Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Judge Cavendish; he was growing weary of their talk, which was not going the way he intended.

  “If there were some way to address members of the White Legion directly, I might be able to get a restraining order for them, and that would save us a great deal of minutiae, but since the organization remains secret and its membership undisclosed, I’m going to have to make all kinds of clauses and conditions for person or persons unknown.”

  “Do you really think all that is necessary?” Judge Cavendish asked, and went on, “Of course you do. And you’re determined to wring as much blood from this turnip as you can.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” said King. “You’re planning to abrogate my client’s right to test his injury in a court of law, and if he is going to do that, it is going to be for something more than a tip of the hat and a ticket to the movies.”

  Cavendish looked annoyed. “Sure. You don’t have to be reelected by the voters, and you don’t live in this county.”

  “Good thing, too,” said King. “You may have your problems, but at least a portion of them are your responsibility. You have become…” He trailed off, seeing that he had overstepped. “I’ll wait to hear from you about how you will arrange the specifics, but I’ll relay the basic issues—as we’ve discussed them—to my client, and let you know what his position is.” He stubbed out his half-smoked cigar and prepared to rise.

  “Understand me, King,” said Cavendish in the same voice he used to hand down the stiff sentences for which he was famous, “I won’t have you playing with me. You’re going to have to hold up your end of the bargain. I want you to get your client to end this, or neither you nor I will be able to answer for what happens.”

  “Another oblique threat,” said King. He shoved up from his chair.

  “More a word to the wise. The White Legion has big plans for this region,” said Judge Cavendish.

  “I figured that out,” said King, making for the door.

  “I need an answer by Monday,” said Judge Cavendish.

  “You’ll have it,” said King, as if this weren’t rushing him. He usually did not work on the weekend, but this being Thursday, he realized he would probably have to. “Shall I telephone, or would you rather have another private discussion?”

  “It’s best if we meet face-to-face. But we shouldn’t be seen together again; it wouldn’t be wise. If you want to join me in San Rafael at the Fisherman’s Net, next Monday afternoon at … shall we say two?… we can resume our talk. I’ll reserve a curtained booth.” The judge did his best to regain his dignity and very nearly succeeded.

  “So you’re afraid of them, too,” said King quietly. “The Fisherman’s Net, next Monday, two in the afternoon. I’ll be there, and we can conclude our work, I trust, Your Honor.” So saying, he let himself out. He took the stairs down one floor to street level and stepped out into the shining afternoon, going along to the side-street where his Lincoln was parked. He had a lot to think about, and as he swung onto US Route 101, southbound, he felt mildly distracted. There was so much for him to evaluate, so much he would have to report to Pietragnelli later that evening. He was going to Ragoczy’s house, to make his telephone calls from his house in the hope of avoiding too many eavesdroppers.

  The ferry from San Rafael was almost full; King spent the time out on the upper deck, looking at the Golden Gate Bridge. In another month it would be open, and Oscar King could drive to Santa Rosa without having to use the ferry. It was a glorious sight, he thought, something grand to welcome the world to the Golden State. When the horn sounded to alert the passengers to return to their cars, King went slowly, wanting a last look at the two red towers and the graceful suspension cables.

  From the Ferry Building he drove up Market Street to Buchanan, and turned west between the U.S. Mint and San Francisco State College, going out to Stanyan at the head of Golden Gate Park; he turned left and drove up the hill to Clarendon Court. By the time he reached Ragoczy’s house, it was almost dark, and the windows of all the houses shone with electric lights; Ragoczy’s house was no exception, and behind the draperies the rooms were bright. He parked across the street from the house, taking his briefcase from the backseat before going onto the porch.

  Mr. Rogers admitted him to the house, saying, “Mr. Ragoczy and Miss Saxon are in his labo—study on the third floor.”

  “The converted attic?” said King. “Thank you, Mr. Rogers.” He glanced at the beautifully furnished living room—done in a tasteful combination of Art Nouveau and Oriental motifs—then made for the stairs.

