Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I wonder if anyone here has any idea how much those bridges will change the city?” Saint-Germain mused.

  “Probably not,” said Rogerio.

  Saint-Germain turned away from the window. “I assume you have the key to the house—when do you propose we go look at it?”

  “Around sunset, or a little after. I would recommend going over to the house while most of the neighbors are eating dinner. We’ll be less apt to attract attention.”

  “You have an excellent point, old friend,” said Saint-Germain. “And I’ll inform the front desk that I’ll be leaving in two weeks.”

  “Best wait until the offer is accepted.” He reached into his jacket-pocket and drew out the terms of sale, which he handed to Saint-Germain. “If the agent says the price is acceptable, then you can deal with this at the bank tomorrow.”

  Saint-Germain took the papers and began to peruse them. “What is this clause about only selling the house to Caucasians?”

  “The agent said it was one of the owners’ stipulations. The courts have upheld such terms in the past.”

  “Astonishing. I would expect that in Europe, but here?” He continued reading.

  “The Yellow Menace,” Rogerio suggested.

  “Perhaps; it may be a measure against all outsiders,” said Saint-Germain, a world-weary note in his voice. When he had finished reading, he put the papers down, and said, “I don’t see anything too unreasonable, aside from that one proviso.”

  “I suspect you’ll find it or something similar in most conditions of sale; the contracts for Sea Cliff had the same clause in them,” said Rogerio. “The agent left me with the impression I should expect it in most of the city. It’s supposed to preserve the character of neighborhoods.”

  “Ah,” said Saint-Germain, an ironic smile on his lips. “Well, let us plan to leave here at six-forty. That should put us at the house around seven.”

  “Very good,” said Rogerio. “I’m going out to the butcher; I have two ducks on order. I’ve been feeling hungry today.”

  Saint-Germain gestured his dismissal and went back to the dining table to resume work on his letters. By the time Rogerio returned, he had finished all but one, and while Rogerio went about preparing a meal, Saint-Germain carried his letters down to the front desk, sending four of the letters by airmail—two to England, one to Canada, and one to Peru—and two by regular post—to Chicago and Truckee—then he returned to his suite and took down his black camel-hair overcoat and gave it a good brushing.

  At six-thirty, Rogerio came out of the kitchenette and said, “Which car shall we use? Yours or mine?”

  “Yours, I think. An Auburn is less remarkable than a Packard Twelve.” He sighed once. “I suppose I would be well-advised to purchase something less conspicuous; it attracts far too much attention.”

  “I’m sure a dealer would give you a good price on it,” said Rogerio as he held the overcoat for Saint-Germain.

  “Let me think about it, at least for a day or two.” He went to the door and took his key from the occasional table just inside it “Perhaps Rowena has recommendations she’d like to make.”

  “Ask her,” Rogerio suggested as he stepped out of the suite behind Saint-Germain, and after the door was locked, he followed his employer to the elevator and rode down to the black-and-gold columned lobby. “The car is at the garage on Mason,” he said, stepping out into the gathering dusk and the busy activity around Union Square.

  They drove out Geary to Masonic, went left on Masonic to Haight, retracing the route that Rogerio had traveled earlier that day. As they climbed the hill to Clarendon Court, Rogerio pointed out the various features in the area. As he parked in front of the house, he noticed that the front curtains in the main window of the house across the street moved. “Someone’s watching,” he said to Saint-Germain.

  “Probably more than one someone,” said Saint-Germain as he got out of the car. “I like the look of the place.”

  “I thought you might, it’s elegant without being conspicuous; I saw some of that sort over near the Presidio,” said Rogerio as he went up the three shallow steps to the front door and opened the lock. “They have the new push-button switches rather than the twists.” He demonstrated this by punching on the light in the entry-hall; a low-wattage bulb came on overhead. “All the switches are like this. Half the sockets have provisions for two plugs.”

  “We might want to ascertain how much power these sockets will support,” Saint-Germain said as he went into the living room. “Very nice.”

