Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Simeon’s architectural firm, Schnaubel & Wood, has done very well. Simeon has left his family comfortably off, and not even the Crash eroded the greatest part of the wealth he accumulated over the years. You may see his work in buildings throughout the Midwest which the firm continues, with his founder’s shares still providing a little money each year, and should continue to do so as President Roosevelt continues his policy of public works to bolster the economy. The investments Simeon made in land have proven to be of some worth, as well, so neither I nor his children need ever be in want provided a little good judgment is exercised. As you may know, Simeon distrusted stocks after the German currency underwent such outrageous inflation a decade ago, and for that reason, he put his money in land and jewels. At the time I believed that he was being too cautious, but events proved him right, and I am grateful to him for his decision. So many of our friends have sustained appalling losses and may not have the opportunity or time to earn it all again.

  I would be happy to have you visit if you decide you have time to come by. If you can’t I do understand the problems travel imposes, and I will pass on your greetings to as many in the family as you would like, except Hedda, since she isn’t allowed to receive mail from any of us, and will not be until her vows are final. I have heard the family speak of you many times, always with a kind of clemency and a shared sorrow for the death of your ward Simeon called you merciful once, and although that was a strange choice of words for him, from what I have learned of you, it is singularly apt On his behalf, and on behalf of his family, I would be glad to receive you any afternoon but Friday, if it suits your schedule to drive out to our house. Simeon designed it and it is easily recognized. You will know it when you see it.

  In your note you say you are leaving for the West in a few days. If this precludes time for a visit, then let me take this opportunity to thank you for all the graciousness you showed my husband in Bavaria, and the help you provided in his time of greatest need. Many others have turned their backs on the plight of the German Jews, but you were not willing to set aside your humanity so readily. Without your help, he would probably not have made it to America, and he and his family would be facing who knows what problems in Germany, and my life would have been a great deal lonelier. If you cannot spare the time to call, then let me wish you a safe and pleasant journey. From all I know of you, it would be richly deserved.

  Most sincerely yours,

  Sarah Schnaubel

  (Mrs. Simeon Schnaubel)

  chapter one

  “This is a Packard Twelve,” said the salesman. “The ’34 model, the last year they made them. A truly fine piece of machinery. It’s as good as anything Rolls-Royce turns out” He patted the automobile on the hood, taking care to buff the light tan finish when he had done. “Hand-made, only two thousand of them in existence.”

  “What if it needs repair?” Saint-Germain asked, stroking the small black leather valise he carried under his arm. He looked around the showroom, a vast hall half the size of an airplane hangar, but with Corinthian columns and a few improbable murals of buxom Greek maidens in brightly colored but inaccurate chitons and hymations performing unlikely athletic feats. Three large fans hanging from the ceiling stirred the air but provided little alleviation from the heat.

  “But it won’t, not this car. It’s as close to perfect as a car can get,” the salesman insisted, his voice becoming edgy; he was in his late thirties in a summer-weight suit that had once been expensive but had seen better days. His shirt was spotlessly white but there was a beginning of fraying at the collar and cuffs, and on this feverish afternoon, he was sweating heavily enough to need to wipe his brow every five minutes or so. “And Packard’s part of Studebaker now, and Studebaker’s everywhere. If anything happens to it, you can get it fixed. Don’t worry about that. Not that it’s going to need fixing, just regular servicing.”

  “How much do you want for it?” Saint-Germain asked, knowing that Americans expressed real interest by asking about price.

  “We’re asking four thousand five hundred.” The salesman mopped his brow.

  “A considerable amount,” Saint-Germain remarked.

  There was a long pause, and the salesman cleared his throat. “We can’t lower the price—it’s a rare car. It’s held its value and it will continue to do so.”

  “I was not asking for a lower price; I am only commenting that this is an expensive auto,” said Saint-Germain.

  “The former owner paid a much higher price for it,” the salesman said, a bit defensively.

  “And disposed of it within two years of buying it,” said Saint-Germain.

  “He suffered some business reversals,” said the salesman with a quick gesture that he had made a great many times before. “The car’s a real classic already, and a bargain at the price we’re asking.”

  “If you say so,” said Saint-Germain. “Do you think you would take four thousand three hundred for it, if you had the amount today, in cash?”

  “Well,” the salesman stalled nervously, “it’s possible. I’ll have to ask my supervisor to—” He stopped talking.

  “If you need approval from someone else, then please, submit my offer. It’s quite serious, I assure you.” Saint-Germain seemed unaffected by the heat; his clothes were elegant and un-rumpled, and his face was completely dry. “Four thousand three hundred dollars in cash by three this afternoon.”

  The salesman was flustered. “That’s a considerable sum,” he said nervously.

  “Is it,” Saint-Germain said as if without interest. “I will take your word for it. It is an amount I have to hand; if you will accept it, we can conclude the negotiation this afternoon, and you will enjoy your commission.”

  The salesman coughed. “I’ll talk to my superior as soon as he returns from lunch.” He put his hands together, rubbing the palms as if to start a fire.

  “When will that be?” Saint-Germain asked.

