“Señor Liebre is here,” said Esteban.
“He’s early,” Zapatilla complained as he squared off the sheets of paper and put the file envelope on top of them. He sighed as an indication of the concession he was making. “But you might as well show him in.” He paused. “And I suppose you should bring in coffee in ten minutes. Ask Señor Liebre what he would like in his.”
“Yes, sir,” said Esteban, and, after an exchange of barely audible words with the visitor, opened the door, admitting Cornelio Liebre; in his neat business suit, he did not much resemble the parking attendant at the Hotel della Luna Nueva, which was his intention—he seemed older and more solidly built, with a hint of menace in his walk that was entirely lacking when he was at the Hotel. “Señor Liebre,” Esteban announced.
“Good morning, Señor Zapatilla,” said Liebre, extending his hand as he came up to the desk. “It’s good of you to admit me early. I’m sorry if I intrude.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Zapatilla, scowling as they shook hands. “If you will take a seat?”
Liebre pulled up one of the wing-back chairs and set it directly in front of Zapatilla’s desk. “You have received my reports, I believe?”
“Yes, I have, and I thank you for providing them.” Zapatilla sounded stiff, but he was unconcerned. “It is your duty to do so.”
“Of course,” said Liebre.
Zapatilla tapped the desk with the end of his pencil. “It is my understanding that you have kept special files on this Conde de Saint-Germain?” He inclined his head. “A pretentious name, don’t you think—presumptuous at least?”
“I couldn’t say,” Liebre replied, uninterested in what the foreigner called himself.
“Well,” Zapatilla conceded. “And what have you learned about him? I have some information here already, but I am told your records are more complete.”
“I have kept special files. I was asked to do so,” said Liebre in the same stiff tone as Zapatilla favored. He settled into the chair with a degree of comfort that Zapatilla found insulting. “I am more than willing to share my information with you; it is why I am here, at the behest of the army. I have been assured by my superiors that it is permissible for me to provide you with as much information as you may want from me.” His hauteur was subtle, but enough to annoy Zapatilla.
“We are all pledged to the same purpose,” he reminded Liebre. “You and I have an obligation to preserve España from her enemies.”
“When we can be certain who they are,” said Liebre.
This was more than Zapatilla was willing to tolerate. “If you have any reason to question my loyalty, do so. Otherwise I expect you to remember the position I occupy, and to honor it.” He tapped his finger on the desk next to his telephone. “We are in dangerous times, Señor Liebre. Our fighting has been fairly confined, but it may yet erupt in open warfare. You must keep in mind that if you fail to do what you are sworn to do, many of your countrymen will die.”
“Many of them will die no matter what you or I do,” said Liebre, then adjusted his posture so that it was more attentive.
“You’re cynical,” said Zapatilla, disapproval radiating from him like body heat.
“I am experienced,” Liebre corrected.
Zapatilla was about to take issue with this when there was a rap on the door and Esteban, not waiting for a summons from Zapatilla, let himself in; he carried a tray with two steaming cups of coffee on it, along with a jug of milk and a small jar of sugar cubes. “Oh. Yes.” Zapatilla motioned to the place on his desk where the tray should be set. “Do you want milk or sugar?”
Liebre leaned forward and poured in a generous dollop of milk, then took the tongs and dropped three cubes of sugar into his coffee. He selected one of the small spoons on the tray and began to stir the contents of his cup in a negligent manner. “Thank you, Señor Zapatilla. It is most gracious of you.”
“It is my pleasure,” said Zapatilla in a tone that implied the opposite. He put one cube of sugar into his coffee and gave it a perfunctory stir. “You may go, Esteban.”
His assistant withdrew promptly, taking care to close the door with a final sound that made it apparent that they would be private.
“And now, about this Ferenc Ragoczy,” Zapatilla prodded. “You have had the opportunity to observe him. What have you found out?”
“That you aren’t the only official looking into his activities,” said Liebre with a smug little smile. “The army is curious about him, too. I am proof of that. And I am not the only one assigned to monitor his activities.”
