“I’m a very, very old man,” Saint-Germain reminded her as he unzipped her skirt and helped her to step out of it.
“We’ve been through this before: you don’t look much older than forty: that’s the difference,” she said, watching him unfasten her hose from her garter-belt and roll each one down her leg. He bent to kiss the swell of her left calf and trailed kisses down to her ankle, then did the same with her right, enjoying her anticipatory shudder. “How do you know what to do?” she marveled, then said, “No, don’t tell me.”
He undid her garter-belt, so now all she had on were her panties. “Do you want to take those off, or shall I do it?”
“I’ll take them off,” she said. “While you take off your jacket.” She paused. “I saw your scars, when they were taking you into the hospital.”
“Some women find them … intrusive,” said Saint-Germain, laying his hand at the base of his ribs, the wool of his roll-top pullover seeming as insubstantial as gossamer.
“You know my scars,” she said. “Why won’t you let me see yours?”
He looked up at her. “Does it matter to you?”
“God, yes!” she exclaimed. “I don’t want to feel like a bird with a broken wing while you soar. I don’t want to dwell on my lackings. If I can see that you, too, have had deep wounds—”
“They killed me,” he said with a hint of irony.
“Well, those are deep wounds,” she responded reasonably, plucking on the shoulders of his jacket to convince him to rise. “I need this from you, Saint-Germain.”
The room seemed suspended in silence; the distant baying of the foghorn was muted, and the traffic in the street was little more than a mutter.
“Then you shall have it,” he said as he straightened up, and shrugged out of his jacket, putting it over the arm of the grandmother’s chair.
His compliance startled her, and for a moment she could think of nothing to say. “Thank you,” she finally told him. She watched him carefully as he took off his roll-top pullover and dropped it on the jacket. The white swath of scars spread from the base of his ribs to his belt. “The trousers, too,” she told him, staring at him in fascination mixed with revulsion. Seeing the scars in the hospital was somehow different than here, and she made an effort not to look away, though she had to swallow hard against the sudden tightness in her throat.
He unbuckled his belt and opened his fly; he let the garment drop, then crouched to untie his shoes and remove them, and his socks. As he stood up, he gathered up his trousers and folded them before putting them over the arm of the chair atop his jacket.
“What on earth did they do to you?” she could not keep from asking. “What kind of execution does that?”
“They disemboweled me,” he answered. “A very long time ago.”
“With what? The edges look so jagged.”
“A wide-bladed bronze knife,” he said, holding up his hands to indicate its length. “About sixteen inches long. It took a long time: hours.”
She winced in spite of herself. “Why did they kill you?”
“Because I won a battle,” he answered, and did not elaborate.
“You’ll be cold,” said Rowena as she threw back the comforter; she sat on the side of the bed and slipped out of her panties, then lay back, naked.
“I’m never cold,” he said, coming to her side.
“Well, I am,” she said, holding out her arms. “Get out of those shorts and get under the covers.”
He complied, watching her as he did. As he pulled the comforter up over them, he gathered her into his arms. “Rowena, Rowena,” he whispered before he kissed her. “What do you want of me?”
“I don’t want anything of you—I want you,” she said simply, and guided his hand to her breast.
“You will have me always,” he vowed, following her lead in caressing her, aware that she was seeking something more than stimulation.
“How will that happen?” she asked, half-combative, half-pleading.
“You are one of my blood,” he said, kissing the line of her brows, so lightly that snowflakes would be heavier.
She wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, pay no attention to me. I’m being a fool. Just love me.”
His kisses became more ardent, at last finding her lips, all the while tantalizing her with his gentle touch, now on her arms, now on her back, now on her flank, now on her breasts, his hands possessing an insight all their own that led them to the secrets of her body, opening and exciting her. He explored her body, discovering sensations that heightened her pleasure beyond anything she had known before, thrilling sensitivities that sounded her to the depths of her being and elicited emotions as potent as her physical responses. When she was breathing luxuriously, his mouth expanded on what his hands had done, beginning with her shoulders and slowly, rapturously making his way to her breasts, then over her abdomen to the tufted folds between her legs.
Rowena sighed ecstatically, whispering his name. “So good,” she breathed.
Gradually Saint-Germain sought out her most profound transports, the sorcery of his mouth and hands eliciting a depth of response that she had not thought possible. As her first surge of consummation shook her, he moved up her body to nuzzle her neck, sharing her passion and her transports, his esurience as gratified as she was, cradling her as she drifted into sleep.
Chimes from the kitchen clock announced that it was six-thirty, and the sound woke her. “Oh,” she said as she looked about the dark room. “I must have dozed off.”
“Not for very long,” he said, and kissed her.
“We should probably leave,” she said when they had ended the kiss.
“As you wish,” said Saint-Germain, not yet moving to leave the bed.
“It’s going to be cold, getting dressed,” she said, and without warning tossed back the comforter and sheet. “It is!” She bustled up and went to reclaim her clothes.
They dressed with companionable haste, saying almost nothing to one another, and then they stripped the bed. “What do you want done with these?” he asked, indicating the sheets, comforter, and pillowcases.
