Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Sounds like the usual rhetoric: those other persons—not like us—are taking what rightfully belongs to us as birthright. But who among you was born here in Geyserville? Or Sonoma County? Or California?” Saint-Germain said, managing to sound slightly disinterested. “It’s nothing new. When there are hard times, it’s easy to point fingers at outsiders and blame them for all misfortune. Look what’s happening in Spain and Germany.” He wondered if any of these men knew about the German situation, for America had done its best to ignore Europe since the end of the Great War.

  “Bunch of European generals,” said a man of about forty, and spat.

  “Yeah,” said Mr. Barringstone. “The men are working, and the country’s on the way to recovery.” This assertion was met by another round of approving grumbles.

  “Some of them are,” said Saint-Germain. “Others have had everything taken from them in the name of recovery, and their losses cannot be restored.” He looked directly at Mr. Barringstone. “That isn’t how Americans are supposed to deal with problems. And Mr. Yoshimura was an American citizen, as hard-working as any of you.”

  Two men laughed; the rest shushed them, and one, slightly younger than the rest, said, “I’ll give you he worked hard. But what right did he have to be here?”

  “The same right you do, I expect,” said Saint-Germain. “As I understand it, all Americans came from elsewhere, except the Indians.”

  “What are you—some kind of hoity-toity liberal?” The third man made no apology for his manner or his question.

  “I’m an exile who has lost all his land and his people,” said Saint-Germain quietly. “So I know what it is to be a stranger among strangers.”

  “Looks like you’ve done all right for yourself,” grumbled the oldest man at the tables.

  “Eventually I managed to,” Saint-Germain said, and went on, “Consider for a moment if the situation were reversed, and you had a small farm in Japan, one you had paid for and worked yourself, hoping to better yourself and your family, and some of the locals didn’t like having a white man working their land, and decided to put an end to it—what then?”

  “That’s different,” Mr. Barringstone said.

  “Is it? In what way?” Saint-Germain said. “Well, all I ask is that you consider Mr. Yoshimura not as an Oriental but a neighbor while you make up your minds what you intend to tell the deputy sheriff.”

  “Sure,” said the third man sarcastically.

  “Well, you were willing to eat his vegetables,” said Mrs. Barringstone suddenly. “The kitchen garden here isn’t big enough to feed us all, and you know Mr. Pietragnelli bought produce from him.” The men shuffled awkwardly, and her husband ordered her to be quiet. “Well, I won’t,” she announced. “You act as if you’re so much better than he was, but at least he had land to call his own.”

  “No drought drove him off,” the third man reminded them all.

  “No, but the White Legion sure tried, and you know it as well as I do,” she said, and gathered up the two big breadbaskets she had brought out to the men forty minutes ago. “They had to kill him to get rid of him, and you all sit here pretending it doesn’t matter. I’m ashamed of you, all of you—even you, Virgil Barringstone.” She stumped off to the door and let herself out.

  “Uppity woman,” said the third man, but there was no echo of his complaint.

  “She’s made dinner for you for over a year, Warton,” Mr. Barringstone said forcefully.

  “And she’s done a good job, but that doesn’t give her the right to—” Warton began, only to be interrupted by the youngest of the men.

  “I think it does.” He lifted his jaw and looked at Saint-Germain. “We’ll think over what you said, and when that deputy comes, we’ll talk to him. Mind you, we might not have much to say, but it could be…” He looked over at Warton.

  Saint-Germain gave a single nod. “Thank you, gentlemen. I know you’ll give this the serious attention it deserves.” He met all of their eyes in turn, and went on in his most cordial tone, “We’ll be speaking with your wives as well, in the main house, too. If you want to send someone along to listen to their reports, he’ll be welcome.” He stepped back toward the door, Rogerio opening it for both of them.

  “Hey!” the youngest man called out.

  “Yes?” Saint-Germain stopped to listen, the rain already soaking the shoulders of his raincoat.

