Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Additionally, I have sent to King Lowenthal Taylor & Frost in San Francisco copies of all correspondence with Mrs. Curtis, so that they may advise me in any aspects of California law that may pertain in this negotiation. Oscar King has confirmed he will give his opinion as I may need it from time to time.

  I have received your check for $700.00 (seven hundred dollars) paying in full all current charges for services from this office. I will submit monthly bills to you, in accordance with our agreement, and I thank you for your promptness in payment.

  Please do not hesitate to notify me if there is any additional service I and this office may provide you. Particularly in these difficult times, your business is appreciated by my colleagues and me, and rest assured we will perform our duties with due diligence and dispatch.

  Most sincerely yours,

  J. Harold Bishop

  Attorney-at-Law

  enclosures

  JHB/dmca

  chapter six

  Rogerio looked around the empty house on Clarendon Court, taking stock of the space and contemplating how it could be made liveable for Saint-Germain; he consulted the notes he had made during his tour of the whole house. “Yes,” he said to the agent who had been taking him around San Francisco and showing him a number of houses for sale. “I think this may be satisfactory. Certainly better than the others I’ve seen.”

  “The view out the back of Golden Gate Park is especially nice, and Sutro Forest so close, you might well think you’re in the country. You’ll find it very pretty, very quiet,” said the agent, still determined to sell the place as if he had not heard what Rogerio had told him. “I know thirteen thousand is a lot to pay for a house, but this location is—”

  “I said I think it is satisfactory,” said Rogerio. “If you will, tell me when it was wired for electricity?”

  “The gaslights still work,” he began, and consulted the papers on the clipboard. “The house was electrified in 1916, and the wiring expanded in ’27. The kitchen stove and the water-heater—a twenty-gallon one—are gas-powered. The present roof was put on in ’24, and it is considered a twenty-year roof.” He did his best to make the sale immediate. “If it’s a question of financing—”

  “That’s no immediate concern. My employer will pay cash,” said Rogerio, and pretended not to see the agent’s astonished goggle. “It is a good thing that there is a full basement”

  “Completely finished, as you saw,” said the agent proudly as if he had arranged all of it. “And with a pump in case of flooding. It’s the second-oldest house on the street, built in 1902. It had only moderate damage in ’06, which was repaired, and the addition was put on in 1910.”

  “I’m sure this will suit him very well.” Rogerio went into the living room and looked out at the street. “This is, as you say, a pleasant location,” he remarked.

  “Yes, it certainly is,” said the agent, his agreement verging on obsequiousness. “I think you’ll be more than satisfied with this situation. Private though it is, you aren’t far from shopping, and the streetcar line is just down the hill. If you have any need of schools, I can tell you—”

  “No, thank you.” Rogerio kept his tone level.

  “Well,” the agent said, trying to get back on his track. “It is good-sized, with all the modern conveniences—or at least, provision for them.”

  “So it has,” said Rogerio. “I will inform my employer that this is the most suitable house of those you have shown me, and we will arrange the purchase and occupancy within the next two weeks, if that is time enough for you?”

  “It’s more than suitable,” said the agent as if he had to make all his points twice; he was almost shaking he was so relieved. “I will inform the owners of your offer and I will let you know what their answer is as soon as I have it.” He had gone a trifle pale. “Will your employer want to see the house for himself?”

  “Of course,” said Rogerio. “I was hoping you would agree to let me have a key so I may bring him here this evening, when he is able to inspect the house. If this isn’t acceptable, perhaps you will be able to meet us here at—shall we say eight this evening?”

  The agent frowned, from the lines in his face a habitual expression with him. “I have to attend a meeting this evening; I won’t be able to join you. Technically we aren’t supposed to let anyone in without—” He paced into the dining room, the empty house echoing his steps. “I suppose you will not do anything incorrect while you’re here?”

  “Incorrect? Why should either of us do that?” Rogerio asked. “If you have any doubts, I will provide a bond for the night Would one hundred dollars be sufficient?” He reached for his wallet as he spoke.

  “Oh, no,” the agent said, embarrassed at the very notion. “I don’t think it’s … Fifty should be more than enough, and it will be applied to the purchase price, assuming no harm is done to the house. The owner needs some sort of assurance until the sale’s complete. You know how these things are.”

  Rogerio dismissed the matter as he handed over five ten-dollar bills. “You can give me a receipt later. Where are the owners living now?”

  “They are living south of here,” the agent replied, deliberately vague in his reply. “They have taken over the family farm now that the wife’s parents are getting too old to manage for themselves, and the Waggoners’ children are grown. And his work became…” He stopped, as if he feared he had said too much.

  Rogerio filled in what he supposed the agent might have said. “They must be relieved to have the house sold, then, given the state of the—”

  “Yes. The taxes and the upkeep are a drain on them; the house has been on the market for almost a year.” It was as much as he would admit. “They’ve paid to keep the power on, so we can show the house in the evening. It’s not a large sum, but it adds up. The account would have to be shifted as soon as your employer gets the title.”