  “Would you like something to eat?” Rogerio called up after him.

  “Yes, if you would,” King called down. He continued up to the third floor and was about to knock on the door when Saint-Germain opened it from the inside.

  “Do come in, Mr. King,” he said. “You know Miss Saxon.”

  King nodded. “Good evening, Miss Saxon.”

  She smiled from her brocaded love seat, where she was reclining in dull-brick crepe de chine trousers and a blouse of ivory silk broadcloth. She was as elegant as Irene Dunne and as composed as Myrna Loy. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. King.”

  The attic now looked like a cross between a library and a chemical laboratory, for there were retorts, alembics, scales on a long trestle table, and two chests with strong, locked doors. Most puzzling to King was a beehive-like structure made of fine white brick that stood at the far end of the room.

  “My athanor,” said Saint-Germain, following King’s gaze. “It’s a kind of oven.”

  “For chemical experiments?” asked King.

  “I have a fair number of patents for chemical formulae,” said Saint-Germain. “I like to keep my hand in.”

  “Yes,” said King. “Sunbury said something about fuels.”

  “Among other things,” said Saint-Germain in a tone that did not encourage more discussion.

  “Well,” said King, pulling up a chair from its place by the trestle table, “let me tell you how things turned out today.” He coughed. “You can decide what we’re to tell Pietragnelli.”

  “Why, everything,” said Saint-Germain. “It is his right to know what is going on, and to make decisions based on as much information as we can provide.”

  King nodded at once. “Yes. I do understand.”

  “I hope so,” said Saint-Germain. “You serve me poorly if you don’t do your utmost for him.”

  There was a long silence. Finally Rowena said, “Should this be a private conversation? Do you want me to leave you alone?”

  “It would be best,” said King with a slight nod of apology. “Ragoczy is Pietragnelli’s business partner, and he must be part of all binding agreements that have bearing on the business. But you aren’t part of the business, so it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to participate in our discussion.” He looked away. “I’m sorry.”

  “I do understand,” she said, getting up and going to the door to the lower part of the house. “Let me know when it’s safe to come back.” With a provocative scroop of her trouser-legs, she left the attic, closing the door behind her.

  “It’s a pity to send such a remarkable woman away, but given the nature of our discussion, I have to tell you that we need our confidentiality maintained.” He sat down in the chair he had chosen. “I don’t know what to tell you about this offer. It’s most irregular.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Do you mean you were expecting something like this?” King demanded. “I thought it was damned odd.”

  “No doubt,” said Saint-Germain. “Tell me what happened.”

  More slowly than he intended, Oscar King did as Saint-Germain asked. He was interrupted only once, when Rogerio came in with a tray that had a bowl of ox-tail soup and a thick, multilayered sandwich of chicken, ham, cheese, onions, lettuce, and an array of condiments. It took King almost forty minutes to review everything Judge George Cavendish had said while he made sal
lies at his meal. At the conclusion, he said, “I think his offer is genuine. I wish I knew whom it is really coming from.”

  “That would be useful,” Saint-Germain concurred. “But he isn’t going to tell you. Carlo Pietragnelli may have some ideas about it” He had been sitting on a drafting stool, but now he got up and went to the love seat. “You should call Pietragnelli shortly. He’ll have finished dinner and he’ll be going off to his cabin shortly. Tell him everything, and let him know I will support any decision he makes, so long as I know what it is.” He lowered his head. “I don’t want to try to make up his mind for him.”

  “You may not like what he chooses,” King cautioned.

  “I may not. But my interest is financial, and his is deeply personal. It would be high-handed of me to put my earnings above his livelihood.” Saint-Germain went to open the door. “If you want to use the telephone in my study, you know where it is.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to talk to him?” King asked, a bit nonplussed.

