Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Thanks,” said King with more relief than seemed warranted. “I’m going to go open another bottle of champagne.” Saying that, he toddled off.

  “Good Lord, that poor man. How mortifying for him,” Rowena said as soon as King was out of earshot.

  “Mortifying: how?” Saint-Germain asked sharply.

  “To have to deal with such a partner. What a liability to the firm; they must wish they had some way to be rid of him. And having the partner’s wife weeping in the kitchen. Dreadful! He’s probably wishing Taylor in the Polish salt mines, or Outer Mongolia. And you needn’t tell me about either place, if you please. I presume they’re both unpleasant.” Rowena resumed her meal, but slowly, her attention on other things than food.

  “The man’s a trial, no doubt, and the Kings and the firm are dealing with him as best they can,” said Saint-Germain, his frown returning as his thoughts took another turn. “What do you make of this Cenere?”

  “More to the point,” she said, “what do you make of him?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, his voice lowered and sounding troubled.

  “It could be just as you said—someone trying to get you to sign over your aircraft assembly plant to the government.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth.

  “No, I don’t think so, either,” he said when she stopped. “I’m beginning to wonder if I’m as safe here as I thought I would be.”

  “You don’t think he intends you any harm, do you? Why should he?” She looked shocked, and had a brief but stunning memory of von Wolgast in her flat in Amsterdam, his vial of pitchblende in his hand.

  “I don’t know, and until I do, I will err on the side of caution.” He gave her a reassuring smile.

  “That’s prudent,” she said dryly.

  “Yes,” he said, mischief in his voice. “I think so, too.”

  She laughed and shook her head, and let the matter go for the time being. But later that night, as he drove her home in his Pierce-Arrow, she brought it up again. “Why not meet with the man? This Cenere?” she suggested, not quite seriously.

  Saint-Germain gave a small, exasperated sigh. “Because, Rowena, if this man means me harm, the less I have to do with him the better. I’m glad he wasn’t told I’m still in San Francisco, or that I have a house on Clarendon Court. That could be an invitation to trouble.” He approached the intersection with Octavia carefully, narrowly avoiding a careening Chevrolet that came barreling down Broadway behind them, filled with young men whooping at the night.

  “Do you think you’re being overly circumspect?” She wanted him to dismiss her question as ridiculous, to reassure her that she was too timorous.

  But he answered very seriously, “I hope so. But I can’t afford to put it to the test. There’s too much at stake.”

  “You’re no help,” she said, almost hitting his arm with her small, beaded handbag. “I want you to reassure me.”

  “I don’t want you to get dragged into anything on my account. Once was enough.” He stopped at the light on Van Ness, and watched the cross-traffic with interest.

  “How long?” she asked after a short silence.

  “How long?” he echoed.

  “How long will you need before you decide how much of a risk Cenere represents?” She had opened her purse to search for her house-key. “I don’t want to fight with you, and I don’t want to be frightened.”

  “Neither do I,” he said, turning onto Hyde Street. Behind them a church-bell rang four. “I didn’t intend to bring you home so late.”

  “It’s New Year’s,” said Rowena fatalistically.

  “And January first is a holiday, isn’t it?” He noticed two couples on the sidewalk, making their way unsteadily toward the corner. “Just as well, considering.”

  “You don’t approve?” she asked, daring him to speak against the revelers.

  “I neither approve nor disapprove,” he said gently. “And I won’t be goaded into bickering with you. I know you’re troubled about Cenere, and you don’t want to have to be on guard all the time.”

  “You’d think I’d be over that. It was so long ago, and so much has happened since,” she said, touching her hair in a motion that briefly hid her face from him.

  “You haven’t been kidnapped and held as a captive, have you? That is not the sort of experience that one can forget,” he said, remembering the remote cabin where she had been held, and the thick snow all around it.

  “No,” she said, and managed a single laugh. “Once was quite enough.”