  “Did you mean it, about talking to you or the deputy privately?” There was a quality of defiance in his question.

  “Yes,” Saint-Germain said, not letting himself become hopeful.

  “That’s good,” the young man said, and was about to go on when there was the sharp crack of a rifle-shot and the sound of breaking glass. Three more shots followed, each accompanied by breaking glass.

  The men in the winery were shocked to stillness, and then shouting erupted as they all got to their feet and made for the door, where Saint-Germain and Rogerio were standing; in a disorganized wedge they shoved through out of the winery and rushed toward the house, where Pietragnelli was bellowing.

  “Stay back!” Saint-Germain shouted with such an air of command that the workers obeyed him at once. “You don’t know where the shots are coming from.”

  The men came to a halt, four of them ducking down in a belated attempt to cover themselves against more fire, one turning back for the winery door.

  A fifth shot cracked, and one of the dining-room windows shattered.

  “It’s coming from over there!” Barringstone shouted, pointing to a clump of trees on a small knoll off to the left. His jacket flapping around him, he ran toward the gate that would lead him to the shooter.

  “Esecrazione! Codardo!” shouted Pietragnelli, standing at his ruined window. He continued to curse in Italian.

  Mrs. Barringstone and two other women had come out of their cabins, all looking frightened and angry.

  “Don’t bother,” Saint-Germain called after Barringstone. “He’s leaving.” The sound of a revving engine was loud enough to hear over the jumble of shouts and the spatter of rain.

  “How did he get onto the land?” the oldest worker yelled.

  “The south gate!” Warton shouted.

  “Where are the guards?” Rogerio asked Saint-Germain.

  “I don’t know, and that is very troubling,” he said. “Come. We’d better get into the house and see what sort of damage was done.” He started toward the kitchen door. “Barringstone! Get back here! You can’t catch him. He’s gone.”

  Barringstone stood in the rain, swinging his arms in a frenzy of futility. “How! Why!”

  “That is what we must determine, including who,” said Saint-Germain, and resumed walking, preparing to help Pietragnelli assess the damage.

  TEXT OF A REPORT FROM INSPECTOR JOHN SMITH TO ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER DAVIS B. NAUGHTON; DELIVERED CONFIDENTIALLY BY HAND.

  13 February, 1937

  Davis B. Naughton

  Assistant Police Commissioner

  Room 311

  City Hall, San Francisco

  Assistant Commissioner,

  In accordance with your instructions, I am providing you this report prior to filing one officially, and I trust you will keep this private between us, as you have indicated you would.

  The five incidents of theft at major hotels is nearly solved, and we hope to conclude the case before they can strike again. We lack a few critical pieces of evidence to make an arrest, but we have determined that the gang involved is comprised of three men and a woman, and they have committed similar thefts in Seattle and Portland. I have reports from both police departments, and two confirmed identifications for fingerprints found at those scenes that were also found in these burglaries.

  We have obtained a warrant to search the apartment of one Leon Paul Holland. He and his sister, Neola, arrived from Portland in October and have been associating with Andrew Dare and William Reever, both of whom have records for breaking-and-entering. The Hollands have been arrested on suspicion
of burglary but never held over for trial, due to lack of evidence. Andrew Dare has served time for robbery in Washington State, and William Reever may be an alias.

  The reason we are narrowing in on these four is that Ferdinand Pinkly, a known fence, has been approached by Holland, who was offering a number of uncut gemstones, and who had no proof of ownership. Since one of the thefts included fourteen uncut gems taken from the Commodore Suite at the Saint Francis, we brought one of the stones to Ferenc Ragoczy for identification. He had an accurate description of the stone and proof of ownership (he had purchased the stones from a Lord Weldon), which indicates to me that the Hollands are either directly or indirectly involved in these crimes.

