. But I don’t want to have officers all over my place.”
“I understand,” said Pietragnelli. “I’ll do my best to make sure Will sees the problem we have here.”
“It is good of you to do that,” said Yoshimura in a discouraged tone.
“I’ll explain it to him. He’ll know something must be done,” said Pietragnelli. “He is no fool, and he is not depending on rich men to support him. There aren’t enough rich men in the area to support the sheriff and his deputies as well.”
Yoshimura’s smile was cynical. “No. The deputies must fend for themselves.”
If Pietragnelli understood this as Yoshimura intended, he gave no indication of it, saying only, “Will has to uphold the law. He knows it and I know it.”
“Naturally,” said Yoshimura sarcastically, and gulped the sugared coffee Rowena had provided.
“You will see, Hiro,” Pietragnelli told him. “If you will give Will Sutton a chance, you will see.”
“Very well,” said Yoshimura. He turned a haggard face toward Pietragnelli. “I will try to guard my fields awhile longer, but if I sustain more losses, I may have to sell out, in spite of everything.”
“I hope not,” said Pietragnelli. “It would be sad to have you gone.”
“You’re probably the only one who thinks so,” said Yoshimura, and downed the rest of his coffee. “What terrible stuff this is.”
“It will help you stay awake tonight, if you drink more of it,” said Pietragnelli. “Would you like to borrow a few of our geese? If you let them out in the fields, they’ll eat snails and bugs and they’ll make a racket if anyone tries to get into your fields.”
“They’ll just fly back to your pond,” said Yoshimura. “I appreciate your offer, though.”
Pietragnelli sighed. “All right. I can’t offer you anything more. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve lost grapes to the midnight harvest, too,” Yoshimura said. “You have had a lot to endure.”
“That’s why I make sure the geese have the run of the property. Although the last raid took two of the geese as well as grapes.” Pietragnelli addressed Saint-Germain. “Do you have any recommendations to make, Conte?”
“I?” He considered the matter. “I don’t know the scope of your problem, so I don’t think I can come up with anything useful, not right now. In a day or so I may have a suggestion or two, if you would like to hear them.”
Rowena refilled Pietragnelli’s and Yoshimura’s mugs, and said, “If you can find a way to sound the alarm for all of you, so that no matter where the thieves strike, both of you can answer the signal—that might help.”
“We both have telephones,” said Pietragnelli. “But going through the switchboard could mean that the robbers could be warned as well. The operators listen, and the lines are shared, so everything is public. We can use the fire-whistle, but some of the neighbors might say we were wrong—since there would be no fire.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s possible. But it is also likely that these raiders cannot be warned any more quickly than either of you can be, whether you telephone or use the whistle or anything else.”
Pietragnelli got to his feet and paced down the length of the dining room. “I can spare you two men to guard your fields beginning next week. I’ve told my workers that if they have children they can stay on through the winter and into the spring, so their children can go to school. But once the harvest is in, many of them will have less to do, and I can send them to your farm.”
Yoshimura shook his head. “No, Carlo. That would be too much. And your men might not want to work for me.”
“They want to work, period,” said Pietragnelli. “Most of them have already lost all they had. They will not sit by and see another man lose all he has.”
“They may resent me for having it,” said Yoshimura. “They may want it for themselves.”
Saint-Germain spoke up, cutting into what promised to be a fruitless wrangle. “You may want to ask your men, Pietragnelli, if any of them are willing to do extra work for Mr. Yoshimura. That way, you should be able to avoid any disgruntlement.”
Yoshimura stared at Saint-Germain. “If no one volunteers?”
“Then you will find another means to achieve the end you have in mind,” said Saint-Germain. “But why not try this first? Let the men decide for themselves.”
Pietragnelli nodded slowly. “Yes. The crush is our busiest time, and I’ve had to put men into the vineyards late at night, to watch my grapes. But some of them will be glad of more to do. For the additional pay, if nothing else.” He bustled back to the head of the table. “I’ll put it to the men directly, as soon as their noon break is over.” He turned his bright little eyes on Saint-Germain. “Who would think that you—a financier—should come up with such a solution.”
