Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“Did he?” Cenere said. “I assumed he was still traveling by train. But you say he has an automobile.” He smiled at her. “I think you have simplified my search, and that may bring me back here sooner than I expected I would be.”

  “Oh,” she said, trying not to look too pleased, in case his intention was not what she expected.

  “Then you and I will have a wonderful time, Dorothy.” He glanced at the waiter as he came up with the packaged remainder of Miss McAllister’s dinner. “Do you want dessert, my dear?” he asked at his most chivalrous.

  “No; I don’t think I could eat another thing,” she said, still amazed that he had called her my dear. She knew he might mean nothing by it, but it had been so long since a man had called her that, that she was stunned.

  “Then will you let me take you to the movie theater? The Petrified Forest is playing at the Royale, and that is nearby. I must admit, I would prefer not to part just yet.” He waited a long moment. “I do enjoy your company, and, I confess, so far from home, I get lonely.”

  She sighed, reluctant to let this magical night come to an end, but aware of her obligations. “It’s a work night, and I really shouldn’t, but I’ve wanted to see it; I understand it’s wonderful. It’s Humphrey Bogart and Leslie Howard…” With a sudden decision, she said, “Yes, please. I’d be delighted to go with you.”

  “Wonderful,” he declared, reaching into his jacket for his wallet and pulling out a ten and a twenty. “Let me get the bill.” He summoned the waiter with a snap of his fingers. “The check. Now.”

  The waiter offered a sour smile and went to obey the order.

  While waiting for the waiter to return, Miss McAllister finished off the last of the champagne in her glass, so that something so expensive would not go to waste. She continued to try to sort out her feelings, which only confused her more completely. Finally, as Cenere sorted his change, rose, and offered his hand to help her out of the booth, she blurted, “You’ve been divine, Mr. Cenere.”

  He offered her his arm and went to collect their coats, their hats, and umbrella. Cenere paid the hatcheck girl and added a generous fifty-cent tip. He helped Miss McAllister into her coat, and then donned his own. “The storm’s still going on. Do you think we should call a cab?” He had no intention of doing it, but realized he was expected to make the suggestion. “I have an umbrella.” He held it up.

  “Do we have time? To walk?” asked Miss McAllister, who clung to his arm. “It’s only two blocks, and the weather isn’t that bad. The cab would be too extravagant.”

  “Your wish is my command,” said Cenere, and unfurled his umbrella as they stepped out of the restaurant and onto the wet sidewalk. Just as he had expected, the street was fairly empty. “Come, Dorothy,” he said, putting his hand over hers in the bend of his elbow. Wind-driven sleet battered at them as they pressed close together in the shelter of the umbrella. They walked fairly slowly, Miss McAllister savoring their growing intimacy, Cenere seeking an opportunity. At last he saw a side-street, and directed her toward it. “I think this will save us half a block.”

  As much as she was reveling in this time alone with him, she was beginning to shiver, so she made no demur, and allowed him to turn her away from the well-lit avenue into the access alley. It was not very long; she could see the cross-street a short way ahead, the marquee of the Royale blinking its fine array of lights around the featured attraction: Humphery BOGART Leslie HOWARD Bette DAVIS THE PETRIFIED FOREST. The thrill that shot through her was almost painful, and she found herself blinking back tears. She felt Cenere slow his pace, and her heart caught in her throat as she felt his arm go around her. “Oh, dear,” she whispered as he took her chin between his forefinger and thumb and bent to kiss her. As she began to respond, his hand dropped to her neck.

  He let go of the umbrella, and, keeping his mouth pressed to hers, he tightened his hands on her throat, strengthening his grip inexorably while her struggles diminished and ceased, until the pulse in her neck was still and she was a limp, dead weight in his embrace. Then he half-dragged, half-carried her to a cluster of garbage cans and shoved her body down behind them. That done, he retrieved his umbrella and went off into the wet, cold night.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM LUCINDA BARNES OF THE SANTA ROSA PRESS-DEMOCRAT TO CARLO PIETRAGNELLI.

