Midnight Harvest (40 page)

“I’ll see if the agent can move quickly on this purchase,” said Rogerio, honking his horn at two young boys on bicycles hurtling across the street without regard to traffic.

“Thank you. I admit it reassures me to know that we’ll be a bit less visible than we have been.” He lapsed into silence, and a while later he said, “It isn’t that most of these people fear my nature—the vast majority of them think vampires are creatures of legend and cinema, something to shudder over but not to fear. But there are scientists who would be intrigued by my longevity, if nothing else, and they would like nothing better than to subject me to study and experimentation that would shame a Grand Inquisitor, but in the name of knowledge, not God. I would just as soon avoid such a development.”

“Do you think anyone suspects anything?” Rogerio changed gears a bit too abruptly and nearly stalled his car. “You haven’t visited any of the women at the hotel in their sleep, have you?”

“There is no reason. Rowena has been everything I could possibly want.” He watched a van laden with bundles of newspapers lumber across the street.

“She wouldn’t reveal anything crucial about you,” said Rogerio.

“Not willingly,” said Saint-Germain.

“Could it be the news from Europe?” Rogerio suggested. “It isn’t very encouraging.”

“No, it isn’t,” Saint-Germain agreed. “And I am uneasy about what I have heard. I should have had a letter from Sunbury a week ago, and it is disturbing that I haven’t, but there may be a perfectly innocent, mundane reason for the delay. I may be responding to a totality of minor uncertainties, but it may be more serious than that.” He glanced out the window again, his thoughts preoccupied.

Rogerio said nothing more, driving to the garage on Mason Street and getting out with Saint-Germain. They went into the Saint Francis, stopping at the desk for messages before getting onto the elevator and telling the operator which floor they wanted. The elevator car rose at a dignified pace and was brought to a halt at their floor. Rogerio wished the operator a good evening and followed Saint-Germain down the corridor to their suite.

As Saint-Germain put the key in the lock, he felt the door give, and then it swung open. Saint-Germain turned to Rogerio. “I locked this door, didn’t I?” Saint-Germain tapped the door as if to alert any occupant. He had no need to turn on the lights to see that the parlor and dining room had been ransacked. Very calmly he looked back at Rogerio. “Will you go down to the lobby and ask the manager to telephone the police?”

Rogerio could not conceal the dismay he felt “Immediately,” he said, turning and retracing his steps to the elevator, anxiety gnawing at his thoughts like rats; whatever Saint-Germain had sensed, he had been right that they were under some kind of scrutiny. He saw an expression of annoyed inquisitiveness on the elevator operator’s face, but he paid no attention to it as he put his thoughts in order while the elevator descended to the lobby.

T
EXT OF A PRIVATE REPORT TO
M
AYOR
A
NGELO
R
OSSI OF
S
AN
F
RANCISCO FROM
D
ETECTIVE
I
NSPECTOR
J
AMES
O’N
EIL OF THE
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
P
OLICE
D
EPARTMENT, PRESENTED PRIVATELY AND IN PERSON.

October 19, 1936

Angelo Rossi, Mayor

City Hall

San Francisco

Your Honor,

As you know, I was called to the Saint Francis night before last to investigate the pilfering in the Commodore Suite, which is presently occupied by Ferenc Ragoczy, a Hungarian with a French title: le Comte de Saint-Germain. This Ragoczy has a sizeable amount of money in deposit at the Bank of America, and is about to purchase a house in the Sutro Forest district of the city.

I and two officers arrived at the hotel at eight thirty-three and were escorted up to the suite by the assistant manager of the Saint Francis and Ragoczy’s manservant, a fellow named Rogers. We found Ragoczy standing at the door, saying he had not gone inside once he realized that the parlor was in disarray. The assistant manager—a young fellow named Fisher-was the first man to enter the suite. The upholstery of the chairs and the two settees had been slashed and the stuffing pulled out of them. All drawers had been pulled out and their contents overturned at random onto the carpet. In the two bedrooms, the dressers, armoires, and nightstands had received the same treatment, and the mattresses had been pulled off the beds, the bedding removed, and the mattresses slashed. There is a kitchenette in the suite, and all the drawers and cabinets there had been similarly dealt with.

