Midnight Harvest (44 page)

“I don’t,” said Cenere, seeming utterly genuine. “I know you haven’t had an easy life.”

“Oh, I’m not complaining. I have nothing to complain about—I have a good job at a time when many women cannot find work at all, and those who do are paid poorly for laboring long hours at menial tasks. Mr. Bishop is a wonderful boss, he pays a reasonable wage, and he gives Christmas bonuses as well. He’s kept me on through thick and thin, and he’s never once made me worry about where my next meal’s coming from.” She lowered her eyes. “My sister has had to take her family to Cleveland; they lost their house.”

“Why Cleveland?” Cenere asked, wanting to keep her talking; he was looking for things he could employ to manipulate her into providing him the information he sought. “What happened to your sister’s family?”

“They moved. Because her husband has finally got a job there. Nothing as good as what he had before, but at least it’s work. He used to work for the railroad, but they fired him six years ago, and now he’s finally working for a delivery service. The family suffered before he got work, but they managed to stay together somehow.” She shook her head. “Oh, dear. You don’t want to hear all about this. I didn’t mean—”

“Say anything you want,” Cenere encouraged her.

“Well, I don’t want to bore you…” she faltered, and had the last of her Sidecar; she was a bit surprised to find the glass empty.

Cenere signaled the waiter to bring another. “You aren’t boring me,” he assured her.

Miss McAllister shook her head. “I really shouldn’t have a second drink. I’m not used to it and this is a work night—”

“It is our celebration,” Cenere corrected her. “And I cannot stay long in your city; I am obliged to continue my search. I must make the most of this marvelous opportunity, no matter how brief it may be.” He laid his hand on hers. “Don’t begrudge me the pleasure of your company, and our shared celebration.”

This was more than Miss McAllister knew how to deal with: a good-looking Continental man was treating her as a fellow-sophisticate and lavishing the kind of attention on her that she had not experienced since George Eastman left for the Front. Her emotions were in turmoil, and so near the surface that she was unsure if she could continue to hold them in check, as she knew she must do, for lovely as this evening was, she was keenly aware it was only one evening, with no hope of more to come. She pulled her hand from under his and muttered a few disjointed words, finally managing to gather her thoughts enough to say, “I wish I knew what was on your mind.”

He recaptured her hand. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said, his manner laden with innuendo.

“That’s a bit beyond the line.” She glanced about as if she expected to find she was being watched by someone she knew, someone whose presence would be harmful to her. Finally she put her free hand flat on the tablecloth and dared to look at him. “You won’t let me get tipsy, will you?”

He shook his head. “Of course not,” he promised her as the waiter took her first glass and set down the second. “What gentleman would do that?”

“Perhaps we had better order our dinner shortly, so that I won’t be tempted to forget my own intentions,” she said, and sat back, trying to make herself comfortable.

“As you wish,” he said as he let go of her hand and motioned for the waiter. “Menus.”

“Of course, sir,” said the waiter, a trifle too accommodatingly, as if he realized he was being deliberately slighted.

Miss McAllister had had one little sip of her second Sidecar and her good sense seemed to be reasserting itself, for her confidence was returning and she felt more keenly aware of her surroundings than she had been when she first arrived. “Do you make a long stay here?” That was too personal; she modified the question. “You have much to do while you’re in America?” She liked the coolly professional sound of her voice.

“I have two, possibly three things I must attend to before I return home,” he said, apparently unperturbed by her abrupt change in manner.

“Will they take long?” She hoped she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

“That, Dorothy, depends to a great degree upon you,” said Cenere at his most purposeful; he leaned forward and looked deeply into her eyes.

“Oh!” She could not bring herself to think of an answer to this.

He took advantage of her lapse. “You can help me, if you want to. It would make my task so much easier, but I have no wish to impose upon you, or cause you to do anything you would not like.”

This was as intriguing as it was scary, and Miss McAllister wanted to spread her wings while she could. “What manner of thing might that be, Mr. Cenere?” she asked, and bolstered herself with a taste of the fresh Sidecar.

