The hotel staff is being questioned, but so far no one seems to have noticed anything untoward in the Commodore Suite yesterday afternoon. I don’t like to think that this was an inside job, but it could be, and I’m proceeding with my interrogation of the room service and housekeeping staffs. It could be that one of them is trying to shore up the family finances through theft, or has desperate relatives who have turned to stealing. It wouldn’t be the first time. If I can get any kind of break in this case, I’ll let you know—confidentially, of course.
If circumstances should require it, I’ll assign more men to the case; if not, I’ll leave well enough alone unless you should ask me to reconsider. These kinds of things will happen from time to time, and it makes no sense to let them become too important. Until we see a repeat of this crime, I will not rank it as high priority.
Sincerely,
James O’Neil
Detective Inspector, SFPD
chapter seven
“Come in, come in!” shouted Carlo Pietragnelli from his porch as Saint-Germain pulled into the driveway curve in his new silver-grey Pierce-Arrow; steadily falling rain gave the whole house a drowned look, fading the color to a pale sepia, turning the windows to dark sockets, and making the trees seem darker by contrast. “Mille grazie per quest’ favor’. But I should never have asked you to come.”
Saint-Germain got out, and rushed toward the house, Rogerio close behind him. Water splashed with every step, and by the time they were in the shelter of the porch, their shoes and trouser-cuffs were soaked. In spite of feeling a bit queasy, Saint-Germain preserved his genial demeanor. “How do I find you, Signor Pietragnelli?”
“Very well, and then again, not so. I am restless in spirit. The power is out, so I cannot listen to the radio; the telephone is still working, which is a blessing. I have spoken to my son, Massimo, already.” He held the front door wide. “Your company is very welcome. Yours too, Mr. Rogers.”
“Thank you,” said Saint-Germain, tugging out of his overcoat and taking off his dripping hat. “What appalling weather.”
“It’s hard to believe it was over eighty-five yesterday. October is often thus. It may be warm again one more time before winter. Thank my good Saints, all my harvest is in and the crush complete. Now all I have to do is watch the progress of fermentation and aging.” Pietragnelli indicated the parlor. The house was dim, glowing in the pale light of kerosene lamps, and the fireplace was stacked with logs merrily alight. “I have a fire going. You’ll warm up quickly. The house isn’t cold yet.” He helped Rogerio out of his raincoat and hung it beside Saint-Germain’s on the coat-tree near the front door, and placed his hat on the rack next to Saint-Germain’s. “I have some mulled wine in the kitchen. Would you like a mug of it? It’s warming and delicious, if I say it myself.” He glanced at Saint-Germain. “I will not offer any to you; you will only refuse it.”
“Alas,” said Saint-Germain.
Rogerio sighed. “I must also decline,” he said. “But don’t let us keep you from enjoying the drink yourself.”
Pietragnelli lifted his hands into the air to show his helplessness. “Why do you invest in my business if you don’t drink the product?”
“Ah, but many others do, and you make it so well. I admire quality, whether I actually use it or not,” said Saint-Germain, and went to the Chickering cabinet grand; he touched the keys and was surprised to find it properly tuned. “Would you mind if I play? I haven’t had much opportunity recently, and I miss—”
“Ti prego,” said Pietragnelli gallantly. “I will have Mrs. Barringstone bring in a carafe of mulled wine, and perhaps Mr. Rogers will change his mind.” He rocked back on his heels, then headed for the kitchen, calling for his cook.
Saint-Germain sat down on the piano-bench and ran a series of arpeggios to limber up his hands. When he was satisfied, he began with an ambitious little Rondo by Czerny, then moved on to a Chopin Ballade. When he finished, he turned to see Pietragnelli sitting on the edge of an overstuffed chair, his face rapt. “Thank you for permitting me to play.”
“You need not cease on my account,” said Pietragnelli. “I do not play, although my daughter Angelina does. She visits once a month—she has a job in Oakland—and I keep it tuned for her. It is a pity she hasn’t more opportunity to play, but she has no desire to be a professional musician, not in these times.” He made a troubled gesture, revealing more complex emotions, and poured more mulled wine into his mug. “Music is the solace of the soul.”
