Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I should think not,” said Saint-Germain.

  “I have to ask you—I know you were asked before, but you might have remembered something since you moved here—if you noticed anything out-of-place at the Saint Francis, anyone loitering in the vicinity of your suite, or the elevators?” He pulled out a pencil and prepared to add to his notes.

  Saint-Germain thought carefully. “As I told Sergeant Roselli at the police station, I don’t recall anything that might have been the criminals preparing their theft.”

  “Did you have any guests in your suite? There might be more fingerprints that we can eliminate.” Smith held his pencil poised.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but aside from my manservant and the hotel staff, no one came into the Commodore Suite, other than myself. I haven’t been in San Francisco long enough to do any real entertaining; I haven’t met enough people.” Saint-Germain took a long moment to consider. “I know this is not the answer you want, but it is the truth.”

  Smith did not respond to the last. “What about the items stolen? Have you anything to add to the list you submitted to us?”

  “No; I’ve gone over everything, and the inventory I prepared is as complete as I can make it. There may be one or two dollars in change unaccounted for, but nothing more than that. I have a habit of leaving coins on the dresser, but I don’t keep close track of them.” He showed no sign of agitation in stating any of this, which surprised Smith.

  “It’s unusual, if you’ll pardon my saying so, for a victim of theft to be so calm about it,” Smith observed.

  “Inspector Smith, I am an exile; my native country no longer exists, and I have moved about the world since then. I fled Spain not very many months ago, having to leave behind a flourishing airplane business and two good-sized bank accounts, which were taken over by the insurrectionists. The losses I have had here—while I would rather not have had them—are what you would call small potatoes compared to what I lost in Spain.” He spoke flatly, adding, “Fortunately, most of my money is in the bank.”

  “Yes,” said Smith. “We checked with Bank of America and found out that you’re quite well-off.”

  “Luckily. It has not always been thus,” said Saint-Germain, his memories of hardships long past intruding.

  “So you don’t have anything more you want to tell me? Nothing has occurred to you since you left the hotel?” Smith put an edge in his voice; this usually brought a quick response from the people he questioned.

  Saint-Germain gave him an affable smile. “If not for your own sake, for mine, Inspector: do sit down. There’s no reason for you to stand, and it makes good sense to spare yourself discomfort.” He indicated the window seat. “Please.”

  Reluctantly Smith did as Saint-Germain asked. Little as he wanted to admit it, his back was aching more intrusively. Sighing, he settled himself on the upholstered bench; Saint-Germain was right: this felt much better. “All right. Now let me ask a few more questions.”

  “I’m at your disposal,” said Saint-Germain, a hint of amusement in his dark eyes. “I will do what I can to assist you in your inquiries.”

  “What, if anything, did you tell the hotel staff about any valuables you had in your room?” Now that he heard himself, he thought he sounded foolish.

  “I said nothing; I don’t make a habit of imparting such information to strangers, let alone those who might be tempted by such knowledge,” said Saint-Germain. “I also found no indication that anyone had searched the room prior to the robbery.”

  “That was going to be my next question,” said Smith. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I have lived in many places far more dangerous than this, and I have become accustomed to taking precautions,” said Saint-Germain. “My manservant will tell you the same thing, if you wish to ask him.”

  “And may I? ask him?” Smith turned the page of his notebook.

  “Of course, as soon as he returns. He’s out just now, attending to certain errands.” Saint-Germain regarded Smith. “If you like, you are welcome to wait for him, or you can arrange a time to come back, whichever suits you best.”

  “I have to get back,” said Smith. “Let me just finish up with this.”

  “As you wish,” said Saint-Germain, completely unhurried.

  “Thanks,” said Smith dryly. “I’d like to review what you were doing while the suite was being robbed.”

