Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Mr. Cenere, if you try to fight, or to aim your pistol, I will have to break your neck; please believe that I will,” said Saint-Germain as softly as if he spoke to a good friend.

  Cenere stood very still, trying to take stock of the situation; he knew at once that this was Ragoczy, and that he should still be incapacitated by the injuries he had received in May. Carefully his eyes slid to the side in an effort to see his attacker for himself, to confirm his impression and to assess the man’s condition. “So it is you. Whatever you’re going to try, it won’t work.”

  “Do you think so?” Saint-Germain said, vindication giving force to his purpose as he tightened his grip enough to restrict the flow of air to Cenere’s lungs and blood to his brain, holding on with unexpected strength until the taller, thinner man wobbled on his feet in a near-faint; Saint-Germain removed Cenere’s pistol, took out the ammunition clip, and dropped it and the pistol down the stairwell, hearing them fall all the way to the basement, as he had intended. The clatter attracted no attention, and Saint-Germain continued, “Do you think you can make it down to the ground floor?” He knew better than to expect an answer; he shoved his shoulder under Cenere’s, as if to prop up a man too far-gone in drink to manage for himself, and then began his descent to the main floor. Occasionally he spoke to Cenere in his heavy Russian accent as he applied more pressure to Cenere’s neck, to give the illusion that the man was inebriated. “You should stay away from schnapps, my friend. It always goes to your head. Schnapps is the very devil.”

  They reached the main floor, and after a brief perusal of the place, Saint-Germain saw a door leading to the side of the building, away from the front desk; no one was paying any attention to this secondary exit. He lugged Cenere in this direction, still providing occasional exhortations about schnapps. As he worked the door open, he had to release his hold on Cenere’s throat; almost at once Cenere began to struggle, his arms flopping in a feeble attempt to strike at his captor. All his efforts were useless, having no apparent impact on Saint-Germain, and for the first time Cenere began to wonder if he could deal with the man at all. Once the door was open, Saint-Germain renewed his grip on the man’s neck and this time he held him until Cenere’s body drooped, unconscious. Slinging the tall man over his shoulder without any apparent effort, Saint-Germain went out into the alley and made his way toward the street. Holding Cenere as if he were a seaman’s large duffel, he kept to the shadows as he made his way toward the waterfront and Fisherman’s Wharf and the bristling commercial piers beyond it.

  There were fishing boats riding in their berths, the lines holding them to their berths moaning as the rise and fall of the water shifted the strain on them; a few had lights on, and men working at cleaning the rigging. Hurrying on, Saint-Germain passed beneath the restaurants, going on to the long piers giving access to the ships and the warehouses beyond. Saint-Germain could feel the movement of the bay beneath the wharf pull at him, sapping his strength, but he kept on, even as he realized Cenere was regaining consciousness, and was aware he would have to go more quickly, or risk having to subdue the man again. He turned along the waterfront, making for the pier on which stood a warehouse with his winged-disk device on the doors and the name Eclipse Shipping beneath each one. Going to the office door, Saint-Germain pulled a key from his jacket-pocket and opened the lock, then slipped through the door and gratefully dropped Cenere into a wooden chair.

  “Where are we?” Cenere muttered as he strove to take in his surroundings; the dim light made him blink in an effort to see.

  “We’re at a shipping office, Mr. Cenere,” said Saint-Germain.

  “How do you—” Cenere surged to his feet, his head lowered as he rushed at Saint-Germain.

  Saint-Germain swung aside, took hold of Cenere’s jacket and used the man’s own momentum to bash him into the solid-oak desk that faced the door; Cenere staggered and slumped. “That was foolish, Mr. Cenere.”

  Cenere could hardly focus his eyes, but he spat to show his contempt. “What are you up to?” His speech was slurred.

  “I am dealing with a man who likes to hurt people; you wanted to kill me, which is one thing, but you tried to harm Rowena Saxon, which is another matter entirely,” said Saint-Germain levelly. “I am putting a stop to your antics.”

  This last word stung Cenere to the quick. “You underestimate me, Ragoczy.”