My men and I kept Ragoczy and his manservant out of the suite until we had thoroughly examined the damage. I then summoned them into the suite to determine what, if anything, was missing. They conducted a complete search, and indicated that so far as they could determine, approximately nine hundred dollars in cash was gone, along with a portfolio of documents and letters of no particular value beyond a personal one. There was also a small case of uncut jewels, unappraised as to worth but of considerable potential value, which Ragoczy claimed he preferred to cash when traveling, being gems and gold hold their value more consistently than currency.

I took Ragoczy into one of the other suites that is presently empty, and I questioned him at length about his presence in San Francisco and his immediate past He explained that he had left Spain the very day their Civil War began, that his company there had been taken over by the government and that he had decided that it was prudent to put Europe behind him for a while. He has business ties to Sonoma County, and has had for twenty years and more; he offered to provide proof of this through Bank of America if we should require it He told me that he wants to expand his dealings there.

He also claims to be an old friend of Rowena Saxon, the artist, and took advantage of his travels to visit her as well. He says she will vouch for him.

In regard to the house he has offered for, he said since it appears he will be in California some time, he believes purchasing a house is money better-spent than in renting a hotel room or an apartment. I must admit, I see his point and the bank confirms that he can afford the purchase and a great deal more.

I am not quite satisfied with the answers this Ragoczy has given me. He has referred me to Oscar King, the lawyer, who Ragoczy says represents him. That’s high-powered legal muscle at King Lowenthal Taylor & Frost. I can’t help but ask myself why a Hungarian businessman would need such a firm to represent him. Oscar King isn’t saying anything one way or the other except to confirm that Ragoczy is his client.

There’s no way we can trace the cash or the jewels—if they actually exist and I’m not satisfied they do. I’ve assigned Patrolman Angus Murchison to keep an eye on this Ragoczy, at least until the Golden Gate Bridge is open, just in case. It might be a good idea to continue the surveillance beyond that date, if Murchison turns up anything suspicious. You know what these foreigners can be, no matter what claims they may have to titles and money. Many confidence men pose as displaced aristocrats.

The hotel staff is being questioned, but so far no one seems to have noticed anything untoward in the Commodore Suite yesterday afternoon. I don’t like to think that this was an inside job, but it could be, and I’m proceeding with my interrogation of the room service and housekeeping staffs. It could be that one of them is trying to shore up the family finances through theft, or has desperate relatives who have turned to stealing. It wouldn’t be the first time. If I can get any kind of break in this case, I’ll let you know—confidentially, of course.

If circumstances should require it, I’ll assign more men to the case; if not, I’ll leave well enough alone unless you should ask me to reconsider. These kinds of things will happen from time to time, and it makes no sense to let them become too important. Until we see a repeat of this crime, I will not rank it as high priority.

Sincerely,

James O’Neil

Detective Inspector, SFPD

chapter seven

“Come in, come in!” shouted Carlo Pietragnelli from his porch as Saint-Germain pulled into the driveway curve in his new silver-grey Pierce-Arrow; steadily falling rain gave the whole house a drowned look, fading the color to a pale sepia, turning the windows to dark sockets, and making the trees seem darker by contrast. “Mille grazie per quest’ favor’. But I should never have asked you to come.”

Saint-Germain got out, and rushed toward the house, Rogerio close behind him. Water splashed with every step, and by the time they were in the shelter of the porch, their shoes and trouser-cuffs were soaked. In spite of feeling a bit queasy, Saint-Germain preserved his genial demeanor. “How do I find you, Signor Pietragnelli?”

“Very well, and then again, not so. I am restless in spirit. The power is out, so I cannot listen to the radio; the telephone is still working, which is a blessing. I have spoken to my son, Massimo, already.” He held the front door wide. “Your company is very welcome. Yours too, Mr. Rogers.”

“Thank you,” said Saint-Germain, tugging out of his overcoat and taking off his dripping hat. “What appalling weather.”