“This is a … bit awkward,” he said, doing his best to appear perplexed. “I don’t know how much I ought to reveal to you.”

“I’m very good at keeping confidences—I have to be, in my line of work. I’m required to, you know.” She put her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “I pledge to keep your secret, whatever it may be.”

He pretended to mull this over, all the while planning how he would manage the rest of the evening; so far he was very delighted by how willing the woman was to trust him. “The thing is, I don’t want to put you into a difficult situation.”

“How do you mean a difficult situation?” Miss McAllister asked, walking right into the trap he had laid for her.

“You see, the mission I am on is a delicate one. I am pursuing an enemy of Spain, a man who has been found to be a foe of the Revolution that is taking place now. I am supposed to return him to Madrid for trial, but as your government has not recognized our Generals as the leaders of Spain, I have no authority that your country recognizes, nor can I request local assistance. I am very much on my own, and that limits how I can handle my task.” He stared at the chandelier hanging in the center of the dining room.

“How troublesome,” she said, trying to follow what he was saying.

“It is, for this man is potentially very dangerous. You see, he had a business that has great strategic value, and he fled before he could—” He stopped abruptly. “I probably shouldn’t tell you any of this.”

“Why not?” she asked, her eyes dancing.

“I understand he is a client of your law firm, and that could make for … problems for you,” he told her as if his hesitation was for her benefit. His cigarette went out in the ashtray.

“Goodness,” she whispered, and drank a little more. This was turning out to be a most astonishing evening, one that made the rest of her life drab by contrast.

The waiter appeared and handed them menus. “I’ll be back for your order in a few minutes.”

Mentally cursing the waiter, Cenere said to Miss McAllister, “Order anything you like, Dorothy, even caviar.”

She beamed. “I wouldn’t do that. Not at such prices! Fifteen dollars an ounce-and-a-half—I ask you!”

“It is a bit expensive, but for you, it would be worth it. If it is what you want, you must order it, and enjoy it.” He was afraid he had said too much, but she did not give any response that suggested he had gone too far. He studied the menu, finding the selection limited and the side-dishes mundane, but he assumed an enthusiasm for her benefit. “The duck looks promising, and so does the veal.”

“But they’re so expensive,” said Miss McAllister, who rarely dined lavishly except at home on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

“The soups look tempting,” Cenere said, wanting to distract her from the prices.

“So they do,” she said. “I do like cream of tomato soup.” She licked her lips in response, saying nothing more for a moment. “Would you mind if I had the soup and perhaps the duck as well?”

“Have what you like,” he said, growing a bit tired of having to remind her that he could afford the meal. He restored his charming manner. “I’m planning to order champagne, if that might influence your choice.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I ought to have any. I’ve had so much to drink already and…”

When she did not go on, he said, “I hope you’ll have at least one glass, to toast our meeting. I’m sorry it could not take place under more propitious circumstances, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t make the most of it.”

“I suppose not,” she said.

“What else can we do? We have so little time that we must pack as much into it as we are able.” He took another small sip of bourbon and nodded to her to drink again.

She closed the menu and met his eyes. “All right. One glass of champagne, and I’ll have the cream of tomato soup and the duck.”

“Good for you,” said Cenere, confident that with such rich foods, he could persuade her to drink more.

“Thank you so much,” she said, mindful of her behavior. “I really appreciate this evening.”

“Now you’re the one being kind,” he said, and summoned the waiter with a flick of his hand. “The lady will have the cream of tomato soup to start, and the duck. I’ll have the consommé, and the pork loin stuffed with mushrooms. And bring us a bottle of your Roederer, the ’24 or ’26, chilled and in an ice bucket.”

“Of course, sir,” said the waiter as he reclaimed the menus and went off toward the kitchen.

“Foolish sort of fellow, isn’t he?” Cenere asked.

“He’s got a hard job, and he works at the library during the day,” said Miss McAllister. “I have seen him there.”