“Yes,” Zapatilla muttered. “I had heard something of that.”
“His actions are watched and his professional dealings are observed most carefully, particularly his correspondence, as I suppose you are aware.”
“Yes. I have received notice of this,” said Zapatilla. “And what have you discovered from your inquiries in this regard?”
“There have been letters from Germany and England and Russia. Most of the English letters come from a firm of solicitors and barristers, I believe they are called.” Liebre let this information sink in. “There have also been letters from Canada, and from a university in Peru, apparently from a woman with a French name. There may be more: I haven’t checked the letters for myself and that is all the desk clerks have told me. I cannot seem too curious, or Señor Echevarria may put me to work in a less convenient place than in the car park.”
“Wouldn’t you learn more at the desk?” Zapatilla inquired.
“I might, and I might not, but I am not yet sufficiently trained—in Señor Echevarria’s opinion—to do that work, nor am I in a hurry to learn.” He managed a little chuckle to indicate how ridiculous he thought this. “It is as useful for me to tend the autos as to go to the registration desk—more useful, in fact.” He tasted his coffee and set it aside. “I can learn all I need to know without appearing to … to snoop.”
“Do you mean to say you are watched?” Zapatilla asked. “You?”
“Of course I am. All the employees at the Hotel della Luna Nueva are.” He looked mildly amused. “Do you suppose that I receive any undue attention? I do not; I am a nonentity, less to be noticed than the autos the guests drive. If I behave well, no one pays any attention to me. But chambermaids have been known to pilfer, and desk clerks from time to time take bribes that are compromising to the hotel. Everyone has to be careful of clerks and maids. Not so much so with cooks and waiters, but they see very little of the guests, and what contact they have is very formal, limited to meals in the dining room. A parking attendant? I hear the same gossip as all the others, and I am practically invisible so long as I do nothing to draw attention to myself. I would be a fool to steal an auto, or to damage one; everyone knows that. As an attendant, I can see what the patrons bring with them, and I am in a good position to discover where they go, for they often ask for directions. Even Saint-Germain’s manservant occasionally asks me how to find certain streets, though he claims to be a native of Cádiz. His hair is tawny-and-white and his eyes grey-blue so it doesn’t seem likely that he is. Still—who knows? he might be.” He studied Zapatilla for a long moment, keeping silent.
Zapatilla hated being forced to ask questions, but he acquiesced. “And thus you are unnoticeable as so many servants are, and you use that to your advantage,” he said heavily. “What has this allowed you to discover about this Ferenc Ragoczy, Comte de Saint-Germain?”
“I must suppose you know he is from the Carpathians and travels on a Hungarian passport. The government has such things on record, and I know you have been given access to the files,” said Liebre, his attention drifting slightly after his brisk beginning. “I also suppose you know Saint-Germain is wealthy. That is obvious to the meanest intelligence. His suits are some of the best I’ve ever seen—very subtle, very understated, but highest quality, made by the best tailors, English and French. All his shirts and ties are silk. He has the manner that comes with long-held riches.” He picked up his coffee-c
up and took another sip. “According to Señor Echevarria, Saint-Germain has a great many business investments, in many countries.”
“Yes, yes,” said Zapatilla impatiently. “You aren’t telling me anything that we are unaware of.” He tapped the desk with his spoon. “If you have nothing more to add, this conversation is useless.”
Liebre stiffened. “I know more, of course. I wanted to show you I know what you would expect me to know—” He stopped, and leaned back. “I have learned that le Comte has a mistress in Cádiz; he has visited her privately five times that I am aware of, although it may be more. He has been giving her his attention since last October, so far as I am cognizant of his actions. I have seen him take her flowers, even in January. He is very discreet, for the lady is married.”
“And this is not new information.” Zapatilla put down his spoon. “I would think that every intelligence service in España knows that.”
