Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Yes, I will, and thank you for your kindness to her.” Saint-Germain opened the door, and revealed his 1932 Duesenberg SJ parked at the curb.

  “You liking your Duessy?” asked Smith, a touch of envy in his question.

  “It’s a very powerful car, and it handles nicely. It’s a shame the Depression has damaged the automobile industry as much as it has.” Saint-Germain gave Inspector Smith a firm smile. “Thank you for all you’ve done, Inspector. I am more grateful than I can say. You have been most forthcoming about your progress.”

  “You’ve been a lot of help, too,” said Smith, glancing toward the car again. “It was very useful that you found out so much about the fellow.”

  “Useful for a man you held in some suspicion, you mean; I am grateful that you finally exonerated me in your mind,” Saint-Germain said genially. “Oh, you needn’t deny it: in your position I should have been most uncertain about me.”

  “I didn’t think we were that obvious,” said Smith, stepping out onto the porch. “We certainly didn’t want to be.”

  “You weren’t,” said Saint-Germain. “But I have been hunted by experts and I am more … sensitive to it than most.” He nodded toward the inspector’s Ford opera coupe across the street. “I wish you good fortune tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” said Smith with genuine respect. “I’ll call you in the evening, to tell you how it all went.”

  “That’s most welcome.” He looked toward the dark mass of Sutro Forest as Inspector Smith turned away and crossed the street. As soon as the inspector pulled away, Saint-Germain went back into the house, closing the door with purpose. “Rogerio,” he called out.

  “We’re in the kitchen,” Rogerio answered. “Miss Saxon is showing me how to make Mongolian Beef. It will be useful for dinner parties to come.”

  Saint-Germain went back through the living room and dining room to the kitchen, where he found Rowena wielding a Chinese cleaver with artful expertise.

  “The beef has to be thin-sliced, or it won’t cook properly. If you don’t have a curved Chinese sauté pan, you can use a cast-iron frying pan. The scallions have to be slivered, too. Nothing too thick.” She demonstrated. “You know enough about Chinese cooking to realize the importance of fine chopping.”

  “Did you learn this from Clara Powell?” Rogerio asked, imitating her technique.

  “No; Clara isn’t much interested in Chinese cooking. I learned from Lin Yao-Soo, who was the master-chef at the Golden Pheasant. He was a genius at his work.” She stepped back from the counter, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “And you an apt pupil, I should think,” said Saint-Germain. “That is half the secret in teaching, an apt pupil.” He regarded Rowena for a long moment. “Are you still determined to lease your house on Taylor Street?”

  “Oh, yes. My mind’s made up.” She untied the apron and hung it over the hook by the sink. “Even after we … I won’t feel truly safe there, particularly after you’ve gone.”

  “And you have made arrangements for Mrs. Powell?” Saint-Germain asked. “Do you want her to continue to work for you?”

  “I have spoken to Mrs. King about her. She must earn a living, you know; her husband won’t be out of prison for another six years at the earliest.” Rowena frowned. “This isn’t entirely because of the attack, you know. Mostly, but not completely.”

  Saint-Germain accepted this. “Would it make any difference if the man who attacked you was arrested?”

  “Arrested?” She swung around to stare at him. “Are you sure?”

  “It seems possible,” he answered carefully.

  “Is that what Inspector Smith came to tell you?” she asked.

  “Among other things,” said Saint-Germain. “Would that be enough for you?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I don’t know. You told me that they probably couldn’t prove he was the man in my house, and that bothers me.”

  “Will this be enough for your dinner?” Rogerio interrupted. “Pardon me, but I should start cooking.”

  “With the rice and the Hunan-style chicken, more than enough; all we have to do is cook the beef and the chicken,” she said, then stared at the far wall. “If they are able to lock him up for a good long time for your attempted murder, it would not be entirely satisfying, but it would be acceptable. How likely is that to happen?”