  “All upkeep and taxes would be a drain for almost anyone,” Rogerio agreed. “And even in better times, they would be an imposition.”

  “Not that they’re without means or have been less than diligent in their obligations,” said the agent hastily. “They aren’t arrears in any payments, and there is no mortgage; that was paid off four years ago.”

  “I’d assumed it was paid off,” said Rogerio.

  “As of ’32,” said the agent, flipping to the third page on his clipboard. “Not an easy thing to do, pay off a mortgage, not in these days, no matter what Roosevelt tries to do.”

  Rogerio nodded. “That must be a load off their minds. There must be many who aren’t so fortunate.”

  “A great many; you see them on the streets and in Hoovervilles and hobo camps everywhere. Some wives go back to their families when their husbands can’t support them anymore, and some of them end up in shanties. Some of them send their kids to relatives, if they’re lucky enough to have someone to take them, and some kids go on orphan trains, even though they aren’t really orphans.” Now that he had said so much, and with suppressed emotion, the agent tried to change the subject. “Not that any of that concerns us now.”

  “I hope the family has remained intact,” said Rogerio, who had himself been separated from his family not quite two thousand years ago.

  “Their oldest son is a printer, right now with the WPA,” the agent volunteered. “He works here in San Francisco and lives with his uncle, on Rincon Hill. His brother’s at college in Los Angeles on scholarship, and their daughter is still in high school. She’s with them on the farm, in King City. Out here, we’ve got families going back to the farm, just the opposite of what’s been happening in the Midwest. Of course, the farms aren’t blowing away in a drought, either.” He tried to assume the demeanor of an old family friend. “They were hoping one of the kids could take over the house in a few years, to keep it in the family, but it doesn’t look as if that’s going to happen. The sensible thing is to sell it and get some money out of it. They don’t want to lose the farm now, as so many have done. But the Dus
t Bowl has put a lot of farmers looking for work, a lot of them in California. I don’t mean to rattle on.”

  Rogerio understood the pressure the family had been under, and he felt a surge of sympathy for them.” Then I must assume the purchase in cash will be acceptable to them, at their full asking price, as a hedge against drought or other trouble.”

  “Yes. I think so; I can’t imagine why not. The taxes on the sale won’t be too high, and once they’re paid, they’re paid,” said the agent.

  Rogerio went to the fireplace and got down on one knee to look inside it. “Has the chimney been cleaned recently? Or inspected?”

  The agent resorted to his clipboard again. “The last cleaning was four years ago.”

  “Then it should be cleaned again before it’s used,” he said, dusting the soot from his hands. “Is there a service you recommend?”

  “I can give you a list once we get back to the office,” said the agent. “There are a couple very good services.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” said Rogerio, rising again.

  “Very good,” said the agent, fussing a bit with the pages on his clipboard. “If you’re ready, we’ll go back to the office and get the paperwork started.”

  “By all means,” said Rogerio. “I must assume a cashier’s check will be an acceptable form of payment, assuming the Waggoners agree to the sale.”

  “It will be fine,” said the agent, and started toward the door.

  “I have no doubt.” Rogerio looked about before following the agent out onto the covered porch. As soon as the agent had locked the door, Rogerio held out his hand for the key. “I’ll be sure you get it back tomorrow.”

  The agent hesitated, then held out the key. “See that you lock up when you leave. There are folks about who look for empty houses where they can squat,” the agent admitted as he got into the driver’s seat and reached across to open the door for Rogerio.

  “Have Roosevelt’s policies been any help?” Rogerio asked as the agent depressed the starter.

  “For some, yes, but it is a bargain with the Devil, if you ask me,” the agent admitted grudgingly. “There could be other ways to help out, that wouldn’t be so reckless, ways that are more American than what he’s done. He looks like he’s a Socialist, and that’s too near being a Communist for me.” He drove to the corner and headed down Stanyan Street. “He should know better. He’s not a fool from the docks, or one of Harry Bridges’ cronies.”

  “What else could he have done?” Rogerio asked.

  “He could have done what the Germans have done—restored order, strengthened the army and navy, built up our people—instead of his alphabet soup services, and coddling the workers.” He continued down the hill, turning at Kezar Stadium and driving into the next block, where he found a parking place. “This won’t take long.”

  “I am at your disposal,” said Rogerio, and got out of the DeSoto.

  The real estate office was a small store-front with six desks, each with a telephone and a typewriter. File cabinets were ranked along the back of the room. Just now, three of the desks were occupied, two of the agents reading the Bulletin, the other scowling at a stack of manila file-folders.

  The agent with Rogerio pointed him to the second desk. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “Take all the time you need,” said Rogerio, watching the agent take a folder from one of the file cabinets.

  “Here,” said the agent, bringing the file back to his desk. “We can get started.” He took a form out of a tray on the edge of his desk, rolled it into the typewriter, hit the carriage-return, and began to type the address of the house they had just left.

  Forty minutes later, Rogerio was out of the office and in his Auburn, going along Haight Street toward Masonic. He was timing the drive out of habit, familiarizing himself with the rhythm of the traffic. He had the contracts in his pocket, and knew Saint-Germain would be prepared to sign and have his signature notarized at the bank the next morning.