  “Yes, it was,” he said, touching his horn as a Buick shot out of a parking place without regard for traffic. “That’s why I want to take every precaution so that you don’t have to endure anything disagreeable again on my account.”

  She reached over and laid her hand on his leg. “You brought me safely out of that No one else could have done it.”

  “Possibly,” he allowed. “But you were there because of your association with me, and I will not let that happen here.” He signaled to turn onto Pacific.

  “It’s very provoking,” she told him. “You’d think there was a direct way to learn about this man.”

  “There may be, but it could mean exposure, and that is too high a price to pay for information.” He rolled up the window and slowed down as a new Cadillac wove down the street toward him. “For now, I’ll have to do all my inquiring as indirectly as possible.”

  “It sounds time-consuming and aggravating,” she said, and laughed at herself. “When I was younger, I would have found such a prospect exciting. Age really is creeping up on me.”

  He held her hand briefly, then shifted down into second gear. “That driver is too drunk to be out on the street,” he said as the Cadillac swerved past him.

  “It’s New—” she began, and stopped herself. “You’re right,” she agreed as she swung around in her seat to follow the Cadillac’s erratic progress down the street.

  “Not that matters were much better during Prohibition, from what Oscar King has told me,” Saint-Germain said.

  “I wish it weren’t so,” she said, and settled in the seat again. “But I saw more drunkenness during Prohibition than before, or since.” She twiddled her key in her fingers. “Have you made up your mind about what you’re going to do?”

  “About Cenere, you mean?” he guessed.

  “Yes.”

  “No, not yet, not entirely,” he said. “But I will shortly.”

  “If you decide to leave, will you tell me where you’re going?” She sounded forlorn.

  “I don’t plan on leaving,” he said. “Not for a while, in any case.”

  “But you could change your mind,” she murmured.

  “That is the prerogative of all humankind, vampires included.” He rolled down his window again to signal for Taylor Street “You might change your mind, as well. You may decide you would rather not spend time with me, or you’d like to go north for a time, to do more drawings, or you could accept the offer from the gallery in New York and travel there for a one-woman show.”

  She shook her head. “You make it seem so … so uncertain.”

  “Because it is: the uncertainty is the one sure thing in life,” he said as he pulled into a parking place, set the brake, and turned off the motor and the headlights. He opened the door, preparing to go around to the passenger side to help her out.

  For the moment she gave up quibbling with him, and allowed him to offer her his arm as she stepped out of the silver car. “At least we have tonight”

  “What’s left of it,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Luckily this is winter, and the sun won’t be up for hours yet.”

  “And we can turn that time to good use,” she said as she climbed up to her front door and slipped her key into the lock.

  “Yes.” He paused, looking back at his car. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll join you shortly. I think it would be wise to park somewhere else, a block or two away.”

  She shivered, speaking in irritation to conc
eal the sudden dread that gripped her. “Do you think we might have been followed?”

  “No, I don’t think it, but it is a possibility, and I believe it would be best to proceed on the assumption that it could be happening.” He took her hand and kissed it. “I’ll be with you in five minutes.” With that, he turned and went back to his Pierce-Arrow.

  Rowena watched him go, struggling with the fear that had formed under her ribs in a cold, hard lump. Try as she would, she could not dislodge it, and for the first time since he came to San Francisco, she had a hint of apprehension about their affaire that even her awakened desire could not banish.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM ENID CURTIS AT LAKE TAHOE, CALIFORNIA, TO J. HAROLD BISHOP OF HORNER BISHOP BEATIE WENTWORTH & CULPEPPER IN CHICAGO, ILLINOIS.

  PONDEROSA LODGE

  LAKE TAHOE, CALIFORNIA

  February 1, 1937

  J. Harold Bishop, Esq.

  Horner Bishop Beatie Wentworth & Culpepper

  Atttorneys-at-Law

  7571 Michigan Ave.

  Suite 602

  Chicago, Illinois

  Dear Mr. Horner,

  I have had my attorney, James G. Avery of Sacramento, review the contracts you have supplied regarding the silent partnership proposed by Lord Weldon, who, I understand, is an associate of Ferenc Ragoczy, who stayed here at the end of last summer. I have read the contract carefully and I understand its terms, and I have had the advantage of good counsel on this matter.