“It’s hard to believe it was over eighty-five yesterday. October is often thus. It may be warm again one more time before winter. Thank my good Saints, all my harvest is in and the crush complete. Now all I have to do is watch the progress of fermentation and aging.” Pietragnelli indicated the parlor. The house was dim, glowing in the pale light of kerosene lamps, and the fireplace was stacked with logs merrily alight. “I have a fire going. You’ll warm up quickly. The house isn’t cold yet.” He helped Rogerio out of his raincoat and hung it beside Saint-Germain’s on the coat-tree near the front door, and placed his hat on the rack next to Saint-Germain’s. “I have some mulled wine in the kitchen. Would you like a mug of it? It’s warming and delicious, if I say it myself.” He glanced at Saint-Germain. “I will not offer any to you; you will only refuse it.”

“Alas,” said Saint-Germain.

Rogerio sighed. “I must also decline,” he said. “But don’t let us keep you from enjoying the drink yourself.”

Pietragnelli lifted his hands into the air to show his helplessness. “Why do you invest in my business if you don’t drink the product?”

“Ah, but many others do, and you make it so well. I admire quality, whether I actually use it or not,” said Saint-Germain, and went to the Chickering cabinet grand; he touched the keys and was surprised to find it properly tuned. “Would you mind if I play? I haven’t had much opportunity recently, and I miss—”

“Ti prego,” said Pietragnelli gallantly. “I will have Mrs. Barringstone bring in a carafe of mulled wine, and perhaps Mr. Rogers will change his mind.” He rocked back on his heels, then headed for the kitchen, calling for his cook.

Saint-Germain sat down on the piano-bench and ran a series of arpeggios to limber up his hands. When he was satisfied, he began with an ambitious little
Rondo
by Czerny, then moved on to a Chopin
Ballade.
When he finished, he turned to see Pietragnelli sitting on the edge of an overstuffed chair, his face rapt. “Thank you for permitting me to play.”

“You need not cease on my account,” said Pietragnelli. “I do not play, although my daughter Angelina does. She visits once a month—she has a job in Oakland—and I keep it tuned for her. It is a pity she hasn’t more opportunity to play, but she has no desire to be a professional musician, not in these times.” He made a troubled gesture, revealing more complex emotions, and poured more mulled wine into his mug. “Music is the solace of the soul.”

“Yes, it is,” Saint-Germain agreed, and played a progression of chords. “It’s a very nice instrument,” he said sincerely, then studied Pietragnelli’s face more narrowly. “Why did you want me to come today? Do you have more trouble?”

“You mean midnight harvesters? No; all the grapes are in, thank God, and I have men to guard my cellars at night. No one has been bold enough to try to steal a barrel, not yet. No, it isn’t that.” He drank a bit of his mulled wine. “I have been receiving complaints from the Leonardis.” He pointed in the direction of their land. “I know I’ve mentioned them before. They’re very inclined to blame me for their troubles, and to suspect everything I do as having an ulterior motive, although I have done my utmost to be a good neighbor to them. They are always looking for something to say about me that discredits me, and never more so than now.”

“You bought some of their land a few years ago, didn’t you?” Saint-Germain asked. “I recall you said something about that in one of your letters.”

“Yes. It was the only thing I could do to help them at the time, since they wouldn’t accept a loan, much less a gift. They were about to lose everything, so I paid as nearly top dollar as I could afford for a third of their acreage and they were able to keep their vineyard and the remaining vines, and the winery. I didn’t expect gratitude, but I hoped they would not resent me for doing it.” Pietragnelli’s bright little eyes clouded briefly. “The boys are especially bitter about what I did.”

“They have boys? Didn’t you mention them before?” Saint-Germain asked, and went on, “How old are these boys?”

“Oliver is nineteen, just a year out of high school; Arnold is seventeen, and he’ll graduate next spring. They are both still with their parents, and are supposed to be helping out with their wine-making, but they don’t do much work that I can see.” He frowned. “They call themselves Leonard, not Leonardi. They say that Italians are a bastard people, even though they are half-Italian themselves. They shame their father.”

“And what is their complaint just now?” Saint-Germain watched Pietragnelli squirm before he summoned up an answer.