  “He and I will talk another time. He doesn’t need to hear my opinion yet.” He studied Mr. King. “You are doing an excellent job, Mr. King. I am more than satisfied with your advice and I have a high regard for your opinions. But tonight your primary obligation is to Pietragnelli. I will talk to him on Sunday, after he’s had a chance to ponder his options.”

  “All right,” said King. “But there is something on your mind. You’re preoccupied; I can tell, though you hide it well. If it isn’t Pietragnelli’s situation, then what is it?”

  “Ah, that,” said Saint-Germain. “You are a most observant man, Mr. King. I am concerned. I am fairly certain that the man who broke into Miss Saxon’s house was intending to use her to gain some advantage with me.”

  “Why would you think that?” King wondered.

  “I have a price on my head still in Spain,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Why should that follow you here?” King had masked his sense of alarm quickly, but not fast enough for Saint-Germain to be unaware of it.

  “I’m not imagining this,” Saint-Germain said with uncanny calm. “As you may recall, Miles Sunbury, my attorney in London—the man who referred me to you?—was badly beaten by a man seeking information about me with the apparent intention of pursuing me. There is a lot at stake for General Franco—and wasn’t it fortunate for him that General Mola had that tragic accident?—and the men around him. They can’t afford any loose ends, and I am one such.”

  “Isn’t that a little far-fetched?” King wanted to make light of the possibility.

  “I would like to think so. But, if you will recollect, you had someone call at your offices and ask for me, someone from Spain,” said Saint-Germain. “You warned me about him at New Year.”

  “But that would mean you have been followed for … for months!” King exclaimed.

  “So it does,” said Saint-Germain, then shrugged. “Well, there’s nothing I can do now. Go call Pietragnelli. At least we can make some progress on that front.”

  “All right,” said King, feeling disquieted. He started for the door, then hesitated. “You don’t think this White Legion situation has anything to do with the man who might be following you, do you?”

  Saint-Germain managed a swift, ironic smile. “I’m not completely paranoid, Mr. King. No, I do not think the two are connected. Nor do I think the government is reading my mail.” He could see the guarded relief on King’s face. “But I would hate to have any of my friends come to grief on my account.”

  “Um,” said King, setting his foot on the first step down. “It is very shocking about Miss Saxon. I could hardly believe it when you telephoned me about it.”

  “Yes; it is shocking,” said Saint-Germain.

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Pietragnelli,” said King, recovering himself. “It may take some time to review the whole with him.”

  “I’m not worried about the telephone bill,” said Saint-Germain. “Take as long as you need.”

  King nodded and turned to go down the stairs.

  Saint-Germain watched him go, for the first time feeling that a practicable solution was possible for Carlo Pietragnelli—not the justice the vintner sought, but a resolution that would be tolerable for everyone caught up in the case. But Rowena’s intruder still bothered him, and the more he deliberated on the attack, the more he believed that the man was not finished yet.

  TEXT OF A REPORT FROM INSPECTOR ABEL PORTER TO INSPECTOR JOHN SMITH.

  May 14, 1937

  Inspector John Smith

  Columbus Avenue Station

  San Francisco, California

  Dear John,

  Thank you for your report on Ferenc Ragoczy. I have found it most interesting reading, and I am beginning to share your conviction that he is connected to the attack on Miss Rowena Saxon, little though it appears to be so. I find only very trivial incidents in her past that would suggest she could become the target of such an attempt as the one made upon her, but in regard to Ragoczy, there are many more questions, most with inadequate answers.

  You say that in your investigation of the thefts at his hotel suite one of the items stolen was a collection of uncut gems, and that they were appraised as very valuable stones. Is it possible that Ragoczy gave some of those stones to Miss Saxon? Their relationship appears to be a close one, going back a number of years. If she has a collection of these stones, and someone—maybe the thieves from the Saint Francis—suspects it, it could be that she would be attacked in order to get the jewels. Being uncut, they can be especially valuable in the clandestine market, for once they’re cut, they will be completely untraceable.