  “The dining room is on the left,” Rogerio said. “With the kitchen through the swinging door. One of the bathrooms is on the other side of the inner dining-room wall. You reach it from the study or the kitchen.” He nodded toward the stairs that rose in the juncture between living room and dining room. “The bedrooms are upstairs, and the attic is above them all.”

  “Conventional but sound,” Saint-Germain approved as he went through into the kitchen. He saw the stove, noting it was more than ten years old, and the refrigerator, also an older model. “We’ll need new appliances, I think.”

  “As you say,” Rogerio remarked.

  “And I see there is a floor-heater. I suppose the unit is in the basement?”

  “Yes. And there are three registers. One in the living room, one in the breakfast nook, and one just outside the bathroom. Each is operated by a key, and a match,” said Rogerio, who had followed him into the kitchen. “With all three registers on, the whole house can be heated efficiently, including the upstairs.”

  “Very good,” said Saint-Germain, and looked about for the way to the basement.

  “You go to the left. There’s a door that opens on to the stairs down. The other door leads to the pantry and porch; and the stairs down to the garden,” Rogerio explained.

  Saint-Germain opened the door and prepared to descend. “You say it is finished?”

  “Yes. The floor is in sections and the sections can be lifted. The intention was for easy repair in case of earthquake, but it serves your purposes quite well.” He punched on the light at the top of the stairs. “I think you’ll see it can be—”

  “Yes. I see. There’s a door to the outside?”

  “On the right, at the back. The enclosed porch steps are immediately beside it,” Rogerio told him.

  “I think it is suitable. Let me see the attic,” Saint-Germain said, climbing the basement stairs and turning out the light as he reached the top. “This door locks, I see.”

  “So does the pantry door,” said Rogerio as he held open the swinging door.

  The second floor was nicely laid out around the lightwell that went down through the center of the house. “Not lavish, but far from inadequate,” Saint-Germain said, and looked toward the attic stairs. “You said there are sockets in the attic, I recall—three of them.”

  “Yes; three, and an overhead light,” said Rogerio. “Climb up and see.”

  The attic occupied one side of the lightwell, and stood over three of the bedrooms on the floor below; the fourth bedroom and a small sunporch had been added after the house was built, but the style was the same as the rest of the building and created an expanse of roof next to the attic, which had two fan-shaped windows, one at each end of the room, and a door that gave access to the roof.

  “Oh, very good. Yes. I can see why you preferred this house,” said Saint-Germain. “This will make an admirable laboratory for me. I thank you for finding it.” He tested the roof door to make sure it was locked, then turned out the lights and shut the door before going down to join Rogerio on the second floor. “We’ve certainly lived in less convenient places.”

  “And given the reasonable price, it can be made to accommodate your needs without dramatic alteration,” Rogerio observed. “Or without attracting undue attention.”

  “A very good point,” Saint-Germain concurred. “I am beginning to share your enthusiasm for this place.”

  “There was that very nice house on Divisadero nea
r Broadway, but it was a trifle … grand,” said Rogerio. “And the one in Sea Cliff was much too near the water.”

  “At another time, they might be preferable to this, but in this country at this time, it is better to choose a less arresting place,” Saint-Germain said.

  “Then the offer goes forward,” said Rogerio. “I’ll call the agent this evening. And tomorrow we can take care of matters at the bank. Once we have title, it should be an easy matter to occupy the premises.”

  “Yes. It is more than time to be gone from the hotel; we’re much too noticeable there. I am thankful to Rowena for allowing me to store some of my chests of earth and other possessions at her house, where they attract no unwanted attention, but I would prefer not to abuse the privilege.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t mind,” said Rogerio.

  “Possibly; but I do. I think removing my native earth from her house would be prudent.” He went down the stairs and out into the living room. “Yes. This will do very well.”

  Rogerio waited. “Is there anything more?”

  “Not that occurs to me just now.” He went to turn out the light in the dining room, then did the same in the living room. “I suppose the street is not busy.”

  “Hardly,” said Rogerio. “The whole neighborhood is quiet” He opened the front door. “You should find a good deal of privacy without too much effort.”