  Saint-Germain was at the dining table in their suite at the Saint Francis when Rogerio arrived; he was writing letters, but looked up. “So you’ve hit upon a place.”

  “I believe so,” said Rogerio. “You can see it this evening, if you like.”

  “Oh, yes. Very much,” said Saint-Germain. “Not that I do not trust your judgment.”

  “Still, it is a formality worth maintaining,” said Rogerio.

  “Tell me about the house,” said Saint-Germain, moving his letters aside and giving his whole attention to what Rogerio had to say.

  “It is thirty-four years old, has a full basement, four bedrooms, a small study, an attic accessible by stairs, a living room with a fireplace and a wall of built-in bookcases, a good-sized dining room with a hutch, two bathrooms, a kitchen with a rear enclosed porch with a laundry and a pantry. It is handsome but not conspicuous, and the street—Clarendon Court—is easily reachable but not heavily traveled. There is a police station at the foot of the hill, near the stadium. The location is an attractive one, on the side of a hill at the edge of Sutro Forest with the east end of Golden Gate Park visible from the dining-room window, and other parks nearby, if the forest isn’t an attraction. It has two electric outlets in each room, three in the kitchen and three in the living room. The living room is approximately fifteen by eighteen feet, the dining room thirteen by fifteen, so you will not be cramped. The attic is twenty-three by twenty, or twenty-one. There are also three outlets in the attic, and two in the basement, which is twenty-six by twenty-two. There are sockets for a washing machine and an indoor clothesline in the basement for doing laundry in inclement weather.” He paused. “The walls in the living room and the dining room are wood-paneled, in need of refinishing, but otherwise in good condition. The kitchen and bathrooms have tile floors and surfaces. The largest bedroom is about fifteen by twelve feet, the smallest about twelve by ten, part of an addition to the second floor. The power is on, so the ceiling fixtures can be lit, but there is nothing else in the house; it’s completely empty.”

  “It sounds ideal,” said Saint-Germain when Rogerio stopped speaking. “I take it this is the best of the houses you inspected?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Rogerio. “I told the agent that we would provide full payment in the form of a cashier’s check as soon as the owners accept the offer.” He very nearly smiled. “The poor man looked almost dizzy.”

  “It is a hard time for men in his profession, for all sales are not readily come by,” said Saint-Germain. “And it carries over into many other professions and trades.” He rose from the table, looking at the paper Rogerio had held out to him. “How long do you think we will need to furnish the house and make it liveable?”

  “From the time we gain occupancy?” Rogerio thought the matter over. “Two weeks, assuming what we purchase can be delivered quickly, and we can get draperies ready-made, and carpets that fit the rooms.”

  “I’ll go to Gump’s tomorrow or the day after and have a look at their furniture,” said Saint-Germain. “I’ll arrange for as many household items as possible from there—lamps, draperies, china, ornaments. If I don’t find what will suit me at that store, I will get a recommendation for an antiques dealer to consult, and a mercer for fabrics. “I’ll need the dimensions of the windows as soon as possible. You can take care of the other necessities. I’ll authorize as much as you need to pay for what you may need to purchase.” He touched his fingertips together. “I should arrange for another transfer of funds from London.”

  “The bank can help with that,” said Rogerio.

  “Yes. When I go to get the cashier’s check, I’ll make the necessary arrangements.” He walked into the sitting room. “It will be good to have my native earth under my feet again.”

  “Miss Saxon has crates of it, doesn’t she?” Rogerio inquired.

  “Yes. Though when I sent them to her, I didn’t actually anticipate needing them so soon.” He looked at the stack of four newspapers, all with that day’s date. “I’ve finis
hed reading these, if you’d like to review them.”

  Rogerio shrugged. “I gather Mayor Rossi is pushing his Treasure Island project again. He keeps saying he’s creating jobs as well as a setting for the World’s Fair, and the San Francisco Airport. That seaport is expected to expand, and soon. He intends the China Clippers to take off from there.”

  Saint-Germain shook his head. “If air travel grows as much as some think it will, having an airport at the edge of the shipping lanes could interfere with maritime trade, and having airplanes so near the Bay Bridge could be hazardous in bad weather.”

  “Then you don’t think it’s going to turn out the way the Mayor wants,” said Rogerio.

  “No, I don’t; and by the end of the World’s Fair, I should think that the Mayor will see the disadvantages, too. Mills Field is a more reasonable place for an airport, I would have thought, though it has no facilities for water-landings. That may be the single most telling factor: not all planes will be amphibious. The Mayor’s assuming development will go in one way only, and development is rarely so biddable.” Saint-Germain looked out the nearest window, down toward the bay where the towers of the Bay Bridge rose beyond the buildings of the city. “The bridge will be open in another month, and that will mean Oakland will be as accessible as South San Francisco.”

  “And the Golden Gate will open next spring, if it remains on schedule,” said Rogerio. “What a change it will make to the region.”