“I haven’t always been a financier, as you call me,” Saint-Germain said dryly. “And I know it is folly to ignore those who work for you, particularly when they have nothing more to lose.” He had a fleeting recollection of the French and Russian Revolutions, and the chaos in Germany little more than a decade ago, and what had come from them.
A clock in the parlor sounded the hour, a hollow sound on a note that was not quite F.
“I must go back to work,” said Pietragnelli, ducking his head apologetically. “I have to excuse myself. I labor alongside my men.”
“Of course,” said Saint-Germain. “We will not get in your way.”
“I shouldn’t mind if you did,” said Pietragnelli, casting an uneasy glance at Yoshimura. “Will you have something to eat while you’re here?”
Yoshimura tried to summon up an answer and finally managed to nod.
“You will not leave until you’ve eaten?” Pietragnelli pursued.
Rowena saw the trouble in his gaze, and said, “Go speak with your men, Mr. Pietragnelli, and tell Mr. Yoshimura the results while he is still here. You’ll both feel better.”
He clapped his hands. “Yes. Yes. You wait here, Hiro. I’ll bring you news in a quarter hour. Have some soup if you like—there’s plenty in the kitchen.” With that, he hastened out of the dining room and into the kitchen; the rear door slammed a moment later, leaving Rowena and Saint-Germain alone with the dejected Yoshimura.
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM J. HAROLD BISHOP IN CHICAGO TO FERENC RAGOCZY, LE COMTE DE SAINT-GERMAIN, IN SAN FRANCISCO.
HORNER BISHOP BEATIE WENTWORTH & CULPEPPER
ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW
7571 MICHIGAN AVENUE
SUITE 602
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
October 10, 1936
Ferenc Ragoczy
le Comte de Saint-Germain
T
he Saint Francis Hotel
Union Square
San Francisco, California
Dear Saint-Germain,
Enclosed please find copies of your vehicle registration as well as all copies of all correspondence dealing with the process in question. You already have your insurance policy, and appropriate proofs of ownership, copies of which I have in my files, should you require such records.
If you are going to be in residence in California for more than six months, you will have to secure California registration for your Packard. The Department of Motor Vehicles will handle such a change. I ask for copies of all papers having to do with such re-registration, when and if you apply for it.
In accordance with your wire of September 28, 1936, I have begun negotiations with Mrs. E. Curtis of Ponderosa Lodge in California with the intention of establishing a partnership for the resort she currently owns. I am puzzled why you should prefer a Chicago firm to handle this when the resort is in California, but I will, of course, abide by your instructions in regard to this, and all ventures, so long as no law is violated. A copy of the first response from Mrs. Curtis is enclosed, and I think you will find that she is a very cautious woman. I understand that she is apprehensive because what you are proposing might endanger her title to the property in question, and that is not wholly unreasonable of her, given the rate of foreclosures that currently occur in this country. Your offer is more than generous, and I am certain her attorney, and her banker, for that matter, would be inclined to support your proposal, particularly since you make no demands for changes beyond specific upkeep, and you provide funds for that which you require. Such generosity may well account for her apprehension, which I will strive to address to her satisfaction, with safeguards for her included in the contract, so long as they meet with your approval I will, of course, keep you informed of all developments in regard to this project, and alert you to any difficulties that arise.
I have your power-of-attorney for your bank accounts at the Illinois Trust Company, for which I tender the first statements. As you see, no charges have been made. I am also including the interest rates currently being paid by the ITC, and recommend that you transfer $2,000.00 (two thousand dollars) from your checking account into your savings account in order to accumulate interest on the money. That will leave $1,000.00 (one thousand dollars) in your checking account, which is more than sufficient for most routine charges. That would mean you have $24,500.00 (twenty-four thousand five hundred dollars) in the savings account Let me know what you decide in regard to this recommendation.
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