  Your report indicates that Ragoczy was some kind of industrialist in Spain, and lost his business at the onset of their Civil War. But he isn’t Spanish, as you and I have both ascertained, and we know he travels on a Hungarian passport That makes him something of a puzzle. You have information that he has been in diplomatic service, but it appears he is avoiding the consulates and foreign communities in San Francisco, which is hard to understand, unless he might be recognized. I agree with you that he is very likely an agent of one kind or another, but for whom, and why? What is his mission here? And, assuming he is here in that capacity, the attack on Miss Saxon becomes more sinister, for it suggests that he is actively involved in a mission that is important enough for someone to want to stop it If Miss Saxon is not part of his mission—and I am satisfied that she is not—then she is in great danger from him. What I haven’t determined is if he knows about it, and what he plans to do to deal with it.

  Your recommendation that we hold off sending his fingerprints to the FBI for a while is well-taken. I don’t want those grandstanding G-men coming in and tramping all over our work. If this is as big a case as I think it may be, the last thing either of us needs is that dandy, J. Edgar, barging in here like Ahab after his whale, blowing his own horn, and splattering pictures of himself all over the front pages of The Chronicle and the Call-Bulletin.

  I have made an inquiry with Ragoczy’s attorney, Oscar King, in the hope of filling in some of the blanks about the man, but I don’t expect much from him. You know how lawyers are. Tight as clams about their clients. But if Ragoczy is a spy, then King should be willing to tell us what he knows. A man in his position cannot be seen to help enemies of his country, now can he?

  In terms of getting other information on the attack, our interviews with neighbors haven’t turned up much useful. One man on Mason Street said he thought he heard an engine starting the night Miss Saxon was attacked, at around one-forty, which could be in the time-frame of the escape. He said it didn’t sound like a car starting, so I don’t know what to make of it. No one mentioned seeing a motorcycle, and that is about the only thing I could imagine making the noise described. In that neighborhood, a motorcycle would certainly be noticed, so I have to decide whether or not the man on Mason was mistaken, or a motorcycle went unnoticed.

  If only the Golden Gate Bridge weren’t opening on the 27th, we’d be
able to assign more men to this investigation instead of turning half the police in San Francisco into escorts for all the swells coming into the city. But since that’s the way it is, we’ll have to make the most of what we’ve got, so any help you can give me will be much appreciated. I can see this is going to be a real knot of a case, and it isn’t one I should be able to unravel on my own, especially not now. I’m glad to share the credit with you if you’ll lend your expertise to the investigation.

  Many thanks,

  Abel Porter

  chapter seven

  At the head of the line waiting to drive over the splendid span were the most impressive automobiles in San Francisco, all gathered for the great occasion: a Stutz Black Hawk, a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, a Triumph Dolomite Roadster, a Bugatti Royale, an Hispano-Suiza Sport Boulogne, a Zeppelin Roadster, and an Alfa-Romeo Monza were among the first cars across the bridge; they were laden with reporters and dignitaries, all of them flighty as children at this astonishing function. The day before pedestrians had been allowed on the bridge, and that had been a glorious celebration, but today, May 28, vehicles were going to claim their roadway. With police escorts, the pack of automobiles crossed the bridge, drove into the vista point, turned around, and drove back the other way. There was no foot-traffic on the bridge today but pedestrians lined both ends of it, waving and cheering, and pointing out the most famous persons and the grandest cars.

  Saint-Germain and Rowena were on the Marin County side of the bridge, ambling through the crowd at the edge of the roadway, taking stock of everything going on around them. Rowena was wearing jodhpurs and field boots as much to keep warm as to look sporting; her hacking jacket was expensive tweed and her shirt was pale green silk. She carried a small, dark brown, cartridge-style bag slung from her shoulder, and her gloves were of matching leather. This was the first day out since the break-in at her house that she had truly enjoyed herself, and she was determined to make the most of it.