Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “The receptionist, Señor Cenere,” called out the soldier who had spoken before.

  “Bring her in,” said Cenere, rising with deliberate slowness to greet the much-subdued young woman who came through the door. “Buenas tardes, señorita,” he said, his gallantry enough to make her skin crawl.

  “Tardes,” she murmured, staying near the door, her face slightly averted.

  “Do come in and sit down.” He indicated another of the visitor’s chairs. “Here.” Reluctantly she did as he ordered, sitting without leaning back on the upholstery, her hands clasped in her lap. “I trust you’re comfortable?” Cenere said, knowing she was not.

  “I am,” she lied. “Capitán Morales said I am to answer your questions. I am ready to do so.”

  “Very good,” said Cenere. “May I begin by knowing your name?”

  “Estrellita Rocio,” she said, giving an Asturian trill to the ll.

  “I am Cenere,” he said. “A pleasure to know you, Señorita Rocio.”

  “Tengo alegrarse de verlo, Señor Cenere,” she whispered, her good manners not yet completely banished by her dread.

  He chuckled. “Are you sure?” He lit another cigarette—his third since he entered the office—and peered at her through the smoke.

  Estrellita shook her head in confusion. “I will tell you anything you want to know.”

  “I am certain you will,” said Cenere, and leaned forward. “You are aware that the army is looking for Señor Ragoczy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said quickly. “Everyone in the company knows it.”

  “It is obvious,” Cenere agreed. “And you must have more information about him than most do.”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, her manner more guarded than ever.

  “You’re too modest,” said Cenere. “You have a position of responsibility, of trust. You know those whom Señor Ragoczy telephoned, and who telephoned him, you received his telegrams and saw where they came from. You have been privy to a great many communications, and you know who all the visitors have been. Don’t you?”

  Estrellita shrugged, her tension making the gesture awkward. “I know some,” she admitted.

  “And you can remember a great deal more, can’t you?” Cenere challenged.

  “I suppose so,” she said, her voice dropping again.

  “Yes, of course you can,” said Cenere as he reached out to pat her hand; she almost shrieked as he touched her, but was able to stifle it so that all he heard was a soft yelp. “Be calm, be calm. Gather your thoughts. We have plenty of time, Señorita Rocio. Do not feel pressured by me—take as long as you need.”

  She winced. “I will try to remember.”

  “Muy bien,” said Cenere. “Now then, you must have seen mail from other countries sent to Señor Ragoczy—”

  “Le Comte de Saint-Germain,” she dared to correct him. “Most of his correspondents addressed him by his title.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Cenere, taking another drag on his cigarette. “From which countries did his mail come?”

  Estrellita thought a moment. “He had mail from everywhere, even Peru.”

  “Peru,” said Cenere, mildly surprised.

  “From a professor with a French or Italian name. I recall two letters but neither one came less than a year ago.” She felt a catch in her throat.

  “What others?” Cenere asked.

  “Letters from a firm in Canada—a chemical factory of some sort, in Winnipeg—such an odd name for a city,” she said quickly. “And letters from a place in Bavaria. Sometimes a letter would come from Greece from someone with a German name. Occasionally he has had letters from the Soviet Union, apparently regarding businesses his family had invested in back when it was still Russia.” She glanced at Cenere to see if any of this was the information he sought.

  “Bavaria and the Soviet Union,” said Cenere. “Where else?”

  “France, of course, and Italy, from companies interested in our airplanes.” She could not keep from boasting a little. “Also from Sweden and Denmark.”

  “Very good,” said Cenere, sounding a bit bored.

  “There were letters from a publisher in Amsterdam,” she went on, “and from a group of attorneys in London.”

  These two possibilities were more promising, Cenere thought, although he gave no outward indication of his interest. “What would Señor Ragoczy want with a Dutch publisher?”

  “I don’t know,” said Estrellita primly. “I received the letters, I didn’t read them.”

  “Just so,” said Cenere, thinking of the carbons in his jacket; he would match them up with what Estrellita revealed when he was done with her. “How does it happen that you recall these letters? Was there anything unusual about them?”

  “The stamps,” she said at once. “My little brother collects them, and so I try to get as many for him as I can.”

  “Ah,” said Cenere. “So it is a fortunate accident that you have such a clear recollection of the letters. And you would not let one slip your mind, would you?”