  Mr. Avery advises me that so long as the terms of the guarantee of autonomy are strictly enforced, he sees no reason I should not sign it He has suggested this addition to Paragraph 9, Clause 6, of the contract regarding the guarantee of autonomy for me: that shall not be revoked without cause as stipulated in Paragraph 8, Clause 4, Dissolving the Partnership. If this is satisfactory to you, please let me know, I will insert the language and initial it, and return the contract to you as quickly as airmail will bring it to you. If you would prefer to make the amendment yourself, and send a new draft back to me, I will return you this copy of the contract with the pertinent addition penciled in for your perusal. I would appreciate hearing from you in this regard at your earliest convenience.

  I am still amazed that this Lord Weldon should make such a generous offer. The money promised is beyond our current expectations regarding income, but now that there are people coming to Reno for gambling, we resort owners around Tahoe are seeing the first signs that this region might also enjoy something of a surge in business. If Lord Weldon does not mind waiting for at least a decade to see any significant return on his investment then I hope to justify his faith in Ponderosa Lodge.

  While I realize the autonomy clause does not require it, I will keep complete records of all repairs, improvements, and additions to Ponderosa Lodge and I’ll be happy to present him notarized copies of any and all of these records if he should ever wish to review them. And in any case, I will keep you informed of any and all changes undertaken here.

  Please extend my gratitude to Lord Weldon, and assure him he will always be welcome here. I look forward to the day I can shake his hand and give him a full tour of the place. The same goes for you; if you should ever wish for a Sierra vacation, I will reserve my best cabin for you and your family.

  Sincerely yours,

  (Mrs.) Enid Curtis

  chapter two

  Carlo Pietragnelli was waiting in the circular driveway, an umbrella raised over his head as Saint-Germain brought the Pierce-Arrow to a halt and got out. “Thank God and all the Saints! Pieta di me!” he exclaimed. “Grazie, grazie, Signor Ragoczy. And you, Signor Rogers.”

  “What on earth is wrong?” Ragoczy asked as he hurried into the shelter of the porch, his raincoat flapping around him, Rogerio a foot behind him. It was not quite noon, and the weather was early February foul, spitting rain on gusts of cutting, icy winds interspersed with twenty-minute stretches of drenching downpour; the storm had arrived shortly after midnight and was expected to linger for three days. “We left as soon as you called.”

  “It’s my neighbor, Hiro Yoshimura. You met him, if you will recollect.” He was hastening to open the front door.

  “Yes; the Japanese fanner,” said Saint-Germain, shaking the water from his hat “What is the trouble, for I assume there must be trouble. You said the situation was urgent.”

  “He’s dead,” said Pietragnelli, and crossed himself.

  “How?” Saint-Germain asked, shocked by this announcement.

  Pietragnelli took a deep breath and launched into his account as if afraid to stop. “It was the White Legion, of course. It had to have been. They have been after him, and the rest of us, for months. But Yoshimura had the brunt of it This time they struck directly, and worse, far worse than before. He was beaten early yesterday evening, between five and six, from what we can establish. His hands left at five and I found him—he was supposed to come by for supper, and when he didn’t arrive and there was no answer on his telephone, I went to his farm—a short while after six. It had to happen in that time he was alone. Thank God it wasn’t raining, for that would have chilled Yoshimura, to say nothing of what the mud might have done. When I got to his farm, I searched his house, and discovered he wasn’t in it, so I looked more widely—chicken coops, duck pond, the storage shed—and finally came upon him by the pump-house, blood everywhere, and three of his chickens, out of the coop, were beginning to peck at him. He was not really conscious, just moaning. It was hideous. There was blood coming out of his nose and ears. I got him into my car and drove him into Santa Rosa, to the hospital.” His eyes filled with tears. “He was not himself most of the time, saying little bits of things, and then fading out; I didn’t understand most of it—it must have been in Japanese. From the cursory examination I did before I lifted him into my backseat, I was sure he had a broken arm, and ribs, and bruises everywhere, but that wasn’t the worst of it: he had a terrible injury on the side of his head.”