“He has been away from Cádiz for almost a month, though he continues to pay for his suites, which is an expensive gesture if it is only intended as a ruse. His manservant goes with him; his rooms at the Hotel are empty, but paid for for the next five months. Saint-Germain drives a Minerva cabriolet and owns a Riley Monaco—”
“An unusual auto,” said Zapatilla.
“He keeps it at the Hotel,” said Liebre. “He may have another auto in Córdoba; I haven’t been able to ascertain that. His manservant has a Voisin C14. Not many employers have an auto for their servants.”
“We have already determined he is wealthy,” said Zapatilla.
“That we have,” said Liebre. “It is real wealth, not the flash display that is seen so often with the newly rich. No high airs for le Comte. He tips handsomely but not foolishly.” He paused. “He doesn’t eat in the Hotel dining room.”
“He likes his privacy, and he has a good-sized suite, does he not?” Zapatilla interjected.
“He has three four-room suites on the second floor—almost half the wing. He has another four-room suite for his manservant. They say he brought his own bed and it is as simple as a monk’s—just a thin mattress atop a chest.” Liebre shook his head in disbelief.
“Some men are like that; the Kaiser slept in an iron soldier’s bed all through his youth,” said Zapatilla, doing his best to show indifference to this new and perplexing information. He reminded himself he would have to confirm the information about Saint-Germain’s bed for his records.
“No doubt they are,” said Liebre. “But le Comte doesn’t appear to be one of them: he’s elegant, not puritanical.”
Zapatilla decided not to pursue the matter with Liebre. “What else have you observed? Is there any event that stands out in your mind, or any detail, no matter how small, that might reveal important information about the man? What has caught your attention about him?” He laid his forearms on the desk, his thumbs just touching. “And keep in mind that I’ll be sending a report to your superiors.”
Liebre hesitated for an instant—a tactical error with Zapatilla—and attempted to mask it by having a bit more coffee. “I don’t think he likes going out during the day. Whatever he does in his suites, it occupies him until sunset.”
“He never goes out in the day?” Zapatilla asked, instantly suspicious of Liebre.
“I didn’t say that. He does it less frequently than most of our patrons at the Hotel,” Liebre told him, still uneasy.
“Many Spaniards prefer to go out during the night,” Zapatilla pointed out. “Most of the entertainments of life happen after sundown.”
“So they do,” Liebre agreed, a little too quickly. “But le Comte is a foreigner, and many of them are not accustomed to our ways. It is unusual for a foreigner to—”
“That doesn’t mean that he isn’t able to live as we do,” Zapatilla interrupted, beginning to count this interview as a waste of time.
“No, it doesn’t,” Liebre conceded. He finished his coffee and set the cup down. “But there is something I have noticed that may be of interest to you.” His early cockiness had faded and he seemed subdued, tentative. “It’s what he keeps in the Hotel safe.”
“And what would that be?” asked Zapatilla, prepared for almost any outrage from this self-important young man. Still, he was curious enough to want to find out what Liebre was prepared to vouchsafe him.
“He keeps jewels. Many jewels. More than a hundred, I should guess; perhaps as many as one hundred fifty. A considerable fortune, in fact.” Liebre’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“And how do you know this?” Zapatilla demanded.
“The night clerk showed me, at the end of last month.” It was a stunning admission, and, if true, a potentially alarming circumstance, for the lapse in confidentiality this indicated was troubling.
“Are you certain the jewels are genuine?” Zapatilla asked smoothly.
“According to what Señor Echevarria told the night clerk, all of them have been examined by jewelers of the highest repute and they have certified the quality of the stones, which is very, very high.” Liebre cleared his throat. “They were astonishing to see, like bits of the rainbow sitting in a metal box.”
“And has he done this before, the night clerk, with other patrons’ possessions? Shown you what they kept in the safe?” Zapatilla almost held his breath for the answer.
“Yes,” said Liebre as if offering up an obtuse apology; he volunteered nothing more.
“How often?” Zapatilla asked. “And which patrons?”
