Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I’m staying here,” said Pomeroy. “I’ve got to get something to soak up the wine, little as I feel it right now.”

  “That’s as good an excuse as any,” said Bjornson, reaching for the open bottle and pouring more wine for himself. “It’s irrational, I know, but I would like it if he weren’t quite so ready with his answers. It’s his story, I understand that, but if only he would stumble over some minor fact of it, or would correct himself on a little error, I would feel far more confident about him. He’s too pat, and that bothers me.”

  Pomeroy shook his head. “It’s the opposite for me: I like his forthcoming way. Some of it is probably the result of having money—all his life by the sound of it—and having received a very good education.”

  “Well, we would value that, wouldn’t we?” Bjornson almost giggled. “Oh, damn. I should not have had that last glass.”

  “We would,” Pomeroy agreed. “Why don’t we have Gaspard seat us? We could both do with some dinner, don’t you think?” He could feel the wine sneaking up on him, and thought that at home, his parents would have condemned him for drinking anything alcoholic, though they grew grapes for vintners when Prohibition was repealed. He forced his thoughts back to here and now. “My treat.”

  “Can you afford it?” Bjornson asked.

  “I hope so,” Pomeroy said, and got down from his tall chair. “Come on, Axel. We’ll both feel better for it.”

  “But the Grof … aren’t we expected at his flat at seven?” He found his edginess returning twofold, and took a last swig of wine to quiet his nerves.

  Pomeroy grinned. “I’ll call him and tell him we’ll be by a little later. In case you haven’t noticed, Szent-Germain is a night-owl. We could probably arrive at midnight and not intrude.”

  Bjornson permitted Pomeroy to convince him. “All right. Let’s have dinner,” he said, then added, “I don’t think he’s the sort of man to excuse an intrusion.”

  As Gaspard led them to a table, Pomeroy said, “I never thought about it before, but you’re probably right. Courteous as he is, he’s not very hail-fellow-well-met, is he?”

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM JULIUS K. GROSSETT OF MASSACHUSETTS TITLE AND TRUST COMPANY IN BOSTON TO RAGOCZY FERENZ, GROF SZENT-GERMAIN, IN PARIS; SENT BY PROFESSIONAL COURIER AND DELIVERED TWENTY-THREE HOURS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.

  October 28 th, 1950

  Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain

  Eclipse Trading and Shipping Company

  No. 14, Quai Serie d’Ouvert

  Paris, France

  My dear Grof,

  Let me point out at the first that I am most displeased by the havey-cavey manner that you have insisted we observe for this interaction, but pursuant to your instructions, I have, as you see, not used our letterhead nor my title and position within the company itself. You have assured me that this precaution is not contrary to any laws, either of this country or state, or to those laws and regulations pertaining to this issue in France. Should any misfortune befall this company as a result of your requirements or any action be taken against us, we will sue you for whatever damage you do us, in this country and any country in which Eclipse Trading and Shipping is licensed to operate.

  We assigned two of our investigators to your case, and they spent almost all of yesterday making telephone calls to verify the claims made by Saumel V. Effering, PhD in virology and internal medicine. The information, as far as we could determine within the time constraints you imposed, is correct and complete. His father was a gunnery captain who lost an eye in combat; he returned home to his wife and family, and a year later, lost her and two children to the Influenza epidemic. The father married a widow with two boys. Samuel V. Effering was born in Eugene, Oregon, attended Stanford University and its medical school, as claimed, and worked in Europe during the end of the last war and well into the decade. He married Eleanore Heckley in 1939; they were divorced in 1946, no children, and a settlement favorable to the wife’s interests. What he does not mention in his CV is that he was a capable pianist in his youth and showed great promise in that skill, observations we heard several times during our initial contacts. Neither his sister nor his step-brother knew why he had given it up, only that he went to science camp when he was fifteen or sixteen, and soon after stopped playing the piano. You asked for inconsistencies in his accounts of himself, and this was the only one we can verify, although there are very likely others. Had we more time, we could probably uncover more of them, but you were willing to pay not only for the time gathering what they did learn required, but for the courier service to deliver this document to you. There is a detailed invoice attached explaining all the work done to comply with your orders. If you have any question in regard to any of the charges, please address your inquiries to me.