  Incidentally, Ragoczy has been cooperative in this investigation, and has provided us with a great deal of specific information about the items taken from the suite, and has made himself available to answer questions. I have some questions about the man himself, but I must say he has been forthcoming with me when I have spoken to him, in a reserved sort of way, as many rich folk are. The other victims are no longer in San Francisco, but Ragoczy has purchased a house here and has been useful to us.

  If the search of their apartment turns up anything of use in making a case against them, the Hollands, Dare, and Reever will be arrested and charged. The theft at the Palace Hotel was so recent that I haven’t had time to alert all the pawnbrokers and fences yet, but I’m working on it, and I am confident that the thieves haven’t disposed of all their loot yet, so if we can find where they’ve hidden the pelf, we should be able to make our case stick in court.

  I realize these thefts have been embarrassing to the department and the Mayor, and I will do all that I can to put an end to them as quickly as possible. Rest assured that the suspects I mentioned are quite likely our culprits, so our chances of nailing them are good, and once they’re incarcerated, we can all heave a sigh of relief. Theft may not be as bad as murder, but its mortifying for cops, no matter how trivial it may appear to others.

  When the arrest is made, you can release the information on these crooks to the press, but I ask you to hold off until we have them in custody, because otherwise they might leave the jurisdiction, and catching them will be much more difficult, to say nothing of bringing them back to San Francisco for trial.

  If you decide to inform the Commissioner, I’d recommend you hold off until our search is complete. No reason to raise hopes until we have real evidence in our hands.

  Sincerely,

  John Smith

  chapter three

  Cenere prided himself on his patience, and once again he knew why. He had been watching Oscar King’s offices for more than six weeks and finally his wait had paid off, for he now saw Ferenc Ragoczy enter the building shortly after one p.m. and make for the bank of elevators. Cenere slipped into the lobby of 630 Kearny, went to the newsstand, and purchased a copy of the Call-Bulletin, opening it at random, dawdling, in anticipation of his quarry’s return.

  It was almost twenty minutes later that Saint-Germain left Oscar King’s office and took the elevator down to the main floor, his brow knit in thought; he carried a leather briefcase and an umbrella, and he made his way through the crowded lobby quickly and efficiently. On the street he went toward Waverly Place, with its warren of shops and back doors, most with Chinese signs on them, where his Pierce-Arrow was parked, a note on the windshield in Chinese; he removed this and tucked it into his overcoat pocket; then he let himself in on the driver’s side and started the engine, checking the gauges before he pulled out of his parking place, driving slowly toward Sacramento Street. He looked in his rearview mirror and noticed a tall, thin man standing at the corner, staring after him. Ordinarily he would have assumed it was the car that interested the watcher, but it struck him that this might be the man Oscar King had mentioned at his New Year’s party. Or it might have been someone hired by the White Legion—his last meeting with Carlo Pietragnelli had revealed more specific threats to the vintner and any who helped him. Saint-Germain had a brief series of recollections—Sidney Reilly in England and Russia, Helmut Rauch in Munich—that reminded him how much the twentieth century depended on political scrutiny; not even Delhi or Rome had been as relentless in pursuing its outsiders.

  Chiding himself for being overly cautious, he continued to look in his mirror until he reached the corner and turned right, and into the flow of traffic. At least, he thought, the man is on foot, and he won’t be able to follow me once I’m through the intersection. Close upon that realization came the worry that the man might have made note of his license plate number, and could trace him through the Department of Motor Vehicles, where such information was a matter of public record, which anyone could seek out The Pierce-Arrow was registered to the Clarendon Court address, which meant that the man following him—if he was following him—could find him with minimal effort. That prospect bothered him and he had to resist the urge to try to speed, for the traffic was congested, cars working their way between double-parked delivery vans and trucks; Saint-Germain fretted at his slow progress, and took the first turn, going left, away from Chinatown.