“Only the foreigners,” said Liebre, as if this made such behavior more acceptable. “He never interferes with any property of our Spanish guests.”
“Oh, very good,” said Zapatilla with heavy sarcasm, his head lowered and his hands spread out. “He does not break the law for Spaniards—only the foreigners are afforded that privilege,” he scoffed; but even as he spoke, it occurred to him that the night clerk might also be working for one of the governmental offices, which would account for his behavior. “Who is this most accommodating clerk?”
Relieved to be able to shift some of the error away from himself, Liebre said, “Eduardo Deshielo. He comes from Asturias.”
“Which accounts for something, to be sure,” said Zapatilla at his driest, just as he supposed Claude Rains would say it.
“I thought you’d want to know,” Liebre said, a suggestion of sulkiness in his attitude. “If I erred—”
“And so I do,” Zapatilla allowed hastily, then paused to consider what he had heard. “I need to know more about this Eduardo Deshielo. He has broken the law, and that may make him useful to me.” He was thinking aloud, and he did not invite any response from Liebre.
An uncomfortable silence settled between them that lasted for the better part of two minutes. Finally Liebre said, “I have found out that le Comte has property in Córdoba. There is a house that has been in his family for some time, according to what his manservant told Señor Echevarria. The house is supposed to be in the old part of the city, built on the foundations of another house that was torn down centuries ago. His manager, Lazaro Flojasilla, sends regular reports to the Hotel. Also, he often has letters from England, from a firm of solicitors.”
“So you mentioned,” said Zapatilla. “As to the property manager, we have already spoken to him. The house le Comte keeps in Córdoba sustained some damage in a recent bombing incident—nothing very bad, but enough to require repairs—that accorded us an opportunity to learn a bit more about the holding.” He said nothing more, savoring the frustrated expression Liebre tried unsuccessfully to hide; Zapatilla decided to drop a crumb for Liebre. “The house is a minor matter. His business there is my primary concern: I have been reviewing his airline assembly plant’s records; he is very up-to-date on innovations. And he has a head for business, I will give him that.”
“It could be … he may convert his earnings to jewels,” Liebre ventured, making an effort to smile; he wanted to restore Zapatilla’s good opinion of him.
“It is possible,” said Zapatilla.
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“And prudent,” said Liebre. “Just consider the advantages. He can carry the jewels anywhere, they will not diminish in value, no matter what becomes of the currency, they have value everywhere in the world he might decide to go, and they are less conspicuous than cash, and more reliable than bank drafts.”
“This is so,” said Zapatilla, who was not so convinced by his own argument as he pretended to be. “You may be on to something.”
Glad to be able to improve his standing with Zapatilla, Liebre enlarged upon his thoughts. “If he has jewels enough, he could travel without difficulty, and establish himself with minimal effort.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” said Zapatilla.
“He could leave España easily, and most countries would be glad to have a rich industrialist settle inside their borders. Some of the other countries may be offering him favorable conditions to move.” Liebre was being more confident again. “Never mind his title, his riches make him useful for any nation.”
“It is a sad commentary on our modern world,” said Zapatilla, dismissing the issue with a turn of his hand just as Claude Rains might have done it. “Have you any reason to suppose he may be planning to leave? Has he said anything, or his manservant?”
“I can’t recall any such suggestion,” said Liebre, becoming a bit more animated. “If you like, I can try to find out as soon as he returns.”
Zapatilla considered this. “I think it may be more important to watch him. If he is going to leave, he may do so without warning.” He achieved a dry chuckle. “He manufactures airplanes—who is to say he won’t fly out of España?”
“I have no reason to believe he is a pilot,” said Liebre.
With a little sigh that his humor was unappreciated, Zapatilla said, “No, he is not. We have that on the testimony of his two pilots—Blaz Riosalado and Raul Telas—who have already told me that Saint-Germain dislikes flying; he claims he doesn’t want to be far from the earth.” This observation was accompanied by an overly ingratiating smile.
Midnight Harvest Page 6