  If you have decided to pursue your investigation through our office, please advise us of that as soon as possible; we will estimate the length of time our efforts will take, and what the costs are likely to be for our work. You will receive all our supporting information in our transcripts so that you may be able to reach an informed decision about Dr. Effering. If you want to expand your probing, we will require the names and possible employment records, along with any military service or work that supported the US’s war efforts. We pledge to strive to achieve an unbiased assessment of the persons and activities you seek to know more about; you may rely on our continued confidentiality and discretion.

  If there are any other services you require of us, do not hesitate to contact us. We look forward to being of service to you.

  Sincerely,

  JKG/MTTC

  Nota Bene: Full transcripts of all interviews will be complete by this time next week, when a copy of all pertinent documents will be sent to you for your files.

  2

  SLEET WAS slowing traffic to an uncharacteristic crawl, and most of the sidewalks were empty of the strolling masses of Parisians, who often began the Christmas season by calling on friends for pastries and cognac, but were today for the most part keeping within doors. Drivers showed more caution as they made their way along slippery streets than they did on most days, and lorries delivering goods for the holiday markets went gingerly to their destinations.

  Tolliver Bethune inspected the meeting room the parties involved had finally agreed upon for this unofficial inquiry into the activities of Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain; the building was used for meetings, seminars, and lectures, a far more neutral setting than any embassy would be. Bethune looked about, taking stock of the room: it was large enough for twenty people, but set up for a dozen with a polished table at one end of the room, just in front of the plush, spruce-green velvet curtains drawn across the wide bay that faced southeast toward the river. The meeting room was paneled in burled oak and buffed to a subdued shine. The room was lit by a pair of chandeliers of polished brass that suggested lotuses floating on ponds of light; these Art Nouveau masterpieces looked a bit dated now, but they were so well cared-for that their age did not seem to be a fault. It was ten after three in the afternoon—fifteen hundred ten hours, he reminded himself—and the evening seemed to be already upon them; the meeting was to begin at half-three, or fifteen thirty hours—he hoped he had that right, and stifled the urge to look at his watch. He did his best to conceal the agitation that had taken hold of him soon after this meeting was proposed.

  “We’ll want coffee, and perhaps something stronger, in such raw weather,” he said to the waiter who had come into the room behind him.

  “Will cognac or sherry be preferred?” the waiter asked, his accent still tinged with the vowels of his native Cornwall.

  “Must it be one or the other?” Bethune asked.

  “Not if you would prefer both,” the waiter said.

  “Both, then, if there’s no objection.” Bethune had removed his coat and set his briefcase on one of the chairs at the table. He was in a suit of English cut in Prussian blue, a white-linen shirt, and a foulard tie in a muted puce with subtle highlights in gold
; his tie-clasp was also gold and had a dime-sized version of the Great Seal of the State of Virginia incised upon it. He carried his hat in his hand, as if uncertain what to do with it. “The rest should be here in a quarter of an hour, if you could make sure everything is ready by then.”

  “That is my understanding,” said the waiter, and took Bethune’s coat. “It will be in the cloakroom on the landing, sir.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” Bethune took another turn around the room, taking stock of it and trying to familiarize himself with the chamber. “This place is wonderfully restored, isn’t it?”

  “That was Lord Weldon’s intention when he purchased the place; he selected this building among many, and gave it his full attention,” said the waiter, falling silent for a short while. “Will you require anything more of me now, Mister Bethune?”

  Bethune went on as if he had not heard the waiter’s question. “I’ve seen another building Lord Weldon owns. It is as handsome as this one, and perhaps a decade younger than this is. It’s an apartment building, about fifty years old, I would guess. Rumor has it that some high-ranking Nazis put their mistresses up in those apartments during the occupation.” He was briefly silent, and when the waiter had nothing more to say, he went on, “This Lord Weldon is a curious fellow, isn’t he…?” He faltered.