“Yes, it is,” Saint-Germain agreed, and played a progression of chords. “It’s a very nice instrument,” he said sincerely, then studied Pietragnelli’s face more narrowly. “Why did you want me to come today? Do you have more trouble?”
“You mean midnight harvesters? No; all the grapes are in, thank God, and I have men to guard my cellars at night. No one has been bold enough to try to steal a barrel, not yet. No, it isn’t that.” He drank a bit of his mulled wine. “I have been receiving complaints from the Leonardis.” He pointed in the direction of their land. “I know I’ve mentioned them before. They’re very inclined to blame me for their troubles, and to suspect everything I do as having an ulterior motive, although I have done my utmost to be a good neighbor to them. They are always looking for something to say about me that discredits me, and never more so than now.”
“You bought some of their land a few years ago, didn’t you?” Saint-Germain asked. “I recall you said something about that in one of your letters.”
“Yes. It was the only thing I could do to help them at the time, since they wouldn’t accept a loan, much less a gift. They were about to lose everything, so I paid as nearly top dollar as I could afford for a third of their acreage and they were able to keep their vineyard and the remaining vines, and the winery. I didn’t expect gratitude, but I hoped they would not resent me for doing it.” Pietragnelli’s bright little eyes clouded briefly. “The boys are especially bitter about what I did.”
“They have boys? Didn’t you mention them before?” Saint-Germain asked, and went on, “How old are these boys?”
“Oliver is nineteen, just a year out of high school; Arnold is seventeen, and he’ll graduate next spring. They are both still with their parents, and are supposed to be helping out with their wine-making, but they don’t do much work that I can see.” He frowned. “They call themselves Leonard, not Leonardi. They say that Italians are a bastard people, even though they are half-Italian themselves. They shame their father.”
“And what is their complaint just now?” Saint-Germain watched Pietragnelli squirm before he summoned up an answer.
“They—as we have all done—have lost some of their grapes to the midnight harvest, and they say I have caused the thefts. They are convinced that their losses have been greater than mine, and nothing anyone can say has changed their minds. The thefts have been the same for all of us, but they believe that they have been more deeply wronged. They say my policy of employing only men with families has led to more theft on their property, since unmarried men are as desperate as married ones, and more inclined to break the law. I do not offer work to such men, so they are more inclined to rob, or that is what they are saying.” He had been speaking very rapidly, and now he forced himself to slow down. “I don’t know if you can do anything about this trouble. The Leonardis are not going to listen to any opinion that does not agree with theirs, and you would be considered tainted because you have done business with me for so long. They say I have brought trouble to them, that if I employed single men as well as married men, they would not steal. They claim I can afford to provide jobs for dozens of men, although I cannot, even if I had work for dozens of men to do. And some of the thieves are no more than criminals in any case, and they do not seek jobs, only opportunities. So the Leonardi sons say I have left them and all the farmers around Geyserville without protection from the midnight harvesters. They are very angry.”
“But that’s foolishness,” said Saint-Germain. “If they are w
orried about idleness, do they have any idea how you are to afford to employ all these men, and keep them busy once you have employed them?”
“I don’t know,” Pietragnelli exclaimed, turning his eyes upward. “I have tried to do as much as I can. The Leonardis employ only three men, and they do not give them a place to live—they cannot afford it. They have no accommodations for wives or children.” He glowered in the direction of the nearest lamp. “I don’t expect them to do what I do, but I wish they would not carp about what I do, whether they agree with it or not. I mean them no harm.”
“I gather something has happened to make the situation worse, or you wouldn’t have called me,” said Saint-Germain.
“Something has happened,” Pietragnelli said, and took a long moment before going on. “Thomas Leonardi has filed a grievance with Will Sutton—the deputy sheriff in Healdsburg?—claiming that I am deliberately creating trouble so that I can compel my neighbors to sell their land to me for reduced prices; I had a call from Will yesterday about it. He said he thinks it’s nonsense, but he’s afraid it could mean problems, all the same. I asked him what he has to do now. He isn’t willing to do more than file the papers with the sheriff, and he warned me that it could lead to court appearances, to defend my actions, or show that the grievance is without merit.” He took a long sip of mulled wine. “I fear Sutton may be right.”