  “Two o’clock?” The salesman lowered his voice. “He sometimes takes a late lunch, and he did today. If you don’t mind waiting twenty minutes? He’ll be back and then I can submit this offer to him. If it were up to me, I’d say yes right away, but…”

  “But?” Saint-Germain prompted when the salesman faltered.

  “Any sale over a thousand dollars has to have his approval.” He swallowed deeply. “I don’t know what to say besides wait.”

  “Twenty minutes, you say?” Saint-Germain inquired.

  “Thirty at the most” The salesman patted the Packard fondly. “It’s a really wonderful car. If you want to take it for a test-drive, you may, but I have to ride along. You understand, a car this valuable, it can’t be let out without someone from the dealership to keep track of it, and to vouch for it in case anything happens.” He tried to show an ingratiating smile and only managed to look as if his feet hurt.

  “I do understand,” said Saint-Germain, only a hint of irony in his voice. “And I am willing to leave a surety deposit with you—say five hundred dollars?—while I take it for a test; alone.” He let the salesman consider his offer, then went on, “I will endeavor to have the auto back here in fifteen minutes, twenty at the most.”

  The salesman, who made three hundred dollars in a good month, stared at the black-clad foreigner. He hadn’t seen anyone handle money the way this fellow did since before the Crash, and it took him aback. “Five hundred?”

  “Toward the purchase, of course,” said Saint-Germain at his blandest.

  “Of course,” said the salesman, recovering himself enough to behave as if such offers were common occurrences. “Five hundred surety and you’ll be back in fifteen to twenty minutes.”

  “You may ride with me, if the amount isn’t sufficient.” He managed to appear more willing than he was.

  “Five hundred is a lot of money,” said the salesman, again wiping his brow.

  “Well and good,” said Saint-Germain. “It should persuade you: I am sincere.” He looked at the auto again. “It is elegant.”<
br />
  “Servo-assisted drum brakes on all four wheels, semi-floating rear axle,” the salesman agreed, misunderstanding the compliment. “Top speed is just over one hundred miles an hour. Passenger windscreens, as well as for the driver. Eight coats of paint, each hand-polished. Same with the chrome. Six-volt electrical system. It weighs around two tons. Two spare tires. You can almost put a piano in the trunk. And the backseat compartment is thirty percent larger than in most cars.” His recitation seemed to steady him a bit and he took a deep breath. “It’s the best we have on the floor.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Saint-Germain, his attention directed to the overhead fans again. “I do want to drive it before I spend all this money on it.” The money meant little to him, but it clearly meant a great deal more to the salesman.

  The salesman laughed a little. “Leave your five hundred here and I’ll explain it all to my boss if he gets back before you do. Just remember, we have all the paperwork here. You can’t drive very far without proof of ownership.” As a joke it fell flat; as a warning it was a great success.

  “I have no wish to abscond with such an automobile—it is far too conspicuous.” Saint-Germain opened the driver’s door and got in, noticing how well-appointed the interior was. “Very nice,” he said as he noticed the salesman looking at him nervously.

  “For a car like this, we recommend insurance,” the salesman added. “It’s a good-sized investment and you want to protect it.”

  “I gather it can carry fairly heavy loads,” said Saint-Germain as he pressed the ignition and heard the engine purr into life. He put his valise on the seat beside him.

  “It can. As you see, the passenger compartment is larger than most. They like these cars for grand occasions.” He coughed a bit nervously. “The five hundred?”

  “Oh,” said Saint-Germain as he took his black Florentine-leather wallet out of his inner breast-pocket and pulled out five 100-dollar bills; the salesman clasped them to his chest as if he feared a sudden wind might blow them away. “And here,” he added, giving him a card for J. Harold Bishop of Homer Bishop Beatie Wentworth & Culpepper. “My local attorney’s card. In case anything should happen.”

  The salesman took the card gingerly, and read the name. “Pretty classy lawyers; they handle all the bigwigs,” he said.

  “So I understand,” Saint-Germain responded without concern. “Where may I drive out? Is there a special door?”

  The salesman motioned toward the large, double-glass doors in the front of the building. “This way. There’s a driveway just beyond.”

  Saint-Germain had noticed it coming in, and he nodded as he eased the big auto into gear. It moved forward with stately grace and a rumble of power that he found reassuring. He drove very slowly, so that the salesman could get ahead of him and open the doors while he got a feel for the auto. As he eased his way out into the street, he waved to the salesman, then rolled down the window so he could raise his arm to signal for a right turn, waiting for a gap in the vehicles on the street. The big Packard responded smoothly, and as Saint-Germain changed gears, he was reassured that he did not need to double-clutch. It was hot in the sunlight, and Saint-Germain was grateful for his native earth lining the soles of his shoes; there was a hint of the stockyards in the sluggish breeze that shoved at the heavy air. Joining the flow of traffic, he headed toward the lakefront, matching his speed to that of the autos around him. The pace was alternately slack and brisk with occasional snarls at major intersections, in spite of or because of the traffic lights, and Saint-Germain took care to make the most of the movements of the autos and lorries around him, maneuvering in the European fashion through the Chicago streets. He paid close attention to the way in which the Packard turned, how quickly it picked up speed, what amount of sway it had on corners: he was quickly satisfied with the auto. Glancing at his watch, he decided it was time to head back toward the showroom, and he signaled for a left, crossing the thoroughfare on the light just ahead of a Chevrolet; its rumble-seat was filled with four children in party clothing.