“That explains his demeanor,” said Cenere, aware he had made a misstep and anxious to undo any damage he might have done. “He seems made of crumpled paper.” He was disappointed when she showed no sign of amusement.

“Many men have to take what work they can get Most of these jobs don’t pay very well, and if he has a wife and family, or parents, to support, his library salary won’t suffice.” She drank down the last of her Sidecar; she was feeling a bit guilty to be here, having such a wonderful meal in a gorgeous restaurant, all the while aware that most of the people she knew could not afford to have anything half as nice as this.

“We know something of hardships in Europe,” he said, his eyes lowered.

“And many of them worse than anything we endure here, I’m sure. The privations of war are much more destructive than the problems of economic woes—not that Europe hasn’t had more than its fair share of those.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you on what you must know far better than I.”

Cenere schooled his features to an accepting partial smile. “You have a better grasp of these things than most of your countrymen, if you will forgive my saying so,” he told her soothingly.

“I didn’t mean—” she started to apologize.

“Your knowledge makes my predicament less complex,” he interrupted her. “I should have known that you, working as you do for such a law firm, would be more familiar with European affairs than are most Americans.” He touched her hand again. “I hope you will not be put off by anything I say, but if you are, you must tell me so.”

“Then you
will
let me know more about this criminal you’re pursuing?” she asked.

“I think you will appreciate my dilemma when I have done.” He sandwiched her hand between both of his. “This man, who escaped from Spain on the very eve of his arrest, has been making his way across America. I was sent to deal with him, but to do so, first I must find him. I looked for him first in New York. I wasted four days in that city, and then I went to Boston and discovered he had reached your country there.”

“And did you find him? How did he escape you?” The questions tumbled out of her.

“He had taken a train here, to Chicago. And something I learned in London led me to your office; I had reason to believe that he had had dealings with your firm. In fact, for all I know, he is still in this city.” He set his half-finished bourbon aside, releasing her hand again.

“Gracious me,” said Miss McAllister.

“The man was in Russia at the start of their Revolution—I find it suspicious that he has been so recently in Spain.” Cenere had become aware of the American dread of Russia and Communism, and he decided to use that fear now, at least by implication.

“And you say he’s here?” Miss McAllister queried, trying to keep her thoughts in order. “In Chicago? Are you sure?”

“I said he
might
be here. He may also have left the city. That is what I was hoping to find out when I called at your office. I was hoping to discover where he has gone.” He admitted this as if he was expecting her to be shocked.

“For whom are you searching?” she asked, leaning forward as if to listen to a whisper. “And how urgent is your mission?”

He was spared the necessity of putting her off momentarily by the arrival of the champagne. “Now we can have a proper toast, and a promise for more and better times together, once my mission is over.”

She blinked as if she had not heard him correctly. “Do you mean you might come back?”

“If there is reason to, I will,” he said significantly, and watched as the waiter removed the guard on the cork. “I’m glad we can have this special occasion and mark it properly. Prohibition must have been as dreadful in its way as the Depression is.”

“Some certainly thought so,” said Miss McAllister in a slightly condemning tone. “Not that it truly worked; people continued to drink, but they did so illicitly, and that put a great deal of money into the pockets of criminals and politicians. There was a shocking disregard for law: ordinary citizens, who usually wouldn’t dream of breaking the law, bought illegal alcohol and frequented speakeasies, and counted smugglers and moonshiners their friends, and mocked the police for trying to keep order.” She was sitting very straight now. “Not that the criminals were always readily identified. My maiden aunt used to make elderberry wine; she served it on special occasions—New Year, birthdays, and such—even that was breaking the law.”

“Then you must have some of this excellent champagne, now that it’s legal,” said Cenere, motioning to the waiter to fill her glass. “When we recall this evening, in times to come, I want it to be the most unforgettable night in your life.”

She picked up her glass and looked down into the pale, fizzy liquid. “I’ve only had champagne twice before,” she admitted.