  PRESS-DEMOCRAT

  1561 MENDOCINO AVENUE

  SANTA ROSA, CALIFORNIA

  November 9, 1936

  Carlo Pietragnelli

  Pietragnelli Winery

  Geyserville, California

  Dear Mr. Pietragnelli,

  I have in hand your check for the amount of $3.00 for continuing the notice you placed with us a week ago. As per your instructions, the text and contents are to remain the same, and the notice is to be subject to withdrawal on one-hour notice prior to press time (8:00 p.m.), the price of which is covered in the payment received. The date on each notice is to be for the immediately previous day, and the notice is to appear on the same page as the advertisement of the White Legion.

  If you have any changes you wish to make, either in the notice itself or in the terms of its publication, please call me at your earliest convenience at the number at the foot of this page. Unless notified otherwise, the notice will appear as written, and as it has been run in prior editions.

  My editor, Mr. Sharpe, would very much like to talk to you about the reason for this notice. I hope you will grant him an interview, for this may well be newsworthy as well as intriguing. If you are willing to answer his questions, he will set up a time within the next week convenient to you to call at your winery, or to speak to you here in Santa Rosa, as suits you best He, too, may be reached at the number below.

  Thank you for your continuing business,

  Lucinda Barnes

  advertising and classified listings director

  Santa Rosa 7-133

  chapter nine

  Two men in overalls were struggling with a rolled carpet, trying to position it in the living room so they could lay it out with a minimum of fuss. The older of the two was sweating in spite of the chill in the room; the younger was glaring in frustration.

  “If you gentlemen would like a cup of coffee?” Rogerio offered, coming in from the kitchen carrying a tray with two good-sized ironstone cups on hefty saucers. There was a plate on the tray as well, with four doughnuts laid out on it.

  “Oh, good,” said the older man, glad to relinquish his burden. He looked around for something to sit on, and decided to make do with the floor. “When’s the rest of the furniture coming?”

  “Very likely next Monday,” said Rogerio. “You have today and tomorrow to complete your work.” He glanced toward the dining room and the fine Oriental carpet, which had been laid that morning. “You shouldn’t need much more than an hour in here, and then the runners for the stairs and upper hall, and the carpeting in two of the bedrooms.”

  “It’s a lot to do in two days,” said the younger man.

  “Aw, Stevie, don’t complain. You got paying work, which is more than most of your family can say.”

  “My dad’s going to work at Treasure Island,” the young man grumped. “Building the dock for the China Clippers.”

  “Good thing, too. It’s time he brought in some money instead of leaving it to your mother to earn everything from her nursing. Not that that pays enough for the five of you; if you weren’t working, it’d be a lot harder on everyone. My brother’s been useless for the last three years. It’s good he’s joining the Thirty-Niners.” He chuckled at the designation given the workers building Treasure Island. “I hope he makes his fortune. Too bad he couldn’t sign on with Tripp to build that hotel on that island—Wake, isn’t it? Way out in the Pacific, anyway.”

  “You don’t give him enough credit,” mumbled his son. “He’s not like you. Pop’s been doing everything he can. But he doesn’t like the union, so he has trouble getting work.” He took a cup from the tray and reached for a doughnut. “Mighty good of you to do this for us; lots o
f people don’t bother,” he said to Rogerio.

  “My employer believes in showing appreciation for work done,” he said, and put the tray on the floor between the two men.

  “Is he in?” asked the older man.

  “He’s upstairs,” said Rogerio a bit vaguely; Saint-Germain was in the attic, turning it into his alchemical laboratory.

  “Do you find him a good man to work for?” Stevie made the question a challenge. “Isn’t he real Old World?”

  “I have been with him half his life, which should make me somewhat Old World as well,” said Rogerio, not adding that half of Saint-Germain’s life covered over two thousand years. “I would not stay if he were not.”

  The two carpet-layers exchanged looks, and the older man nodded. “Not too many like that left these days.”

  “Uncle Albert’s a romantic—he thinks the past was better than the future. He’s saddened by progress. Says he’ll never travel by airplane.” Stevie met his uncle’s gaze with the steadiness of long habit. “I think the future is going to be a lot better than anything we can imagine now. Look at the Bay Bridge. It opened just fine, in spite of the nay-sayers, and the party’s still going on. The same will happen with the Golden Gate, you wait and see. And they’re just the beginning. The country’s going to turn around. FDR’s on the right track, and this area is the proof. In ten years, you won’t recognize this city.”