“Put the sheets in the laundry hamper in the bathroom. I’ll fold up the comforter and put it on the end of the bed.”
Saint-Germain bent to retrieve the sheets and prepared to leave the bedroom. He was almost out the door when Rowena stopped him.
“Thank you,” she said as she began to fold the comforter.
“It is I who should thank you,” said Saint-Germain.
“No; you made this a wonderfully memorable good-bye,” she said.
“I’m not leaving for a while,” he reminded her, feeling her emotion with gratitude.
“This was good-bye, no matter when you go,” she said, motioning him away from her. “And we both know it,” she added before he closed the door.
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM DOÑA ISABEL INEZ VEDANCHO Y NUÑEZ IN HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND, TO FERENC RAGOCZY IN SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, SENT VIA AIRMAIL AND IN CARE OF OSCAR KING.
Copsehowe
nr. Briarcopse
Hampshire
England
17 October, 1937
Ferenc Ragoczy
le Comte de Saint-Germain
c/o Oscar King
King Lowenthal Taylor & Frost
630 Kearny Street
San Francisco, California
United States of America
My dear Comte,
It seems too long since I’ve written to you that I hardly know where to start; I trust you will not be troubled that I address you through your San Francisco attorney rather than your English one. I assure you this is not mere caprice but something more appropriate. I suppose it would be most apt to start with that which is most important to me, since I cannot determine that which is most important to you: in the last month, Miles Sunbury and I have finally become lovers, over his initial objection. Such scruples that man has! I had to show him three of Ponce’s letters before he comprehended that our estrangemen
t is total and irreparable. I have wanted this for some time, as I assume you perceived, and so I am happier about this deepening expression of our affections than Miles is at present, but in time he will resign himself to our affaire. Since he brought me my two lurchers, I have known he is the very man for me, but it took his being badly hurt for him to be willing to unbend enough to accept my attachment to him. He attempted to dissuade me from the course on which we’re now embarked, but I would not be deterred, especially not now, when my country is falling more deeply into the hands of the Fascists. I have accepted that if I ever return to my home, it will be years from now.
It should be obvious that I have been following the news from Spain, all of which has been most troubling. I learned recently that three of my friends from Cádiz have died in prison, the rumor being that they were murdered-starved or beaten, depending on whom you believe—and I, for one, believe that they did not die natural deaths, if they are actually dead, and this report is reliable. This is the most pressing reason that I know I may never go back to my native land. This is a most sobering realization, for it puts me more certainly in England for decades to come. Depending on how things may turn out with Miles, I will have to decide if Copsehowe is the place I truly want to make my home. So far I am inclined to like this life, even with the guards you have provided me, but in five years, or ten, rural peace and tranquility may pall.
What troubles me still more is that I cannot be sanguine about the world at large, and I would hate to begin to travel only to find myself stranded, or in deeper inconvenience than that which I have already escaped. You have intimated that such things have happened before, and so I hope you can tell me what I should regard as a dangerous indication in international developments. The current situation in eastern Europe worries me very much, but I have been told that my apprehensions are alarmist, no doubt because of the losses I have endured, and the unfortunate circumstances presently obtaining in Spain. I hear all the drums of war getting louder and louder, and all Europe pretending not to hear them! Tell me: does this new Prime Minister Chamberlain’s policies seem prudent to you, or do they look too malleable? Am I being frightened by nothing more than my own anxiety, or do you see danger in any of this? I have been thinking in circles for so long that I cannot find a balance point, and, as much as I would enjoy it, I cannot put these questions to Miles, for he would see criticism in them that I do not intend.
Let me have the advantage of your observations as soon as you are in a position to provide them. I can see the usefulness of travel, and if I must, I will leave England and find another place to adopt as a home. It may be that I am looking for something that cannot be found, and in pursuing it, might I not lose all I have made for myself here? It would mean giving up Miles Sunbury, and I would rather not do that, yet it may be that I will have to; in which case, the sooner I depart, the better for both of us. I am very much consumed with inner discord even at a time when I have newly discovered such contentment that I can hardly express it. I rely upon you, with all your experience and compassion, to provide me the insight and wisdom I cannot find for myself, and which I have found nowhere else.
There are so many debts I owe you that I would hesitate to add them up, but I can think of no other counsel I would trust more, and so I add to my obligation to you in the hope of finding some deliverance for myself Without you, I would probably be dead by now; my life is in your hands in many, many ways, including my current happiness, which is entirely to your credit, as well. So pardon my continuing requests for your good advice—in that regard, you have only yourself to blame for my reliance upon you.
Devotedly yours,
Isis
chapter ten
There was no sign of permanent scarring from his injuries lingering on Saint-Germain’s skin, nor would there be; since he had risen after death, no wound, no matter how severe, had left a lasting mark on his body. He was wearing a black silk smoking jacket over black wool trousers, no shirt to cling to his healing flesh; his dark hair had been close-clipped to make the abrasions to his scalp less apparent, and the stiffness that had marked his movements through the summer was finally, now in late October, gone. He sat in his study, his attention on the windows and the fading light beyond. It would soon be dark, and then he would have business to do. He looked over at his visitor and smiled. “I appreciate you coming by, Inspector Smith. I realize the police are under no obligation to keep victims of crime abreast of the progress you have made.”