Saint-Germain considered what he had heard. “Have your neighbors been harder hit by thefts than you have?”
“Hiro Yoshimura certainly has, and Alphonse del Castro, but they are not vintners—they grow vegetables, and there is a greater demand for vegetables. Neither of them has complained about my policy, but that means little.” Pietragnelli sighed heavily. “I have talked to them both, and I have sent my men to help guard their fields, but the thieves are patient, and they strike late at night. We’ve routed some of them, but not nearly enough.”
“And you say it is the Leonardis who are complaining, not Yoshimura or del Castro,” Saint-Germain remarked. “How odd.”
“They believe they must speak against me,” said Pietragnelli. “That is what I have come to realize, little as I want to. What man likes to think his neighbors wish him ill?”
“Most of us would prefer to have it otherwise,” Saint-Germain said, his memories filled with painful reminders of when that had not been possible for him.
“So I have said, many times,” Pietragnelli declared. “I have tried to make the most of my good fortune, yes, but I have wanted to share it with my family and neighbors, as an honorable man should. Thomas Leonardi used to be my friend; not so much his wife—she is from Scotland and thinks men should be taciturn. But I do not find her as objectionable as she does me.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Saint-Germain said, and attempted to discover where this was leading. “You have intimated that the Leonardi sons bear you a grudge. Do you think they are inclined to be more belligerent than they have been in the past?”
“I am afraid so. They have been attending meetings somewhere near Santa Rosa of a group of men who claim to be protecting the white race from corruption. They don’t consider Italians white, of course, or Russians, or Spaniards, or Frenchmen, or anyone they decide is not one of them. They advocate running off anyone they don’t approve of, in the name of racial purity.” He barked out a laugh. “They have been feeding on shared misery.”
“Do you suppose they are planning to do more than talk? If they are behind the grievance, they could damage you.” Saint-Germain had a sharp recollection of the Militia Christi in his palazzo in Fiorenza, and all that had come of their zeal; this was the same mentality cloaked in a different cause.
“It’s possible,” Pietragnelli said heavily. “I hope I am wrong, but after what they said to me last week, I can’t be blind to their ire, though it was their father who made the charges.”
“Have you spoken to the deputy about this?” Saint-Germain asked. He heard the wind change direction, sending the rain spattering on the French doors; he knew the drive back to San Rafael would be slow and wretched with water running on the road; luckily, his native earth was under the springs of the seat, which would reduce the vertigo running water caused him.
“Certainly. When he called me about the complaint, I told him what I knew, but I probably sounded as if I wanted to retaliate for their grievance.” He shrugged to show his frustration. “I don’t know what more I can do beyond calling you.”
“I’m glad you did,” said Saint-Germain. “It is not in your interests or mine to be bogged down in all manner of legal posturing. I don’t suppose this can be readily resolved, not as complicated as it seems to be.” He got up from the piano and went over toward the wide doorway into the entry-hall. “I wonder what we could do to lessen the animosity.”
“If you can think of something, I would be grateful,” said Pietragnelli. “I am prepared to deal with all manner of trouble, but I would prefer not to have to. I am sorry I must draw you into this, but you have a share in the winery, and if it is damaged, you will feel it as well as I.” He stared down into his mug. “I have struggled to do what I think is right. Because I have had more opportunities than some others, I have wanted to extend as much help as I could to those with fewer; when I decided to employ only men with wives and families, it was because I thought that the salary I paid would do more good that way. Thanks to you, I am able to do this, but not even your resources are infinite; I can’t afford to hire every man out of work—not even the government can do that—but so long as I can pay a hundred dollars a month, I want the money to benefit as many as possible. Am I wicked to do that?”
“You are asking the wrong man. In your shoes I would probably do the same.” Saint-Germain put his fingertips together. “But that isn’t the issue, is it: what you believe you have done correctly?—the problem is what others think you ought to have done, and how they believe it has affected them.”