  “Again?” Saint-Germain said. “All right. I had come here, to this house, anticipating purchasing it. We—my manservant, Mr. Rogers, and I—drove here. We were in this house about forty-five minutes or as much as an hour. I didn’t bother to look at my watch.” He stared at the opposite wall as if hoping to find a message there that would jog his memory. “No doubt someone on this street noticed us arrive and depart. If you talk to the neighbors, someone can probably give you accurate times on the length of our stay; that’s my suggestion, in any event.” He glanced at Smith. “If the thieves were watching us, I wasn’t aware of it. They took a real chance. We might have returned much sooner.”

  “The other thefts took place while the victims were at dinner. I understand you went out in the early evening.” He looked at his notes. “The thieves might have assumed you’d gone out to dine, and went in as soon as you were gone.” That scenario certainly fit the other two break-ins. It was also a time the hotel staffs tended not to be in the guest rooms.

  “We left the hotel around six-thirty, and we returned to the Saint Francis not quite two hours later.” He paused. “I do remember saying to Mr. Rogers that I felt as if I had been watched. I had seen nothing, but…”

  “I know what it is to get those impressions,” said Smith. “Cops have to pay attention to those sensations or we get into trouble. Why would you—?”

  “I left Spain the very day their Civil War broke out,” said Saint-Germain. “If I had not paid attention to similar sensibilities, I would now be in a Spanish prison, or a grave.”

  “That would do it,” Smith allowed.

  “I was inclined to discount the feelings, thinking they were left over from Spain,” Saint-Germain went on. “I am disinclined to mention them now, because I still reckon they are more connected with Spain than anything I have experienced in America. But Mr. Rogers may mention my remark to you, and I would just as soon bring it up myself. For what worth it may be to you, I did have an intuition that I and my manservant were being observed, but by whom, or why, or even if, I cannot tell you now.” This was true enough in its way, but also intended to lessen the skepticism Smith demonstrated.

  “Something like that could make a man jumpy,” Smith said, closing his notebook. “Well, Mr. Ragoczy, that should do it for the time being.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Smith in what he hoped was an artless last thought.

  “What would that be, Inspector Smith?” Saint-Germain asked with unruffled good-nature.

  “It would be that the bank said you’re a nobleman, with a title and all that. Do you think this robbery could have anything to do with that?” He levered himself to his feet, resigning himself to the pain in his back.

  “I don’t see how,” Saint-Germain said.

  “Okay,” said Smith, and started toward the door.

  “You don’t think it has anything to do with the theft, do you, Inspector?” Saint-Germain asked as he rose.

  “I don’t know what I think,” said Smith. “I don’t know enough yet.” He opened the door and stepped out into the entry-hall. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Ragoczy.”

  “You’re welcome, Inspector Smith. I’ll tell Mr. Rogers you’ll be back to talk to him later on today.” He was about to open the front door when Smith turned to the carpet-layers, who were now almost finished with their work in the living room.

  “Did Mr. Rogers go out earlier?” The inquiry was deceptively mild, as if it was nothing more than an afterthought.

  “Yes, sir,” said Alber
t. “He’ll be back in an hour or so, he said.”

  Smith nodded. “Thanks.” He looked directly at Saint-Germain, trying to use his height against the smaller man, without success. “I’ll call back before five.”

  “I’ll make sure he’s available, Inspector,” said Saint-Germain, holding the door open for him.

  “I’d appreciate that, Mr. Ragoczy…” He hesitated. “Just what is your title?”

  There had been many of them over the millennia, but Saint-Germain answered promptly, with the one he had used most frequently for the last thousand years. “Count. Of Saint-Germain. Not that it means anything in this country.”

  “Um. Just so,” said Smith, and stalked off to his Ford.

  Saint-Germain watched him drive away; he closed the door, his demeanor thoughtful. He saw the two carpet-layers looking at him, and he said, “The police are investigating a robbery that took place in my hotel suite.”

  “Un-huh,” said Steve.

  “I requested that I be kept up-to-date on their progress,” said Saint-Germain, “and I’ve offered to help them in any way I can,” he added, looking at Steve.