  “Medwyn, sir,” the waiter informed him.

  “Medwyn. Sounds Welsh. Are you Welsh, Medwyn?”

  The waiter responded obliquely. “I’ll get your refreshments order, Mister Bethune, and man the front door.”

  Uncertain how to respond, Bethune nodded. “Thank you, Medwyn.”

  “I’m pleased to be of service, Mister Bethune.”

  “And one more thing? about Lord Weldon: does he rebuild anywhere else, or is all his effort in Paris?”

  “I understand there are five buildings in Paris, a few in the countryside within two hours’ drive. His friend, the Grof, has a horse-farm near Orleans, so Lord Weldon isn’t the only man from outside France who is helping the recovery from the war. I’ve been told that Lord Weldon has two buildings in Denmark, and one in Antwerp that is being restored even now. Lord Weldon and Grof Szent-Germain often work together on projects: there is one in Milan and one in Lisbon that I’m aware of. There may be more.” He took a step toward the door, his demeanor unchanged by so many questions. “I don’t know where else Lord Weldon might have buildings; they could be almost anywhere, just like Lord Weldon himself.”

  “Yes; I understand he travels extensively.” Bethune was prodding for answers now, determined to make the most of his opportunity.

  “You could say that, Mister Bethune. Goes everywhere, Lord Weldon does. They say he’s in Tibet at present, but who knows.”

  “He must fly under the radar when he travels,” said Bethune, turning the brim of his hat through his thumb and finger and, as he did, realizing he had overplayed his hand, so he was doubly surprised when Medwyn replied. “He goes places where there is no radar to … um … fly under.”

  “Do you worry about him?” Bethune was careful to maintain an air of geniality, and to smile when he spoke.

  “He’s told us not to, that worry doesn’t fix anything, and it makes you ill half the time.” Medwyn nodded toward the L-shaped extension of this meeting room that served as a study for the larger part of the room. “There’s a globe in there, if you want to give it a squint. Go through the study if we have a fire: the backstairs are through the ironwood door.”

  “Thank you,” said Bethune, and this time he made a point of looking at his wristwatch. “The rest will be here shortly. You’d best go and see to the refreshments.”

  “Of course. Do you want the coffee in the Italian, French, or English style?”

  “The Italian comes in those little cups, doesn’t it? With lemon peel.” Bethune shook his head. “Better make it the English style, or the French. Use one of those glass-tube coffee-makers with the seal to press the grounds to the bottom of the tube. And both milk and cream, if you would.” He checked his wristwatch—only eleven minutes to go; he was certain that Szent-Germain would be on time.

  “You’ve asked for sherry and cognac, and now coffee. Is there anything more you would like me to bring you?”

  “Tea, I guess,” said Bethune, handing his hat to the waiting Medwyn.

  “Black or green?” Medwyn asked, so politely that Bethune had to keep from making a sharp retort.

  “Black, probably. I don’t know much about tea.” His mother had served tea often, and to Bethune it represented a time that was gone from the US.

  “I’ll arrange things as you like them,” Medwyn told him with a nice mix of confidence and diffidence. “We’ll bring up the trays in twenty minutes. Would you like us to provide a few Bic pens and a few notebooks?”

  “Bic? Those throw-away pens? Sure. Why not?” He made a yawn that was more of a sigh, and wondered if the room were bugged, and if so, why, and by whom?

  “Very good, sir.” Medwyn nodded to Bethune, and left him alone; he had seen the way Bethune looked at the chandeliers, and the waiter laughed silently. “Wrong direction to find bugs,” he whispered as he opened the cloakroom door on the landing to hang up the coat he held; he heard the sound of the door-chimes on the floor below. He hurried down to answer it.