“Veramente,” said Pietragnelli. “Nothing I have been able to say has persuaded the Leonardis that I do not mean them injury. And now that the midnight harvests have increased, it has only made matters worse.” He set his mug aside and rose.
“Have you spoken to any of the Leonardis since they filed their grievance?” Saint-Germain observed Pietragnelli closely.
“It was my first impulse, but I decided not to,” he admitted.
Saint-Germain nodded. “Certainly a prudent decision,” he said.
“I thought it best to talk to you first, and in person. I don’t want the switchboard operators telling everyone what we discussed. They love gossip, and as you know, they listen to everything.” Pietragnelli swung around to face Rogerio. “You have said nothing.”
“I’ve been listening,” said Rogerio.
“That’s all well and good,” Pietragnelli grumbled, “but something more is needed.”
“Yes, it is,” said Rogerio. “I am trying to decide what I might be able to do that would not make the situation worse.”
“As are we all,” said Saint-Germain. “This may require very careful negotiations.”
“Per sfortuna,” Pietragnelli muttered.
“Possibly,” said Saint-Germain. “But we should be able to avoid the worst if we plan carefully.”
“I am sorry to impose upon you so; I wish it weren’t necessary,” Pietragnelli said. “But I could think of no one else to turn to who would be in a position to help. You have an interest in the winery, and so if there is trouble, you will have to bear some of its burdens, or so you have told me. Will Sutton won’t be able to do anything, and so it seemed to me—”
“You needn’t apologize,” said Saint-Germain.
“This isn’t your battle,” Pietragnelli exclaimed, suddenly chagrined. “I could not think of anyone else to call; still, I know I should not ask you to be part of this.”
“But it is, you know,” Saint-Germain told him. “It is my battle.”
Rogerio recognized the resolve in Saint-Germain’s steady voice, and said, �
�What do you need me to do?”
Saint-Germain shook his head. “I’ll decide that once Signor Pietragnelli and I have agreed upon a strategy.” He went and drew up one of the chairs to where Pietragnelli sat. “You tell me the Leonardi sons belong to a group in Santa Rosa: what do you know about it, and what can you tell me about what the members have actually done?” He sat down and motioned to Rogerio to join them.
Pietragnelli rubbed his chin with his thick, blunt hand. “I believe they call themselves the White Legion, or some such grandiose name. They blame the terrible state of the country on all those they consider non-white. They send insulting letters to the Press-Democrat and post derogatory notices on the windows of stores and other businesses owned by those they dislike. They run advertisements saying that thus-and-such a business or farm or company is owned by non-whites. They paint mailboxes with yellow or black to warn people in the county that they have non-white neighbors. They have claimed that they have wrecked a fruit-stand ran by a Spanish family. Whether it is true or not, the fruit-stand was certainly wrecked. They also claim to have forced Mr. Wu to sell his restaurant and move back to San Francisco. Mr. Wu is gone, and, as far as I know, is not planning to return. It is a pity. His was the only good Chinese restaurant in Santa Rosa. He served wonderful food, and his prices were reasonable. You could get a whole dinner—an ample dinner—for less than a dollar a person.”
“So this White Legion may do more than talk,” said Saint-Germain. “They may actually do real damage.” He thought of the men in brown shirts in Munich, and, for a terrible moment, Laisha dead. “Groups of that kind are dangerous.”
“I fear so,” said Pietragnelli. “They also say that they will chase all non-whites out of Sonoma County. I don’t know if they will, but it is their admitted intention: everyone they decide isn’t white enough for their standards must be gotten rid of. I know this because I have read their tracts, and I know what they advocate. They had a booth at the County Fair, and they had posters saying that, with copies of their advertisements about non-whites. The men all wear blue trousers and white shirts, and they march about as if they were soldiers. Oliver Leonardi was working at the booth, handing out material and collecting donations, some as much as a dollar. A lot of men stopped at the booth and took their pamphlets.”
Midnight Harvest Page 32