  “Inspector Smith seemed a bit unsure on that point,” said Saint-Germain. “Not that I blame him: there are so many factors to take into consideration.”

  Rowena nodded. “You expect something along the lines of the agreement reached about the Leonardis, don’t you?”

  “I think it’s likely,” Saint-Germain replied.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” she said. “That wouldn’t reassure me at all. They might repatriate him to wherever he comes from, but he wouldn’t have to answer for what he has done, would he?”

  “Perhaps not,” said Saint-Germain. “I may be wrong, but I had the distinct impression that Smith was preparing me for legal disappointments.”

  “Does he know something, or is he only guessing?” Rowena asked as Rogerio turned on the stove and selected a cast-iron frying pan in which to pour hot sesame oil.

  “I suspect it’s an educated guess,” said Saint-Germain.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Rowena.

  “And you would not want that outcome?” Saint-Germain asked.

  “Would you?” she countered.

  “No, I would not,” he said. “The man is too dangerous.”

  Rogerio checked the rice cooking in a covered pot on a back burner. “You’ll have to act quickly.”

  “Yes,” said Saint-Germain, touching the lapel of his smoking jacket. “I should go change. This is too casual for this evening.”

  “I’ll be at your disposal in half-an-hour,” said Rogerio.

  “You needn’t come with me, you know,” said Saint-Germain.

  Rogerio ignored this. “I suppose we’ll go in my car.”

  “It would be wiser,” said Saint-Germain, looking around toward Rowena.

  “All right,” said Rowena a bit nervously, “what are you up to?”

  “Something that needs to be done; I’ll tell you about it when I come back,” said Saint-Germain, and left them alone in the kitchen.

  In his private apartment, Saint-Germain dressed quickly in a black turtleneck sweater under a black sports jacket. He changed his shoes from soft house-slippers to short jodhpur-boots with thick soles that were lined with his native earth, preparation to being away from the house; for even at night, his native earth strengthened him. A black watch-cap completed his ensemble and provided some protection for his damaged face, which was still sensitive. As he left his room, he twitched the cap a bit lower on his head; the skin on the right side of his face was not so obvious that it could be too readily noticed, but he felt more secure with his features hidden. The only things he carried were a keyring and a money-clip with four five-dollar bills and a twenty in it.

  Rogerio was waiting at the base of the stairs. “Miss Saxon will be sitting down to dinner in a few minutes. She’s changing, as she often does.”

  “Fine,” said Saint-Germain. “Then let’s go out now. The less she sees, the better for all concerned.”

  “I wonder if she would agree?” said Rogerio as he opened the door.

  “I don’t think I’ll ask her,” said Saint-Germain, and stepped out, going along to the Auburn, parked near the end of the block.

  Rogerio locked the door and went after Saint-Germain, car-keys in his hand. “Where are we going?”

  “To a hotel near the Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory on North Point,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Do you know which one?” asked Rogerio as he headed down the hill.

  “I have a general idea where it has to be. I can probably narrow it down to three blocks, perhaps four, and that means four possible places.” Saint-Germain fell silent for several blocks. “I want you to drop me about four
blocks from the area, and I’ll walk the rest of the way. If you’ll drive over to the Hyde Street Pier and take a walk along the waterfront there, I’ll join you when I’m done. Return to your car when forty minutes have gone by. If I’m not there, walk for another twenty minutes and come back to the car again. If I’m still not there, drive home and wait for me until morning. If you hear nothing from me, take Rowena out of the city—to Pietragnelli’s winery, if nothing else seems advisable.” He looked straight ahead. “I know you would prefer I didn’t do this, old friend, but if I don’t, I’ll have to accept the necessity of looking over my shoulder for the next ten years. I don’t want to have to answer any more questions that might prove troublesome.”

  “I understand all that, but if this man has truly been sent to kill you, how can you be sure another won’t take his place?” Rogerio asked, feeling worried.