  “Stevie hasn’t lived long enough to value the past,” said Albert; their wrangle had the sound of a well-established family debate. “I tell him, he should keep an eye on Europe before he says the future is rosy. It looks pretty messy over there, if you ask me, and they’re supposed to be making things so much better.”

  Rogerio prepared to leave the two alone. “Put the tray in the kitchen when you’re through, if you would.”

  “Why? You going to be too busy?” Stevie asked sharply.

  “No; because I’m going to be out. I have much to do today, probably almost as much as you do. As you see, this house needs a great many things, and they won’t get done on their own. It’s part of moving in.” He paused. “Mr. Ragoczy will answer any questions you have. You needn’t go upstairs to fetch him. There’s a newly installed buzzer in the kitchen that will summon him if you press it.” It had been put in two days ago, in anticipation of the arrival of various tradesmen.

  “Where’s this buzzer?” Albert inquired around a mouthful of doughnut.

  “By the refrigerator. I’ll just let him know I’m on my way out.” He went to the stairs and climbed two floors to the attic, letting himself in after a single knock. “The dining-room carpet is done, and they are about to work on the living room. Just at present they’re having coffee and something to eat. I’d check on them in an hour, if I were you; they work well, but they may need supervision. Their names are Albert and Steve, or Stevie. Albert’s the uncle, Steve his nephew. Their last name is Morris. I suspect it was something more Slavic, a generation or two back.” He paused, waiting for a response.

  Saint-Germain looked up from his half-assembled athanor. “And where will you be, old friend?”

  “I’m going out to pick up the linens I’ve ordered,” said Rogerio. “I should be back here within two hours. I’m stopping by the drapers on my return.”

  “Very good,” said Saint-Germain. “Do you have enough money?”

  “Six hundred dollars in tens and fifties, and a pocketful of change,” said Rogerio. “It should more than cover everything.”

  “I’d imagine so,” said Saint-Germain. “But you needn’t skimp; if you find something you like that you didn’t anticipate, buy it. It will not be an imposition.”

  “Have you made another profitable investment?” Rogerio asked, only partly in jest; over the centuries, Saint-Germain had made and lost many fortunes through investing in local businesses. Some of those ventures—like Eclipse Shipping—were still paying dividends, centuries later.

  “Nothing like that, or at least not yet. The transfer of funds came in from London, so there’s more than enough in the accounts to last another three years and the purchase of an additional house. I’ve also put five thousand more into Pietragnelli’s account. I don’t want him running short of money just now.”

  “Is he buying more land?” Rogerio asked.

  “No; he’s employing three more men with families. That will cover their salaries—eighty to one hundred dollars a month plus room and board—for more than a year, with a little left over for emergencies.” Saint-Germain achieved a hint of a smile. “He tells me he’s going to need men to manage the new plantation and wants them to get started during the winter.”

  “He knows his business.”

  “As he’s shown us so clearly,” said Saint-Germain.

  Rogerio started toward the stairs, but stopped before he closed the door. “Are you going out tonight?”

  “Rowena Saxon and I are attending the opera. It’s one of the Verdis: Traviata or Trovatore, or perhaps Ballo; I don’t quite recall which. She has season tickets and wants a companion for the night, and I would be glad of some music.” He volunteered nothing more, but was not entirely surprised when Rogerio had another question for him.

  “Should I expect you back tonight?”

  “Probably not until very late. I’ll let myself in.” He began to work again.

  “Of course,” said Rogerio, and went down to the first floor, where he saw that Albert and Steve were once again wrestling the rolled carpet “I’ll be back in two hours. Mr. Ragoczy knows you’re here.”

  “Fine,” said Albert, and shoved the carpet, trying to align with the oaken flooring.

  Rogerio left the house and went to his Auburn and climbed in. The engine started promptly and Rogerio pulled away from the sidewalk, headed toward Stanyan.