  The salesman was pacing nervously, his collar noticeably wilted, as Saint-Germain drove back in through the open doors. He did his best to smile ingratiatingly, and looked uneasily at his watch. “Not quite twenty minutes.”

  “Just as we agreed,” said Saint-Germain as he brought the Packard to a halt and set the hand-brake, then picked up his small valise.

  “Well?” The salesman could not contain himself any longer. “What do you think?”

  “It’s an excellent vehicle, and handles very well, particularly for being such a heavy automobile. If you will let me inspect the motor and read the rest of the specifications for it?” He got out of the auto and closed the door. “I want to know what manner of machine I’m purchasing, and what modifications are possible.”

  “Modifications?” the salesman exclaimed. “To this car?”

  “Yes,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Why would you want to modify this car?” The salesman was looking warily about, as if he suspected Saint-Germain of nefarious intentions.

  Saint-Germain gave a little sigh. “I would like to add a second fuel tank; I am planning to drive extensively and I have no wish to be caught miles away from any gasoline simply because the tank could not contain sufficient—”

  The salesman smiled again. “Oh. Well, yes. I think there is a standard augmentation still available for the car. I don’t know what it would cost, or how long it would take to install, this being a hand-made vehicle and all. But I’d be happy to find out.”

  “If you would, please,” said Saint-Germain as he watched a globose fellow with a sweating, pumpkin-shaped head trundle toward them; he assumed this must be the supervisor, finally back from his lunch.

  “Good afternoon, good afternoon,” the fat man said, holding out a massive paw. “I hear you’re interested in our piece de resistance.” He pronounced the words as if they were English. “I’m sure Ronweicz told you what it costs. Daniel Hirshbach, at your service.”

  “Ferenc Ragoczy.” They shook hands. “That he did, and it seems a reasonable price,” said Saint-Germain, noticing that the supervisor was startled, a response he quickly concealed. “I can give you cash today for the vehicle, providing I can arrange for a minor modification in the automobile.”

  “Modifications can be expensive,” said the supervisor. “And they often take time to get done.”

  “The price of what I would like added to the auto is what Mr. Ronweicz is finding out for me now,” said Saint-Germain, his urbanity unruffled but with an underlying decisiveness that impressed the supervisor and silenced him. “I will make the arrangements for the alterations as soon as I have title to the Packard.”

  “If you insist,” said the supervisor, unable to conceal his disappointment, for he would have liked to have been able to charge a service fee for arranging the changes made to the Packard. “So,” he went on with forced geniality, “you really want to buy this baby?”

  “Yes. Mr. Hirshbach, I do.” Saint-Germain favored the man with a direct look. “I also wish to arrange for registration and insurance for it, which I trust you may do for me?”

  “We have an insurance agent on the floor, yes,” said Hirshbach. “The state forms are all in my office. We can attend to this as soon as you like.” He lifted his bushy eyebrows as if he were still uncertain that Saint-Germain would go through with the purchase.

  “That suits me very well; I am prepared to conclude the … ah … deal now,” said Saint-Germain, slipping his valise under his arm again, and glancing toward the offices at the rear of the showroom. “If it is convenient?”

  “Oh. Yes.” He started to walk, then slowed. “Don’t you want to wait until you find out how much the alterations are going to cost?”

  “It’s immaterial to me. I only want some sense of the price,” said Saint-Germain, continuing toward the office.

  Hirshbach shook his heavy head. “You Europeans. You don’t know how hard it’s been here in Am
erica.”

  “As you don’t know what Europe has endured of late,” said Saint-Germain, then added, “Why should you.”

  “Yes,” Hirshbach agreed, not understanding Saint-Germain’s intent. “America has her own problems to solve. It doesn’t do any good to get involved in the rest of the world’s troubles.” He reached ahead to open his office door, and indicated a ladder-back chair facing the big desk that occupied most of the room. “Sit. Sit. I’ll just get out the papers…” For a large man he was very light on his feet; he glided behind the desk and dropped into the big oaken chair and opened one of the drawers, taking out papers with carbon sheets attached between them. He rolled these into his large Royal typewriter and hit the carriage return until he was at the right line. “Your name, please, last name first, and spell it.”

  “Ragoczy: R-A-G-O-C-Z-Y, Ferenc: F-E-R-E-N-C,” he responded, watching Hirshbach’s sausage-like fingers work the keys as delicately as dancers. “It’s Hungarian.”

  “Address?”

  Saint-Germain used his Chicago attorney’s office—which he had arranged earlier—as his registration address. He was about to open his valise when Ronweicz tapped on the door.

  “The Studebaker dealer on Michigan says the second gas tank will run you about two hundred twenty-five dollars, with installation. He can do the job day after tomorrow. I told him that would be okay?” He did his best to maintain his affability, but his nervousness was apparent; he was afraid he was going to lose the commission for this sale to Hirshbach.