  Saint-Germain laughed. “Do you think so?” He nodded toward the side of the warehouse. “No one but I knows where you are.”

  “You can’t keep me here,” Cenere said contemptuously.

  “You think not?” Saint-Germain studied his prisoner. “Now, why would you do that?”

  “You’re a dead man, Ragoczy,” Cenere accused.

  Saint-Germain offered him a slight, ironic bow. “As you see.”

  “If I don’t kill you, someone else will,” Cenere told him defiantly.

  “Very likely. But not today, I think. And not here.” He made a gesture encompassing the office. “This pier is owned by Eclipse Shipping, and there is a merchant ship loading for Europe—Spanish ports among them—just beyond the warehouse doors.”

  “All very interesting,” said Cenere with an air of boredom while he tried to think of how he could attack Saint-Germain.

  “It should be,” said Saint-Germain. “You’re going to stow away on it.”

  “And how am I going to do that?” Cenere asked, but no longer as daring as he intended.

  “You’ll be in a crate, of course. You’ll be able to get out of it, at least you should be able to—in about twenty-four hours. Consider it as my way of returning you to the men who sent you.” Saint-Germain shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend you attempt to pull my legs out from under me, or to slam something against my knees. If you try anything, I will be obliged to give you a concussion, and that could be dangerous for a man going into a crate.”

  “In fact, you’re concerned for my welfare,” said Cenere, heavily sarcastic.

  “No, nothing quite so altruistic,” said Saint-Germain. “I’m being pragmatic.”

  “You mean you’re going to kill me,” said Cenere in disgust.

  Saint-Germain shook his head. “I think I’ll let your employers take care of that.”

  “How do you reckon that?” Cenere asked.

  “If you remain here, you will cause more trouble. If you are … sent back to your employers, they will deal with you in their own way. As I suspect you already know.” Saint-Germain had no expression in his voice.

  “Do your dirty work for you, in other words,” Cenere accused.

  “I should think that would be up to you,” Saint-Germain responded.

  “I’d think you’d want to kill me yourself,” said Cenere. “To be rid of me for good. To be sure.”

  “Because that’s what you’d do to me if you could?” Saint-Germain did not wait for an answer. “I’m a good deal harder to kill than you imagine, although you came closer than many who have attempted it.” This admission gave him a trying moment as he recalled many close calls he had endured before: Cenere had been more potentially deadly than many others. In this preoccupied state, he sensed more than saw Cenere make a swipe at his leg; he kicked out twice—once on Cenere’s ribs and once on his jaw, and had the satisfaction of seeing the man double over and lie still. He checked the pulse in Cenere’s neck, and assured he was still alive, Saint-Germain went to fetch the packing-crate he had set aside for this use; a box of crackers and a quart of water were in the crate already, along with a rough blanket—little enough for a man who was going to spend at least twelve hours encased. He had a hammer, four-inch-long nails, and a customs label near to hand as he went to work, making sure that the crate could be opened with a good deal of effort from the inside.

  It was almost two hours later when Saint-Germain let himself out the warehouse office door and went along the waterfront. He was fairly certain that since it was well after their appointed time to meet, that Rogerio had returned to Clarendon Court.
Saint-Germain set out for Broadway, where he would be able to find a taxi. He thought about his efforts of the evening, and was generally pleased. Cenere would disappear: his crate was addressed to Carpathian International Traders in Barcelona and was part of a stack of crates the stevedores would begin loading at six in the morning. He had no doubt that Cenere would be discovered well before Spain was reached, but he knew the Eclipse Corona was not scheduled into another port-of-call until Acapulco, which ensured his escape from the United States, the very thing Saint-Germain most wanted.

  By the time the taxi let him off at Frederick and Cole, Saint-Germain had considered all the ramifications of what he had done, and had narrowed his plans down to three, which he would present to Rogerio and Rowena for their consideration. Walking the last half-mile uphill to Clarendon Court, he gave himself a little time to enjoy the city around him. It was so unlike the place that Madelaine de Montalia had described to him in her letters, about eighty years ago, and yet most of what she had found charming in the place remained, although somewhat changed, as it would continue to change. As he let himself into the house, he found Rogerio seated at the dining-room table, an account ledger spread out in front of him.