  It was roughly forty minutes after Rogerio left that a black Ford opera coupe pulled into the place his Auburn had vacated. A tallish, thin man got out, his hat worn low on his brow, his tie the wrong width, his suit showing the effects of years of wear; his walk was slow, revealing fatigue and perhaps an aching back. His long face had deep lines worn into it, although he was not old. He went up to the door and used the knocker. “Open up. Police.” He was about to repeat himself when Steve opened the door.

  “If you’re police, do you have identification?” Steve asked.

  The man produced a badge and a card that said he was Inspector John Smith. “I’m here to see Mr. Ragoczy.”

  “If you got nerve enough to say you’re John Smith, I got nerve enough to let you in,” said Steve, and stood aside to admit the inspector, a hard expression on his face. “Ragoczy’s upstairs. I’ll go let him know you’re here.”

  Albert was just pressing the living-room carpet flat, but he rose uneasily. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, but not to Ragoczy’s discredit,” said Smith. He watched Steve go into the kitchen and heard the distant buzz, followed shortly by a closing door and crisp steps descending the stair.

  “Good morning,” said Saint-Germain, coming down the last step into the space between the living and dining rooms. “What may I do for you—?”

  He held out his badge. “Inspector John Smith,” he said. “San Francisco Police Department.”

  Ragoczy made no comment on the name, only saying, “What may I do for you, Inspector Smith?”

  “If you don’t mind, I have some questions I have to ask you; I won’t be here long,” said Inspector Smith. “I should tell you this is in association with the break-in to your suite at the Saint Francis—part of our continuing investigation of the crime.” He tightened his mouth in what might have been a smile, and deliberately loomed over Saint-Germain; this move usually made anyone cooperative. He had moved his hat farther back on his head, but did not take it off.

  Saint-Germain was unimpressed; he offered Smith an urbane nod. “I think we should talk in my study,” he said. “It’s off the entry-hall, under the stairs.” He started toward it, saying to the carpet-layers, “If yo
u need me, knock on the door.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Albert, recognizing Saint-Germain’s air of authority, and was ambivalent about his response; he was unused to being impressed by strangers unless they were prominent politicians or sports figures.

  The study was not large, but it had a bay window that gave it plenty of light, and the window seat in the embrasure provided a place to perch among the cartons and smaller boxes that were everywhere on the floor. Indicating the window seat, Saint-Germain said, “If you’d like to sit, please do.”

  Smith hesitated, not wanting to give up the advantage of his height. “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  “As you wish,” said Saint-Germain, taking a seat on a large crate. “I thought you might want to give your back some relief, but if you’d prefer not to—” He saw the surprise in Smith’s face. “You walk as if your back is sore, Inspector.”

  “Comes with the job, like sore feet,” said Smith, trying to recover control of this interview. “I’m used to it.”

  “If you change your mind, don’t hesitate to make yourself as comfortable as you can in this disorder.” Saint-Germain studied Smith, his expression politely curious. “What progress have you made?”

  “Not as much as I’d like,” he admitted. “The thieves are still at large, and they’ve struck twice since they raided your rooms: once at the Sir Francis Drake and once at the Mark Hopkins. They targeted suites both times. The mayor is getting upset; with all the Bay Bridge opening celebrations going on, he doesn’t want another such incident. It’d put a damper on a swell occasion.” He hated to tell Saint-Germain so much, but the information had already been in the newspapers and it was likely that Saint-Germain had read some of the accounts.

  “So I gather,” said Saint-Germain, confirming Smith’s suspicions. “You’re sure they’re the same perpetrators?”

  “We have fingerprints at all three scenes. Thanks, by the way, for letting us take yours. It makes it easier for us in identifying the thieves’.” He took a notebook from his outer jacket-pocket and thumbed through the pages. “There are three of them, or there are three sets of fingerprints, in any case—they don’t belong to anyone working for the hotels, and they don’t belong to any of the guests we’ve been able to fingerprint. The victims at the Mark left before we could fingerprint them, so we’ve got some questions there. They had to catch a train to Denver—it wasn’t a suspicious departure. This isn’t helping the hotels, having a ring of thieves breaking into their high-ticket rooms.”