  “I can’t. But if this man disappears and then I leave, it may take time to find me, and I can turn that to advantage.” Saint-Germain put his gloved hands up. “I have no obvious weapon with me, and I can be searched by anyone, assuming there is any reason to search me.”

  “You’re still taking a chance,” said Rogerio.

  “As you did when you spirited me out of the hospital and through Sutro Forest to the house,” said Saint-Germain with kindness.

  “That—you will agree—was a very different case,” said Rogerio, then nodded once. “All right. I’ll do as you ask.”

  “Thank you,” said Saint-Germain, and glanced out at the fog, which was blanketing the city; he achieved an ironic chuckle. “I would never have thought I would be glad of San Francisco’s miserable fogs.”

  “It is very chilly tonight,” said Rogerio. “No one will wonder at your jacket or your gloves. Or your watch-cap.”

  “Precisely,” said Saint-Germain, once again falling silent.

  “You could have used the telephone to find him; the directory has addresses,” said Rogerio.

  “That is hit and miss, assuming I could get accurate information, and telephone calls could cause my target to bolt,” said Saint-Germain. “The police wouldn’t like that.”

  “Do you think they’ll like what you’re planning to do?” Rogerio asked neutrally.

  “Not officially, certainly,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Aren’t you afraid he’ll recognize you?” Rogerio could not conceal his surge of worry.

  “On the contrary: I’m counting on it. I will know I have the right man if he does.” He looked out at the cars maneuvering around them. “What’s the reason for all this?”

  “I have no idea. I’ll try to go around it.” Traffic was unexpectedly heavy on Van Ness, and so Rogerio turned off it before he reached Bay, driving north on Larkin to Chestnut, where he pulled over to the curb. “I’m going on to the Hyde Street Pier. I’ll get a parking place on Beach Street, between Hyde and Polk.”

  “I’ll find you, either there or at the house. Don’t come near the warehouse on the pier, whatever you do. That must be kept apart from the rest.” Saint-Germain let himself out of the car and stepped onto the sidewalk, moving quickly away from the intersection. He went toward the looming mass of the Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory, looking along the buildings on the street for a sign for a hotel; the first he tried, on Hyde, had nothing useful to tell him, and said that there weren’t very many hotels between Fisherman’s Wharf and Lombard Street. Saint-Germain thanked the clerk for the information and went out onto the street once more to look for another hotel. He finally spotted one near the corner of North Point and Leavenworth, a short distance from Columbus, which looked more promising. The place was ordinary, not run-down, but more utilitarian than luxurious, intended for commercial travelers, journalists, and those needing a place to stay for a few months but not wanting to try to rent a room or apartment. It was the sort of hostelry that rarely had trouble—no robbery, no visible prostitution—the kind of establishment the police did not worry about. Since this was the only hotel Saint-Germain had seen in the immediate area, he decided to inquire at the desk. He had formulated a story that was credible and would not alert any but the most distrustful of clerks; he went into the small lobby and up to the registration desk.

  “Can I help you?” asked a young clerk with scarred cheeks and lank hair.

  “I am looking for someone.” Saint-Germain spoke with a heavy Russian accent as he focused his attention on the clerk. “I am looking for someone, possibly a European, someone who can serve as a translator for an associate of mine who is just now visiting the city and has need of someone who can perform this task. So. I need to find someone who is skilled and discreet who can help us for a short time. I was told—by the police—you might have such a man here; he was described to me as tall, thin, about thirty-five. I am hopeful that you may be able to direct me to him. This is important to my associate, whose time here is short and whose need is great. The man I have been told of may have been here as long as eight months, from what I have learned, and so will be especially valuable to my associate.” He slipped a folded twenty-dollar bill under the edge of the registration blotter. “It would be very helpful to my associate to have this man help him.”

  The clerk stared at the money. “I think we may have the man you’re looking for,” he said at last as if his tongue were dry.

  “Very good. Tell me about him,” said Saint-Germain with an affable smile.