  “I noticed that Eclipse Shipping has been improving its profits,” Rogerio observed as if they had been discussing this only moments before.

  “Its profits are going into the restoration work at Ponderosa Lodge,” said Saint-Germain. He noticed the clock on the mantel was about to chime one. “Is there some reason to be doing accounts at this hour?”

  “It’s time for the monthly review,” said Rogerio.

  “And that, my friend, is not an answer,” said Saint-Germain, coming to take his seat opposite Rogerio. “How long did you wait?”

  “Ninety minutes, all told. Miss Saxon was worried when I came home without you. I tried to comfort her, but she was disinclined to accept it.”

  “I’m sorry she had any distress on my account,” said Saint-Germain.

  “I told her you would be all right, that you had come through far worse, and not so long ago,” he said with a suggestion of a smile. “She acted as if she almost believed me by the time she went off to bed, but I could see she was still apprehensive.” He paused to turn one of the ledger pages. “She would be glad of your company, now you’re back.”

  “Then perhaps I should go up to her and let her see I’m safe.” Saint-Germain waited for Rogerio to object; when he said nothing, Saint-Germain went on, “I surmise we can deal with the other considerations in the morning, when we leave.” He rose. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”

  Rogerio looked slightly astounded. “You have nothing for which to thank me. I am always at your service.”

  “You’ll permit me to disagree, on both points,” said Saint-Germain as he started to climb the stairs; he heard Rogerio chortle as he continued up to the guest room to wish Rowena good night, and then to finish his packing.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM OSCAR KING IN SAN FRANCISCO TO FERENC RAGOCZY, SENT IN CARE OF MILES SUNBURY IN LONDON VIA AIRMAIL.

  KING LOWENTHAL TAYLOR & FROST

  ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW

  630 KEARNY STREET

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  November 29,1937

  Ferenc Ragoczy

  c/o Miles Sunbury, Esq.

  Sunbury Draughton Hollis & Carnford

  Solicitors and Barristers

  New Court

  City of London, England

  My dear Ragoczy,

  I understand you reached London from Canada more than a week ago and may already have left England for wherever your next residence may be. This will catch up with you, I am certain, for Mr. Sunbury will forward it to you. I, for one, am sorry to see you go, but I can understand the reasons you felt you had to depart.

  This is to bring you up-to-date on your affairs in California: the title of your house on Clarendon Court has been transferred without condition to Miss Rowena Saxon for the sum of one dollar ($1.00), and she is now in residence there. The title to the Auburn driven by Mr. Rogers has also been completed, and Miss Saxon is now the duly registered owner of the car, in accordance with your instructions to me.

  The sums you have set aside for the Pietragnelli Winery have been conveyed to Carlo Pietragnelli, who expresses his gratitude to you most effusively. His remedies, provided by the settlement that was negotiated before the incidents of September, have been put into motion, with regular judicial review. The Attorney General of the State of California is going to investigate the White Legion, and will vigorously prosecute any infractions of the law that may be laid at their door. With the strong likelihood of Culbert Olson winning against Frank Merriam, the political climate will tend to support that kind of inquiry. It has been more than forty years since a Democrat occupied the Governor’s Mansion, and it strikes me that this is a good time for such a change, at least when it comes to putting a stop to this kind of trouble.

  I have been visited by Inspector Porter twice since you left; I have said nothing of your whereabouts, which I am ethically bound to do, being your counsel of record in California and therefore required to keep total confidentiality in your regard—not that the Inspector has anything beyond suspicions that you have been party to the apparent disappearance of a reputed European assassin, yet I know he is eager to settle the matter, at least in his mind. Without an actual complaint, his hands are legally tied. I have indicated to him that I will release to him only such material as you provide me written authorization so to do, and he must abide by this, since, little as he may like it, it is completely in accord with the law and the ethics of my profession.