  “Cops!” said Steve, then looked away, as if he had revealed too much.

  Saint-Germain stepped into the living room and looked down at the carpet. “You’ve done an excellent job.” He started back toward the stairs. “Will you be working on these next?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Albert. “The runner is on the next floor, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Next to the newel post at the top of the flight,” said Saint-Germain.

  “We’ll take care of it, sir,” said Albert with a warning glance at his nephew.

  “I have no doubt,” said Saint-Germain, and went up the stairs, all the way to the attic, where Rogerio found him almost two hours later.

  “I’m sorry I took so long,” said Rogerio as he shut the door behind him.

  “No matter. I trust you made good progress?” His athanor was complete and he had set up two trestle tables. There were half-a-dozen boxes set under the tables. “It’s times like these that I miss my red lacquer chest.”

  “It came through a great deal,” said Rogerio.

  “So it did, in wear and time.” Saint-Germain cocked his head. “An Inspector Smith called earlier today; he had follow-up questions to ask, concerning the ransacking of the suite. He’ll be back later this afternoon, to talk with you.”

  “Have they made any progress?” Rogerio asked, hearing the wary note in Saint-Germain’s voice.

  “It doesn’t appear so,” said Saint-Germain. “I wonder if they suspect the theft was arranged, possibly as an insurance fraud or something of the sort. There have been two more such thefts, as the papers reported.”

  “It’s a pity that we had to give them our fingerprints,” said Rogerio.

  “Yes, it is,” said Saint-Germain. “But refusal to provide them would have created more doubts than letting them take them. We must hope they will not keep them on file too long.”

  “So we must,” Rogerio agreed.

  “This compulsion to gather information on all manner of people—it could lead to problems in the future.” Saint-Germain knelt to open a crate labeled alembics. “At least my waxwork is well-hidden.”

  “And you have an explanation for having it,” Rogerio added.

  “Yes. But I would prefer not to have to use it.” Saint-Germain carefully removed the largest of the three alembics and put it on the table.

  Rogerio watched him. “What bothers you?”

  “I wish I could say,” Saint-Germain told him slowly. “I continue to have this sense of being watched, of being pursued.”

  “Then be very careful,” said Rogerio, who had come to trust Saint-Germain’s intuition in their long association.

  “I plan to be,” said Saint-Germain. “Be circumspect yourself.” He straightened up. “How is the carpeting coming?”

  Recognizing this as the end of their discussion, Rogerio said, “They are almost through with the stairs. I’m going to prepare a tea for them—coffee and sandwiches—and I’ll make sure they’re paid in full. If they still return tomorrow, our carpeting should be finished by tomorrow night.”

  “Very good. Then the furniture can be delivered next Monday. I’ll call the shops and make arrangements.” Saint-Germain bent to retrieve another, smaller alembic. “In another day or two, I should be ready to work here.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to your work, unless you need anything more?” Rogerio was almost to the door.

  “One thing: will you let me know when Inspector Smith returns? I want to know what his secondary purpose is, if we can learn it without difficulty.”

  “Are you certain there is a secondary purpose?” Rogerio asked.

  “No,” Saint-Germain said.

  “All right,” said Rogerio with a slight smile. He opened the door and let himself out of the attic. He had to step over Steve on the lower stairs, and as he did, he asked, “When do you think you’ll be done?”

  “Half-an-hour, an hour—why?” he asked.

  “Don’t talk to him like that,” Albert warned, going on to Rogerio. “You know how young men are these days. They see their chances gone before they have an opportunity of their own.”

  “Not without good cause,” Steve grunted, using carpet-tacks to keep secure the runner to the stairs. The sound of his hammer punctuated his words.