  “Well, his passport is Italian, but he might not be from there,” said the clerk with a confidential smile. “He seems to talk a lot of languages, or he says he does. He has a fair amount of money, or he seems to. He’s paid up till the end of November.” He frowned. “There’s something strange about him.”

  “You’re saying he might not be interested in more work,” said Saint-Germain.

  “He might not,” the clerk said, one finger coining to rest on the twenty.

  “Is he in his room tonight?” Saint-Germain asked, his eyes on the bill.

  “I think so.” The clerk took the money. “Room 414.”

  “And what is the man’s name?” Saint-Germain asked as an afterthought.

  “Cenere. He said it’s Italian, as I mentioned,” the clerk told him, adding, “Do you want me to ring his room and tell him you’re on the way up?”

  “If you want to,” said Saint-Germain as if that did not interest him one way or the other. “It makes no difference to me.”

  The clerk blinked. “The elevator’s on your right.”

  “Thanks,” Saint-Germain said, going in that direction but selecting to take the stairs that ran up immediately behind the elevator. He did not bother to see whether or not the clerk called to warn Cenere; for once he was beyond the lobby, he moved far faster than most men could run, climbing to the fourth floor at a sprint and stepping into the corridor, which was softly lit by shell-shaped sconces on the walls between the doors. He took stock of his surroundings quickly; 414 was at the other end of the corridor, and Saint-Germain approached it carefully, for he could hear the telephone in the room ringing.

  “Yes?” said the voice on the other side of the door. “Who?… On the way up?… Thanks.”

  So Cenere was warned now, and would make himself ready; just as well. Saint-Germain acted quickly, going directly to the door and knocking twice. “Signor Cenere,” he said, still affecting a Russian accent. “I have a proposition to put to you.”

  “What might that be?” Cenere asked.

  “My associate is seeking a translator. The work would not be long, and the pay would be generous.” He waited for a response.

  “Who is your associate?” Cenere demanded; he made no offer to open the door.

  “An expatriate Russian currently working with Italians, We are engaged in some … delicate negotiations that need real skill in translation beyond our capacity to accomplish.” Saint-Germain supposed this indirect answer would intrigue a man like Cenere. “He’s not without means, and his need is urgent.”

  “How much are we talking about?”
Cenere asked.

  “Five hundred now and five hundred at the end of the week, when the work is done,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Fifteen hundred, all of it now,” Cenere countered promptly.

  “Nyet,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Then we have nothing to say to one another,” said Cenere.

  Saint-Germain paused. “I’ll call my associate and see what can be arranged. I will have to go down to the lobby to use the pay telephone.”

  “I can wait,” said Cenere. “You’re the one who came to me.”

  There was an edge to his tone that Saint-Germain heard clearly. “I will make a telephone call and return.”

  “Go ahead,” said Cenere.

  “I’ll return shortly.” Saint-Germain retraced his steps down the hall, hit the button to summon the elevator, and then slipped into an alcove near the entrance to the stairs. As he had anticipated, he had not long to wait: as soon as the elevator came, waited, and descended, Cenere’s door opened and the man stepped cautiously out, a pistol in his hands, and he came down the hall, glancing over his shoulder as he moved. From his hiding-place, Saint-Germain watched Cenere hurry to the elevator, shoving his pistol into his trouser’s waistband at the small of his back. There was a shine of sweat on his forehead. He was very much the man Saint-Germain remembered seeing, the man he had described to the police, and for an instant, he had a flicker of wrath that very nearly precipitated impetuous action, but he was able to restore his composure and purpose, keeping to his place of ambush.

  Cenere tapped the button to summon the elevator and began to pace, his body tense and his face hard. He halted in front of the elevator, and stood, tapping his toe while he glanced at the unmoving floor indicator. Growing impatient, he looked about for the access to the stairs, and started toward the door with a quickly muttered oath in a language not English. As he stepped through the door onto the landing, he was too annoyed to notice the swift motion behind him, until a small, powerful hand closed on his neck.