  The management of your Ponderosa Lodge contracts has been transferred from J. Harold Bishop of Horner Bishop Beatie Wentworth & Culpepper to this office. Both Bishop and I agree that it is sensible for all those matters to remain in California, and since Mrs. Curtis is amenable, I have filed the necessary forms. I have enclosed copies of all the applicable paperwork, with an amended contract for your signature. Please initial where indicated, sign in the presence of a notary or of three witnesses, and return it to me as soon as is convenient for you.

  It has been an honor to know you and to represent you: I will continue to execute your orders to the limit of the law, for as long as you require. I thank you for conveying your power-of-attorney to me for the purposes of filing tax returns. That will simplify my ongoing work for you, and maintaining your various accounts at Bank of America, the details and balances of which are included in the rest of the enclosures.

  The investigation in regard to the failure of the brakes on your Pierce-Arrow Silver Arrow has not made any progress, although there is some indication that the steering-linkage was actually cut What cannot be determined is whether this was the result of the impact of the car’s fall, or due to prior mischief. The Marin County Sheriff has declared the case no longer active, and neither the District Attorney nor the police are inclined to do anything further. Should the case be reopened, I will inform you, but as things stand, I would suggest you accept that it will not be possible to bring the incident to the conclusion for which you had hoped, and I am sorry to say that without an identified culprit, not even a civil suit would prosper; all my avenues for remedy are exhausted.

  May I say that I look forward to seeing you in San Francisco one of these days again? This goes beyond the courtesy of professional representation: my wife and I have truly enjoyed your company; you will be welcome in my house at any time. I wish you safe travel and success in all your ventures.

  Sincerely at your service,

  Oscar King

  enclosures as indicated

  OK/jmm

  EPILOGUE

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM MADELAINE DE MONTALIA IN CARACAS, VENEZUELA, TO LE COMTE DE SAINT-GERMAIN AT MONTALIA, PROVENCE, FRANCE, SENT BY AIRMAIL.

  Hotel Los Ingleses

  Avenida Ancho

  Caracas, Venezuela

  22 January, 1938

  le Comte de Saint-G
ermain

  Chateau Montalia

  nr. Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete

  Provence, France

  My most cherished Comte,

  I cannot thank you enough for being willing to take up residence at Montalia, for I am not going to be able to leave my work here for at least two more years, and I am very reluctant to cut my dig short, considering all I have had to do to get here. It took me almost eight years to get the necessary permissions to undertake this exploration, and I fear if I leave now, I will be unable to return for perhaps a decade, and the sites are already in a compromised condition—another decade and the destruction may be too extensive for anything beyond the most elementary recoveries, which would please none of the sponsors of the dig, to say nothing of the loss it would mean to the records of human experience it would represent.

  At the same time, I hear the rumors of war growing louder and louder; I share your apprehension and I dread what is to come. I am helpless to stem the tide that is rising, much as I may deplore it And I fear for what I have, and while that may be callous, I find that my homes are one of the few things I can protect from the havoc that is coming. Without a dependable friend at Montalia, I fear it will suffer as Monbussy-sur-Marne did in the Great War. The armies never intend the wreckage they cause, but it happens, in any case, and I believe it will not be long until more than Spain is up in arms and guns are pounding again. You have seen the signs many times before, and you know how quickly peace can erode once the generals begin to tell the government what has to be done. I look at Europe and I despair.

  It is probably very wrong to ask you to put yourself in harm’s way by living at Montalia, and it may be that I should abandon this dig and return to face whatever is in store for France, but I cannot bring myself to do that, and not only because the prospect of war is so pervasive—it is also because I have come so far to do this expedition, and I would rather not give up the prize, which is finally within my grasp, for no more purpose than to be shot at in my own home. What benefit the world would derive from having me endure another war, I cannot imagine, but if you tell me it is worthwhile, I’ll do as you advise. Yet I must admit I would prefer to remain here, doing the work I love, and for which I have labored so long to bring within my grasp. I hope that you will not hold my decision against me, and if you think it is too cowardly, tell me so, and I will return to Montalia for the duration of whatever is to come.