  From his vantage-point on the corner, Cenere made note of the make and model of car Saint-Germain drove, and the license plate number, committing the information to memory. He was almost disappointed that it was going to be so easy. He had been looking forward to getting the truth from Oscar King, one way or another. Still, he reminded himself, Ragoczy would not be on guard if his attorney remained unscathed, and that would be strategically useful. This way, there was little chance the man would flee before Cenere could find him and arrange the lamentable accident Colonel Morales had ordered. Turning on his heel, he went down the hill toward the streetcar line, already making plans.

  A chorus of cars’ horns warned Saint-Germain of impediments ahead, and a moment later, the blare of a siren strove to clear the way for an ambulance bound for Stockton Street. A uniformed policeman was in the street directing cars away from the path of the ambulance, using his arms and whistle to signal the traffic. At the corner, two cars—a Ford Model Y and a Lincoln tourer—were angled into each other, the Ford showing much more damage than the Lincoln; glass was all over the street, and the Ford was belching white smoke from its radiator. By the time he had made it past the accident, Saint-Germain was deeply uncomfortable; he had been mulling over all he and King had discussed and was unsettled by where his ruminations took him. He pulled over at a Hancock service station and went to the telephone booth next to the service bay. He dropped in his nickle and gave Rowena’s number to the operator, listening to the ringing on the line. “Rowena?” he said when she answered.

  “Saint-Germain,” she said, and heard something in his voice that troubled her. “Is anything wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. I hope not.” He looked over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the tall, thin man watching him from across the street, although he knew this was virtually impossible, given the difficulty of pursuit.

  “You sound”—she tried to find the word: upset was too overwrought, worried was too passive—“startled.”

  “Ah.” He hesitated an instant “That is an apt description. I’m not coming to your house as we planned, in case I am being followed.”

  “Followed?” She was shocked, but made as quick a recovery as she could. “What makes you think so? Why would anyone follow you?” Before he could speak: “Is it that man Oscar King mentioned at New Year’s?”

  “It may be. Or I may be jumping at shadows, for which I apologize, if I am.”

  “Is it about … what you are?” She coughed gently, an unnecessary warning for discretion.

  “No, I don’t think so. I doubt any of those interested in me would care about … that aspect of my nature.” He paused. “After talking to Oscar King about Carlo Pietragnelli’s situation, and all the White Legion has been doing to him, it could be that I’m ready to find conspirators everywhere, of any stripe, all of whom would want—at the least—to discredit me, and a
t the most to be rid of me.” It was an odd admission, and one he found disconcerting, another way in which the twentieth century had imposed itself upon him; all the precautions he had developed over four millennia no longer seemed to apply, and that contributed to his perturbation. “In any case, I don’t want to lead the man to you.” He paused. “Will you meet me at Julius’ Castle at five? I’m going to park my car out on California or one of those side-streets out near the Presidio, and I’ll come in to meet you there. Come by taxi. I’ll pay for it and I’ll see you get home safely.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe to meet in such a public place?” she asked.

  “Unless the man is psychic, yes. We can be easily lost in a crowd, and protected by numbers. Once we’re isolated, then he can hunt us with relative impunity.” Saint-Germain had a brief impression of the many times that had happened to him, and he made himself banish those painful memories.

  “Julius’ Castle at five. I’ll be there,” she said.

  “If I’m being foolish, we can enjoy the view. If this is something more, then we’ll be in a good place to observe.” He managed a rueful chuckle. “You like Julius’ Castle, or so you’ve said.”

  “Yes. I do. Thank you,” she said.

  “I’m sorry about dragging you into this, but I think it would be best if we are in accord on how to deal with this—if there is anything to deal with.” He added the last to ease the tension he felt increasing between them. He sought to lessen it, saying, “I don’t want you to get caught in anything again.”

  “This isn’t going to turn ugly, is it?” she asked.

  “Not if I can stop it,” said Saint-Germain. “There may be nothing that should be stopped, but I am troubled by what Oscar King told us.”

  There was a brief silence between them. “You got me out of that cabin in the Alps, I’ll assume you’ll get me out of this.”

  “If there is anything to be got out of,” he appended. “I hope I am being too wary, but better this than not careful enough.”