  Philetus Rothcoe stood on the broad top step, his expression purposefully blank, his hat pulled down on his head in an unbecoming fashion, his coat-collar turned up and wet from the storm. He came into the lobby quickly, and pulled off his topcoat and handed it, with his hat, to Medwyn. “If you’ll take these? Put them where they can dry properly. It’s miserable out there.” He carried a small valise which he clasped to his chest as if Paris were the ocean and the valise a floating spar. “I’ll keep this with me.” He was afraid he was talking too fast. “I’m sorry. I should have told you that I’m here for a meeting with—”

  “—Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain,” Medwyn finished for him. “There will be ten attending the meeting, with the possibility of an eleventh. Yours is the only meeting being held here today, and I am in charge of serving you. My name is Medwyn, and I have familiarized myself with your files.” He saw the shocked look in Rothcoe’s eyes. “Not political files; your alien resident’s files; the police provide them for meetings when more than half those attending are not French. We have one file for everyone who will be here today, except for Hawsmede, of course. We do the same for every group meeting here. Tomorrow there is a conference of engineers, most of them civil or electrical; they’ll take over the whole building for four days. In all, we’re expecting thirteen hundred participants for tomorrow, so this is hardly a major occasion for us. You might think of it as a warm-up exercise, one that will get us ready for tomorrow.” He pointed upward. “First floor. As you leave the elevator, turn left, and go to the end of the hall. The meeting-room door should be open on your left. One of your company is already here.” With that, he nodded and went toward the angled staircase.

  Two discreet lighted signs directed Rothcoe to the elevators. He got into the nearer one, thinking he would never get used to the phone-booth-sized Continental elevators. He closed the door and pushed the button for the first floor; he was relieved when the cab moved upward at once and without protest. He held his valise more tightly, his face set in hewn lines from ill-defined dread. As he stepped out of the elevator, he heard the front door chime on the floor below, announcing the next arrival; mindful of Medwyn’s information, Rothcoe reached in and pressed the floor-button for G, the ground floor, as courtesy demanded, then hurried along to the meeting room.

  “Hello, Rothcoe,” said Bethune as Rothcoe came into their meeting room. “You’re here in good time.”

  “Hello, Bethune,” said Rothcoe with no attempt to match Bethune’s impeccable manners. “I wondered if you’d be here early.” Expecting no answer, he turned to the polished oval table. “That briefcase is yours?”

  “Yes.” Giving Rothcoe no time to comment, he barreled on. “I think you an
d I should take the right side of the table—the right side from where we stand now—the other side can be reserved for Szent-Germain and his group. We can present our material more … unitedly. You and Leeland, your Embassy observer, and whomever the French are sending can take up the remaining seats. That way, Szent-Germain can have the head of the table, which is only courtesy, since he’s paying for this meeting.”

  “Because he wouldn’t come to the American Embassy, and the English refused to provide space,” said Rothcoe critically as he placed his valise carefully on the chair next to the one holding Bethune’s briefcase.

  “I think it was wise, his insistence that we meet on neutral ground.” Bethune took care not to sound critical; he did not want Rothcoe to get his back up any more than it already was.

  “You would,” Rothcoe said mordantly.

  They both looked up as Rogers, in an Oxford-gray suit, came into the room, followed closely by a lanky, sharp-featured man in his mid-thirties, dressed in superbly tailored charcoal pin-striped worsted; his tie alone, in the color of Brasenose College, was worth twenty pounds. “Gentlemen,” said Rogers. “This is Everett Hawsmede of Eisley Butterthorn & Hawsmede, with chambers in London and Greenwich, a law firm specializing in international law. He’s here to protect Grof Szent-Germain’s business interests.”

  “And why is that?” Rothcoe asked. “Why should he have a business lawyer attend this meeting?”

  “Is there a reason he should not?” Rogers asked the air.

  “He does not know what issues are to be discussed, and he prefers to be prepared,” said Bethune, who had wondered about the Grof’s reasoning when he had been informed of Hawsmede’s inclusion.

  Rothcoe nodded to Bethune. “I believe you and Mister Hawsmede might want to take a little time to agree on your points of law, Mister Bethune,” he suggested with exaggerated courtesy.

  Bethune stepped forward. “Tolliver Bethune, in private practice here in Par—”