“It’s always good when there is progress, Mr. Ragoczy; this case didn’t look at all promising at first, and not just because of when it happened,” Inspector John Smith said. “And with this case, it’s been especially difficult to put the pieces together—no slighting to the Sausalito force, or the Marin County Sheriff,” he added conscientiously.
“I can well understand why.” Saint-Germain pointed to the coffee-cup Smith balanced on his knee. “Would you like a refill?”
“No, thanks. Two cups’re plenty for me.” He closed his notebook and slipped it back into his breast-pocket. “Good thing you saw the man who cut your brake-lines. You noticed him next to your car, and paid attention to him.”
“I only wish I had realized what he was doing. But why should I? I had assumed he was attempting to steal the car. On a day like that, I suppose thieves are everywhere. I recall him plainly: tall, thin, with ears flat to the head. I should have realized he had something more on his mind.” He was still upset with himself for being so careless that day. Only when he had pulled away from the curb had he realized the true intention of the sinister man in the longshoreman’s clothing, and then it was too late.
“It’s a mistake we could all make,” said Inspector Smith neutrally. “There are more car thefts than there are attempted murders from cut brake-lines and steering-linkage. But there’s no question of what happened to you.”
“I still should have been more cautious. I had reason to suppose that there was a man attempting to do me—or those close to me—harm.” He shrugged. “Well, I won’t burden you with my self-recriminations.”
“I don’t think you have cause to have any,” said Inspector Smith. “But we’ve talked about this before.”
“So we have,” said Saint-Germain. “And you have been kind enough to put up with my railing.” He touched his eclipse-device signet ring, which he wore on the little finger of his right hand, and said, “Do you find these multijurisdictional arrests are difficult?”
“They can be, and this one is probably going to be trickier than most; the man isn’t an American, and he may go to his consulate, or demand representation from his own country. He could find a loophole that would keep us from putting him on trial, or even charging him. Stranger things have happened.” Smith looked as if he had a number of stories of just such complications, and only restrained himself from telling them with an effort.
“I have no doubt The law has so many permutations,” said Saint-Germain, thinking of what he had been told of the arrangements that had been made between Sonoma County, the Leonardis, and Carlo Pietragnelli, apparently to the satisfaction of all; at least the White Legion had turned its attentions away from Geyserville, preferring to center its activities in Cotati and south into Marin County. It had been a victory of sorts.
“And more twists and turns than a snake down a rat-hole,” said Smith. “I’ll be glad once the culprit’s in custody. I got a feeling you’re right about him, and he’s a dangerous customer.”
“I would like to be mistaken,” Saint-Germain said.
“Who wouldn’t, in a situation like this?” Smith took a deep breath. “Well, I’m sorry you had to go through so much, but at least the man’ll be in jail tomorrow. And then it’s up to the courts.” He prepared to rise. “I’ll let you know when the arraignment is, and any preliminary appearances he has to make.”
“You’re sure this is the right man,” said Saint-Germain.
“As sure as I can be without admissible evidence,” said Smit
h. “I’d stake my pension on it.”
“You say the man has been in San Francisco all along?” Saint-Germain asked as if only mildly interested.
“It seems so. He arrived last winter,” Smith answered.
“Ah.”
“Inspector Porter’s looking into any connection he might have to the break-in at Miss Saxon’s place, but the link is hardly even circumstantial.” He offered this without much zeal. “I don’t think they’ll be able to make a case; even if they can show probability; blood type would help, but it isn’t conclusive, only indicative.”
“Especially if he’s type O. Do you recall the type of the blood found at Miss Saxon’s house?” He maintained the same manner of mild curiosity.
“I think it was B, as I recall,” said Smith. “I have a note about it somewhere if you want me to look.”
“Not necessary. Type B could narrow the field. A pity you found no useful fingerprints. And footprints in blood may not be good evidence.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Never mind. I’m sure you’ll do your utmost.”
“Within the limits of the law,” said Smith, putting his cup aside and getting to his feet. “It’s all the police can do.”
Saint-Germain rose with him. “Of course. Within the limits of the law.” He shook hands with Smith. “It is disquieting to think he has been in the city for so many months. Did he move around?”
“You’d think he would, wouldn’t you?” said Smith. “Nope. He stayed in the same hotel, over near the Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory, a nice, inconspicuous location, nothing obvious or flashy. He leased a motorcycle to travel on; he disappeared for ten days after Miss Saxon’s house was broken into, but that isn’t anything beyond suspicious. We don’t know for a fact that he was out of the city at that time, just that he wasn’t at his hotel.”
“She shot him, as you’ll recall,” said Saint-Germain, going toward the door. “He had to get medical help somewhere—I doubt very much he removed the buckshot himself.”
Smith chuckled. “No, probably not. But we can’t prove any of it, more’s the pity.” He went across the entry-hall to the front door. “Will you tell Miss Saxon that I’m sorry we haven’t any better news to impart to her?”
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