  “If it was delivered when I was on duty, no, I would not,” Estrellita said. “I had permission to remove the stamps, you see,” she added self-consciously.

  “I do see,” said Cenere. He got up and came around behind her chair. “What more, Estrellita? What can you tell me?”

  She went more pale. “I … I can think of nothing more.”

  “What of visitors?” He waited a long moment. “Tell me who came to see him.”

  “Do you mean non-Spaniards?” Her hands were shaking; she knotted them together in an effort to steady them.

  “Yes, that is what I mean.” The edge in his voice made her jump.

  “Well,” she said, struggling to concentrate, “there was a man from Egypt who wanted four airplanes. He is some kind of nobility there and said he preferred airplanes to camels.” She attempted a smile without success. “There were two men from Germany, but le Comte refused to see them. He had a policy not to use his airplanes for military purposes. That’s changed now.”

  “So it has,” said Cenere. “Who else?”

  “An American journalist called once, but le Comte was in Cádiz. He left no message.” She shivered as if the room had abruptly turned cold.

  “No message? Are you sure?” Cenere asked.

  “If he did, I never saw it, and he was only here for a few minutes.” She huddled in on herself as if she hoped to escape Cenere by vanishing. “A pilot from Hungary came once, hoping to get work, but he left before he flew any of the airplanes. He said he had a better offer from a company in France.”

  “Do you remember any other foreigners?” Cenere’s manner suggested only slight curiosity, but he was keenly alert to her answer.

  “No, no, I don’t.” She pressed her lips together. “That’s all I can think of.”

  “Um-hum,” said Cenere. “Well, then I think you had best return to your duties:” He saw the startled look in her eyes and permitted himself a hint of amusement. “I’ll be here tomorrow, in case you should think of something more during the night.”

  The dismay on her face was almost comical. “That’s all of it, Señor Cenere. I promise you, it’s all.”

  “Yes, yes. But something may occur to you, and it would be worthwhile to tell me. I won’t fault you because something slipped your mind.” His geniality made her queasy. “You can let yourself out, can’t you?”

  “Yes.” With that, she all but bolted from the room, leaving Cenere to take out the carbon copies from his vest pocket and begin to look for letters to a Dutch publisher and an English attorney.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM HORATIO BATTERBURY IN WINNIPEG, MANITOBA, CANADA, TO DRUZE SVINY IN TOULOUSE, FRANCE.

  Compton House

  658 Selkirk Road

  Suites 4–9

  Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

  27 July, 1936

  Druze Sviny

  c/o Hotel Belvoir

  47, Rue des Bergers

  Toulou
se, France

  My dear Doctor Sviny,

  I thank you for your letter of the 23rd which has just arrived via airmail. You were very right to send it to me, and I appreciate your timeliness in making this contact Our current contractual schedule would make your addition to our work deeply appreciated, and we’re looking forward to a long association.

  I hope this will put any anxiety you may have to rest at once; yes, I am interested in employing you. I already received a sterling recommendation from Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain, who has been your employer and our investor, and who has given me his personal assurances that you would be a true asset to Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd. I have reviewed your curriculum vitae and I am as impressed as Saint-Germain said I would be. Your credentials are truly remarkable, and I know you will fit into our company most suitably.

  While I realize that moving across the Atlantic is not a venture to be undertaken lightly, I think I can assure you a handsome salary, starting at $6,500 a year with the potential of increasing to $10,000 in five years, rates that are more than competitive with any other business in Canada that might offer you a position, and certainly as good or better than any salary you could command in Europe or the United States. We will also include $1,500 for moving expenses, which should make the upheaval less of a burden for you. If you have chests or crates you would like to send on ahead, we will be pleased to supply storage for you.

  I am looking forward to your answer; if you agree to come to work here, we would like you to begin on 1 September, if that is convenient I am aware that the political situation in Europe just now may make travel problematic. Should you need more time to make arrangements, please let me know as soon as possible and I will adjust your starting date to suit your travels.

  Incidentally, we can provide you an apartment in Winnipeg until you find housing to your satisfaction, so that need not hamper your plans regarding your work here.

  In anticipation of a happy outcome, I will extend a welcome to Canada.

  Most sincerely yours,

  Horatio Batterbury

  Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd.