  “When did he die?” Saint-Germain asked, his voice as kindly as his question was blunt.

  “Around eight this morning; the hospital called me just as I was going out the door to start the morning chores; I start late in the winter and early in the summer. And it was raining, and Mrs. Barringstone hadn’t come to work yet; she was waiting for the school bus with her children, down at the front gate. The nurse who called told me that the doctor worked on him all night, and when he was as patched up as they could make him, they put a nurse on duty to watch him, which is the best they can do for anyone. He stopped breathing, and that was the end of it. I called you as soon as I heard, and then I called Will Sutton and told him that he and the sheriff have to do something; he was shocked to hear about this. And doubtless he isn’t the only one, the word is all over the area, thanks to our telephone operator Of all of them, Violet is the worst, and she has been on duty this morning, which is the same as issuing a public announcement. She listens in to everything, and passes it on whenever anyone makes a call. I know she heard the hospital’s report, and mine to you and Will Sutton, and that would be enough for her to start telling all the subscribers on the line.” He made a gesture to ward off the Evil Eye before he dropped into the nearest chair in the parlor. “I was so sure we had them on the run. They had stopped coming into Geyserville to recruit, and I thought that meant progress.”

  “You mean the White Legion?” Saint-Germain asked, wanting to be sure he was following Pietragnelli.

  “Yes. Not even the Leonardis were making a show of themselves, and I thought that was a good sign.” He sighed. “You should have seen what they did to him. I was almost sick when I found him. He had broken skin on his hands and face, and all that blood…”

  “I know this must be a great loss to you,” said Saint-Germain. “He was your friend.”

  “It was the White Legion. Yoshimura said it, but only I heard him; the doctor didn’t bother asking him who had hurt him; he was too busy trying to treat his injuries and once they gave him an injection for the pa
in, he didn’t say anything. It might be good medicine, but it was irresponsible. They could have waited long enough to hear him name the Leonardis, or the White Legion. They didn’t let me stay with him more than half-an-hour, while they got information about him and what had happened, though I said I was willing to stay there. They told me to go home. I’m not a relative, and that made it wrong for me to be with him,” Pietragnelli exclaimed, then ducked his head and lowered his voice. “I think I should call his wife and family.”

  “The hospital will do that,” said Rogerio, certain they had already done so.

  “I still should call them; I know them slightly, and I was with him; they will want to know how it was; I can tell them,” said Pietragnelli. “They must be suffering just now. I ought to tell them about what happened.”

  “And what was that; do you know?” Saint-Germain asked gently. “You found him, beaten and half-conscious. Will that give them any solace?”

  “I know more than that: I know that the White Legion came and beat him again, of course. They wanted him out of the area, along with many of us. It isn’t just that he’s Japanese; they’re after others. I told you about it. And the more I look into it, the more I think it’s a land-grab, because when someone leaves, a member of the White Legion takes over the property for a smidgen of its value,” said Pietragnelli, growing angry as he spoke. “I spent some time in the County Clerk’s office, looking up deed transfers, and there’s a real pattern, if you take the time to look for it. I don’t know who among them did this, but I know the Leonardi boys are behind this particular attack, not only because they don’t like anyone not white enough for them, they want to expand their family holdings again, and this is a good way to do it.”

  “Do you think this will bring the Yoshimuras any comfort?” Saint-Germain kept his voice level and there was sympathy in his dark eyes. “Or will it make their burden greater.”

  “It will tell them who is responsible,” Pietragnelli insisted, paying no attention to his tears. “They will want to know that.”