  “Which was less likely in the other houses you saw,” Saint-Germain suggested lightly.

  “Yes. I’d have to say privacy was the deciding factor. Sutro Forest is a real asset. If you need to leave the house without being noticed, the forest will provide superior cover.” He took care to lock the door and went back to his Auburn, letting Saint-Germain into the passenger seat once he was ready to drive.

  “Wise, as always,” said Saint-Germain. “I hope the promise of cash will speed up the acquisition of the house.”

  “You seem uneasy about it,” said Rogerio as he started to drive away from Clarendon Court.

  “I am,” said Saint-Germain. “I can’t get the notion out of my mind that I am under scrutiny, and that troubles me.”

  “But who would be watching you?” Rogerio wondered as he turned onto Stanyan Street.

  “I have no idea; that is the most perplexing aspect of it all.” He had not worn a hat, and now he ran his hand through the close-cut waves of his dark hair.

  Rogerio had enough experience of Saint-Germain’s sensitivities not to dismiss this example as unfounded. “If not the hotel staff, who, and why?”

  “That is what I can’t determine,” said Saint-Germain, trying to make himself comfortable in Rogerio’s car. “I would like to be convinced I am being foolish, but—” He stopped speaking suddenly.

  “But?” Rogerio prompted as he turned onto Haight Street, the Auburn’s headlights picking out three ragged men holding up a sign offering to work for a meal.

  “I don’t know. It may be nothing more than the general air of concern in the area regarding the new bridges, for there are rumors that they won’t be safe, or that they will be the objects of demonstrations. The Mayor certainly doesn’t want another Bloody Thursday on his hands, nor does Governor Merriam. That may be what bothers me, remembering Saint Petersburg and Munich, but it may be something more specific and current.” His voice dropped, as if weighted down by his memories.

  “I’ll see if the agent can move quickly on this purchase,” said Rogerio, honking his horn at two young boys on bicycles hurtling across the street without regard to traffic.

  “Thank you. I admit it reassures me to know that we’ll be a bit less visible than we have been.” He lapsed into silence, and a while later he said, “It isn’t that most of these people fear my nature—the vast majority of them think vampires are creatures of legend and cinema, something to shudder over but not to fear. But there are scientists who would be intrigued by my longevity, if nothing else, and they would like nothing better than to subject me to study and experimentation that would shame a Grand Inquisitor, but in the name of knowledge, not God. I would just as soon avoid such a development.”

  “Do you think anyone suspects anything?” Rogerio changed gears a bit too abruptly and nearly stalled his car. “You haven’t visited any of the women at the hotel in their sleep, have you?”

  “There is no reason. Rowena has been everything I could possibly want.” He watched a van laden with bundles of newspapers lumber across the street.

  “She wouldn’t reveal anything crucial about you,” said Rogerio.

  “Not willingly,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Could it be the news from Europe?” Rogerio suggested. “It isn’t very encouraging.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Saint-Germain agreed. “And I am uneasy about what I have heard. I should have had a letter from Sunbury a week ago, and it is disturbing that I haven’t, but there may be a perfectly innocent, mundane reason for the delay. I may be responding to a totality of minor uncertainties, but it may be more serious than that.” He glanced out the window again, his thoughts preoccupied.

  Rogerio said nothing more, driving to the garage on Mason Street and getting out with Saint-Germain. They went into the Saint Francis, stopping at the desk for messages before getting onto the elevator and telling the operator which floor they wanted. The elevator car rose at a dignified pace and was brought to a halt at their floor. Rogerio wished the operator a good evening and followed Saint-Germain down the corridor to their suite.

  As Saint-Germain put the key in the lock, he felt the door give, and then it swung open. Saint-Germain turned to Rogerio. “I locked this door, didn’t I?” Saint-Germain tapped the door as if to alert any occupant. He had no need to turn on the lights to see that the parlor and dining room had been ransacked. Very calmly he looked back at Rogerio. “Will you go down to the lobby and ask the manager to telephone the police?”