  HB/cd’m

  chapter nine

  “I have the train schedules, and costs for private cars; we can make arrangements by the end of the week and be away early next,” Rogerio told Saint-Germain as he came into the hotel suite sitting room that overlooked the Charles River. It was a muggy summer day, and Boston was dragging toward evening, men on the street walking slowly; even the laborers were wilting, and the horses drawing wagons amid the automobiles and lorries plodded, leaning into their collars and sweating. Rogerio had removed his jacket and waistcoat and had rolled up his shirtsleeves but the heat still weighed upon him.

  Saint-Germain held out his hand for the glossy, printed pages Rogerio carried, holding them up and flipping through them. “It will be good to leave. It’s stifling,” he remarked as he indicated the open window. “I saw heat-lightning a while ago.” He was wearing a black linen dressing-robe over black linen slacks, and although there was no trace of moisture on his face, he was unusually pale, a sure sign that the sultry weather was taking a toll on him.

  “This has been a difficult few days,” Rogerio agreed. “But we can be gone by Tuesday, if the contract is accepted.”

  “I hope there will be a break in the weather before then.” Saint-Germain turned away from the window.

  “Yes, that would be welcome.” Rogerio opened the contract he had finally got from the attorneys. “If you will sign this, Hiram Jaynes will make all the arrangements.”

  “It’s just as well that Miles Sunbury recommended this firm to me; I would not have known how to approach one of these Boston firms without an introduction.” Saint-Germain set the brochures aside, took the contract, and read it through, stopping now and then to scrutinize a particular clause. “The law is its own language, no matter what language it’s written in,” he said as he sorted out one especially convoluted provision. “But I surmise I will not have to pay for any damage to the private car if it is damaged as the result of a train-wreck or other external causes.”

  “It seems fair that you should not have to,” said Rogerio.

  “I see there is insurance I may purchase for the duration of the lease,” said Saint-Germain as he read further. “That will pay for any damage that I do or cause to have done. What, I wonder, do they think I am planning to do while I travel?”

  “Hiram Jaynes recommends the insurance, at full value,” said Rogerio.

  “No doubt,” said Saint-Germain. “It would be less conspicuous to have it, wouldn’t it.” He had already made up his mind.

  “Yes, that was Jaynes’ thought.” Rogerio went to the window and lowered the Venetian blinds.

  Saint-Germain finished reading the contract, a slight frown between his brows as he considered the contents. “I’ll telephone Jaynes in the morning.”

  “Not this afternoon? He’ll be in his office for another hour,” said Rogerio.

  “No; that would give the impression I haven’t thought about the terms, and a man as methodical as Hiram Jaynes doesn’t respect mercurial decisions. The terms and specifications suit me well enough, and any additional changes I might want at this point could draw attention to … certain aspects of my life I would as soon keep private.” Saint-Germain went to the old-fashioned writing desk near the door. He took out his fountain-pen and initialed each page, then signed on the designated line; he held out the pen to Rogerio. “To witness, if you will.”

  Rogerio took the pen and signed on the witness line, then blotted the two signatures. “Do you think there could be an objection to me as a witness?”

  “Why? You have a vested interest in this travel, but that shouldn’t preclude witnessing the contract. You are in my employ, of course, but you have money of your own, and so you aren’t dependent upon me; there can be no concern in that regard. Besides, whomelse do I know in Boston to vouch for my character? I’ve corresponded with two professors in Cambridge, but they know nothing of me beyond my work with chemicals. No, old friend, you are the obvious choice—anyone with an ounce of sense would see that, and agree you are an appropriate witness.” He folded the contract and put the cover around it. “Tomorrow it will go to Jaynes.” Slipping the blue-covered pages into one of the desk slots, Saint-Germain sighed. “I should go out tonight.”

  “Late?” Rogerio asked, knowing the answer.

  “Yes. I may not return until shortly before dawn. I am still enervated from the airplane journey.” He disliked the admission, and he quickly changed the subject. “The contract stipulates that the car has sleeping accommodations for four in two bedrooms.”

  “That is my understanding; a full bedroom and a second, smaller one,” said Rogerio, unfazed by the shift in conversational direction. “And a sitting room, a small dining room, and, of course, appropriate water closets.” He smiled at this. “Not that either of us have need of one.”