  “No, not without cause,” said Rogerio, and got off the stairs, bound for the kitchen, where he put the coffeepot on the stove to percolate, then took a loaf of bread from the refrigerator and began to slice it for sandwiches. He put together an egg salad for filling, and cut off a few slices of summer sausage. By the time the coffee was ready, he had two sandwiches made and was preparing two more. Working swiftly, he set out a tray for the men, put out the food, coffee, sausage, cream, and sugar, then carried this into the dining room, calling out, “It’s almost four. I have a tea—or a coffee—for you.”

  Albert looked up from his labors, letting out a long breath. “You’re a very considerate man, Mr. Rogers, no doubt about that”

  “My employer is,” said Rogerio. “I’m sorry the dining table hasn’t been delivered, and that there’s no place for you to sit, but I hope you’ll be willing to sit on the floor again.” He set the tray down. “I’ll come back for this in twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks,” said Steve as if he hated to make such a concession to good manners. “Once we finish up, we’ll get our equipment out of your way.”

  “No rush,” said Rogerio, going back toward the kitchen to take the freshly killed and dressed chicken out of the refrigerator. This would be his supper; he took the only knife from the drawer by the stove and began to cut up the bird, then expertly sliced meat from the bones to eat. Being a ghoul, he ate only raw meat, but he disliked dining like a savage, so he sat at the small table and used a fork and knife. He took his time, and by the time he was done, he saw from the clock on the wall it was time to reclaim the tray.

  “Doesn’t it ever bother you?” Steve asked Rogerio when he had finished the last drop of his coffee and set the mug on the tray.

  “Doesn’t what bother me?” Rogerio asked.

  “Always being at the beck and call of your boss,” said Steve, ignoring the angry glance from his uncle.

  “Why should that bother me?” Rogerio asked.

  “Steve,” Albert said in a warning voice.

  Steve plunged ahead. “Because no time is your own. You can’t go home at the end of the day, and do whatever you like. That’s going to change in the future: you’ll see.”

  Rogerio contemplated the earnest young man, and said in a level way, “It may change, but I will not.” He considered his next words carefully. “I find it no imposition to serve le Comte. I have done it for a very long time, and I am used to it I do not feel confined, for he is a very reasonable man. If I wished to find another place to live, he would make that possible: he has done so in the past. At present it suits hi
m and me to share this house. At another time, in another place, it will be otherwise.”

  “And it saves him money,” said Steve as if this clinched his opinion.

  “It may do; I don’t know, nor do I care,” said Rogerio.

  “I’ll bet he does,” said Steve. “Rich men always care.”

  “Steven Albert Morris, you’ll hold your tongue if you know what’s good for you.” Albert turned an apologetic gaze on Rogerio. “I’m sorry. Ever since he started earning a hundred bucks a month, he’s been acting as if he were Mr. GotRocks. Not that it isn’t good wages, but it’s not real money, is it?”

  “It’s as real as any,” said Rogerio. “But if you mean it’s a vast amount, no, it isn’t.”

  Albert seemed relieved. “There. I told you.”

  “I’m making as much as Pop’s doing at Treasure Island,” said Steve, a bit defiantly. “And there’s going to be more opportunity for men like me. It’s going to be a better time ahead.”

  Before his nephew could launch into his favorite diatribe, Albert stood up. “We’ve got work to do yet, Stevie, and the sooner we get it done, the sooner we get to leave.” He looked over his shoulder toward the stairs. “We’ll be back in the morning, at eight You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Then I won’t,” said Rogerio, taking the tray into the kitchen. He set the dishes on the sink-side counter to be washed, and disposed of the chicken-bones as well as the left-over bits of crusts from the sandwiches into the garbage pail out on the enclosed rear porch; the sky was almost dark and the wind had begun to pick up. He had tied an apron around his waist and was filling the sink with hot water and Ivory flakes when he heard the door-knocker, and a few moments later, Albert called out, “That policeman’s back. He wants to talk to you.” Rogerio turned off the water, wiped his hands, and went to meet Inspector Smith.