  Rogerio could not conceal the dismay he felt “Immediately,” he said, turning and retracing his steps to the elevator, anxiety gnawing at his thoughts like rats; whatever Saint-Germain had sensed, he had been right that they were under some kind of scrutiny. He saw an expression of annoyed inquisitiveness on the elevator operator’s face, but he paid no attention to it as he put his thoughts in order while the elevator descended to the lobby.

  TEXT OF A PRIVATE REPORT TO MAYOR ANGELO ROSSI OF SAN FRANCISCO FROM DETECTIVE INSPECTOR JAMES O’NEIL OF THE SAN FRANCISCO POLICE DEPARTMENT, PRESENTED PRIVATELY AND IN PERSON.

  October 19, 1936

  Angelo Rossi, Mayor

  City Hall

  San Francisco

  Your Honor,

  As you know, I was called to the Saint Francis night before last to investigate the pilfering in the Commodore Suite, which is presently occupied by Ferenc Ragoczy, a Hungarian with a French title: le Comte de Saint-Germain. This Ragoczy has a sizeable amount of money in deposit at the Bank of America, and is about to purchase a house in the Sutro Forest district of the city.

  I and two officers arrived at the hotel at eight thirty-three and were escorted up to the suite by the assistant manager of the Saint Francis and Ragoczy’s manservant, a fellow named Rogers. We found Ragoczy standing at the door, saying he had not gone inside once he realized that the parlor was in disarray. The assistant manager—a young fellow named Fisher-was the first man to enter the suite. The upholstery of the chairs and the two settees had been slashed and the stuffing pulled out of them. All drawers had been pulled out and their contents overturned at random onto the carpet. In the two bedrooms, the dressers, armoires, and nightstands had received the same treatment, and the mattresses had been pulled off the beds, the bedding removed, and the mattresses slashed. There is a kitchenette in the suite, and all the drawers and cabinets there had been similarly dealt with.

  My men and I kept Ragoczy and his manservant out of the suite until we had thoroughly examined the damage. I then summoned them into the suite to determine what, if anything, was missing. They conducted a complete search, and indicated t
hat so far as they could determine, approximately nine hundred dollars in cash was gone, along with a portfolio of documents and letters of no particular value beyond a personal one. There was also a small case of uncut jewels, unappraised as to worth but of considerable potential value, which Ragoczy claimed he preferred to cash when traveling, being gems and gold hold their value more consistently than currency.

  I took Ragoczy into one of the other suites that is presently empty, and I questioned him at length about his presence in San Francisco and his immediate past He explained that he had left Spain the very day their Civil War began, that his company there had been taken over by the government and that he had decided that it was prudent to put Europe behind him for a while. He has business ties to Sonoma County, and has had for twenty years and more; he offered to provide proof of this through Bank of America if we should require it He told me that he wants to expand his dealings there.

  He also claims to be an old friend of Rowena Saxon, the artist, and took advantage of his travels to visit her as well. He says she will vouch for him.

  In regard to the house he has offered for, he said since it appears he will be in California some time, he believes purchasing a house is money better-spent than in renting a hotel room or an apartment. I must admit, I see his point and the bank confirms that he can afford the purchase and a great deal more.

  I am not quite satisfied with the answers this Ragoczy has given me. He has referred me to Oscar King, the lawyer, who Ragoczy says represents him. That’s high-powered legal muscle at King Lowenthal Taylor & Frost. I can’t help but ask myself why a Hungarian businessman would need such a firm to represent him. Oscar King isn’t saying anything one way or the other except to confirm that Ragoczy is his client.

  There’s no way we can trace the cash or the jewels—if they actually exist and I’m not satisfied they do. I’ve assigned Patrolman Angus Murchison to keep an eye on this Ragoczy, at least until the Golden Gate Bridge is open, just in case. It might be a good idea to continue the surveillance beyond that date, if Murchison turns up anything suspicious. You know what these foreigners can be, no matter what claims they may have to titles and money. Many confidence men pose as displaced aristocrats.