  “If they provide baths or showers, we will have,” Saint-Germain reminded him.

  “Yes,” said Rogerio quickly. “Baths and showers.”

  There was a mutter of thunder but the lowering, pink-tinged clouds did not open.

  “Tell me,” said Saint-Germain a moment later, “is the summer so fierce all the way across the country? The wireless—the radio,” he corrected himself, “certainly would make one think so. Yet I find it hard to imagine that the weather is uniform, given the size of the land. This isn’t the Year of Yellow Snow.”

  “That was cold, not heat,” Rogerio reminded him.

  “So it was.” He mused a long moment. “Madelaine told me San Francisco was chilly in the summer.”

  “That was eighty years ago,” Rogerio reminded him.

  “Do you mean it might have changed?” Saint-Germain asked, then went on, “They say the drought in the middle of the country has made everything different in only three years; there were dust-storms that made the drought worse, last year and the year before. The devastation is
reported on the news twice a day even now. So your point is well-taken; San Francisco may no longer be foggy in the summer. We will not rely upon the weather.” He regarded Rogerio with curiosity. “Will that have a bearing on our travel, do you think?”

  “As much as the weather ever does,” said Rogerio.

  “Such a circumspect answer,” Saint-Germain chided him gently. “Very well; I won’t plague you with any more questions neither of us can answer; my Word on it. We will be on our way by next Tuesday and we will find out for ourselves.” He checked his new wristwatch, saying, “As I have already mentioned, I plan to go out shortly after sundown.”

  “Have you a destination in mind?” Rogerio asked.

  “I think I will begin with the Commons and then go where my steps take me.” Saint-Germain smiled a little. “There must be someone in this city who will let me visit her in sleep.”

  “There must be hundreds, if only they knew,” said Rogerio, and regarded Saint-Germain with some concern.” They say the police here are vigilant.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Saint-Germain. “I have no wish to end up in an American prison cell. Or a psychiatric ward,” he added with distaste.

  “Surely it wouldn’t come to that,” Rogerio said.

  “Because I am foreign and rich?” Saint-Germain asked sadly. “At this time, I think both those things might well count against me here, and Americans, like the Germans, have taken to using the mental hospitals as de facto prisons for those who prove too awkward for them.” He took a deep breath. “You needn’t worry. I will be discreet.”

  “And good thing, too,” said Rogerio with a touch of asperity. “What shall I lay out for you?”

  “My tropical-weight wool jacket, I think, with the red-and-black lining. No waistcoat, not in this heat. A white linen shirt and the deep red tie in silk brocade.”

  “As you wish,” said Rogerio, and went to attend to sorting laundry in preparation for their coming departure.

  It was after eight in the evening when Saint-Germain strolled out of the hotel and into the warm, close summer evening. There were occasional flashes of lightning, but no rain had yet fallen, and the whole city seemed breathless in anticipation. Four blocks brought him to the Commons, and he walked across it, admiring the old trees and watching the autos doing their best to negotiate the narrow streets around the Commons. He gave a half-dollar to a man in a ragged overcoat and advised him to buy something to eat with it, for the man was dreadfully thin. Walking farther, he noticed a tavern at one of the corners, a sandwich board standing in front of it advertising food and drink, its doors standing open more in hope of a breeze than invitation to patrons; a group of men were bustling into the low-ceilinged establishment, one of them propounding emphatic political opinions. Realizing this was no place for him, Saint-Germain went on, following the street past the church and winding up a hill. A few of the buildings were dark, but most were alive with activity, their lights shining against the night. Saint-Germain stepped aside as a small procession of autos went past him: a Hudson, a Packard, two Studebakers, a Buick, a Cadillac, a Lincoln, a Hupmobile, and a Pierce Silver Arrow; their headlights were dazzling in the deepening twilight; the occupants of the autos were apparently all bound for the same function, for they kept in their formation for as far as Saint-Germain could watch them go, their taillights marking their progress down the curving street. When the autos were out of sight, he resumed his walk, coming at last to a cluster of larger houses with gardens and lawns, and the general look of prosperity, although one had overgrown hedges. He stopped at the fence and studied the house beyond, noticing that it was kept up but without any excesses or obviously new work. The lights were on in half of the rooms, judging by the windows, but there was little sign of much activity, although there were faint sounds of a radio on the second floor.