Midnight Harvest (7 page)

Compton House

658 Selkirk Road

Suites 4–9

Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

22 February, 1936

Leandro de Guzman

Ministerio de Guerra

Madrid, Spain

My dear Mr. de Guzman,

I am in receipt of your letter of 10 February, and I thank you for your kind inquiry into Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd. Yes, this business does have international clients, and you are correct in your assumption that Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain, sits on our Board of Directors, albeit in a purely honorary capacity, for he has never, in fact, done more than supply the company with formulae, which, given the efficacy of his work, is more than enough. In fact, as far as I am aware, he has not visited Canada. I have only met le Comte once, and that was in Brussels, four years ago, when I went there to finalize our dealings.

I must congratulate you on your thoroughness, but I am baffled as to why you should be interested in this company. Surely there are chemical companies in Spain that are producing all that you require. Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd. does have certain proprietary compounds that may have application to your work, and if this is the reason you have contacted us, I will, upon your request that I do so, pass on your solicitations to our legal department to arrange for any applicable licenses sought.

However, your questions suggest that you are attempting to catalogue le Comte’s foreign holdings; while it may be appropriate for you to do so in your capacity as a member of the Ministry of War, I cannot offer more to you than that which is public record. For that reason, I will stipulate that we at Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd. have no direct contractual obligations with any company in Spain, for such information is undoubtedly within your purview, but I will offer you nothing more about other arrangements we have with other countries.

I regret any inconvenience this may cause you.

Cordially,

Horatio Batterbury

Chairman, Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd.

HB/lm

chapter three

Mercurio Zapatilla spread the contents of the brown accordion file out on his desk, thumbing his way through the array of onion-skin carbon copies, good quality bond letters, clipped newspaper articles, and a dozen photographs. Carefully he read through two of the letters, shaking his head as he perused them, disliking what he saw. He pursed his lips, making his small mouth look even smaller. Finally he picked up the telephone and spoke a few words to the man who answered. “And bring me the file on Dñoa Isabel Vedancho y Nunez,” he added, an afterthought.

“In addition to the file on Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias?” Zapatilla’s assistant asked.

“Yes. I need to have all our information on this man and his associates; this file on el Conde de Saint-Germain is sadly lacking,” said Zapatilla, a slight impatience in his voice as he gathered these all together and put them back in the large accordion envelope that had contained them. “What I have here isn’t nearly enough. It doesn’t matter if the records are not in Spanish.” This was a subtle little boast; Mercurio Zapatilla had risen to his present post in large part due to his linguistic abilities—he spoke nine foreign languages: French, German, Italian, English, Dutch, Swedish, Czech, Russian, and Greek, and had a nodding familiarity with an additional five—which he liked to remind his underlings of from time to time was the reason for his promotion to his present position.

“Of course,” said his assistant, and rang off.

Zapatilla sat staring into the dull morning light that filtered into his office through the gaps in the draperies; he was growing perplexed with the very visible but strangely elusive Conde de Saint-Germain. Fussily he smoothed the waves of his thinning, greying hair, and then touched the ends of his meticulous, narrow mustache, as if seeking to make himself more presentable for any visitor he might have; he had a slight resemblance to Claude Rains, which he carefully cultivated, combing his hair as the actor did, and affecting the elegant manner that was Rains’ hallmark. A small clock on his desk delicately chimed eleven, and, as if reminded of a forgotten engagement, Zapatilla rose from his leather-upholstered chair and paced the length of his tall, oaken bookcases, pausing by the window to lift the edge of the deep teal velveteen draperies the better to look at the bustle on the floor beneath him in the busy street. He felt himself remote from the activity below, which both saddened him and made him proud of his position. Eventually he would be posted to Madrid, but for now he had to be content with Sevilla. A discreet tap on his door halted him in his tracks. “Come in,” he rapped out.

His assistant was a slender man of about thirty wearing thick glasses that magnified his black-brown eyes to the point that they resembled those of frogs. Aside from this, Esteban Pasotorpe was a good-enough-looking fellow—fashionably lean, clean-shaven, and as well-dressed as his salary would allow. “I have the files you asked for, Jefe.” He used the title with an air of jest that was just enough to keep it from being insulting. “Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias and Doña Isabel Vedancho y Nuñez.” He held the two thick envelopes for Zapatilla to see.

“Put them on my desk, Esteban, and send down for two cups of coffee,” said Zapatilla. “Bring them in when Liebre gets here—not just at once; wait five or ten minutes.”

“Of course, sir,” he responded, and did as he was told, withdrawing from the room quickly.

Zapatilla went back to his desk and sat down, unfastening the string closure on the uppermost file. He took out the various papers and photographs, spreading them out, the better to contemplate them. His concentration made him tense as he scanned the material from the file. Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias was a thriving firm, that much was certain: well-financed and successful, meeting its contractual obligations in a timely manner. The Scythian airplanes were the best-selling of their models, and had been sold all over Europe. He studied the information on the assembly plant and the level of production it maintained. “Most commendable,” he muttered as he reviewed the records. No wonder the generals were interested in the business. He looked at the most recent additions to the file—copies of the resignation letters of Elias Lundhavn and Armando Pradera, both signed on the same day. He contemplated them. Lundhavn had been offered work in Germany, so his desire to leave was understandable. But Pradera was a bit of a puzzle. His letter cited personal reasons for his departure, with no hint as to what they might be. The pay records showed both men had received handsome closing checks, so it seemed unlikely that they had been forced to resign. But that they left on the same day continued to trouble him. He would have to get to the bottom of it. The letter from Colonel Juan Enrique Senda was a masterpiece of understated indignation, implying all manner of nefarious motives for Saint-Germain’s actions, all of which were unsupported by any reliable evidence. Still, the Colonel’s animus might reveal something that deserved closer attention. He put the material back in the file and wound the string to close it. Then he took the second file and opened it The uppermost photograph showed Doña Isabel in a lovely formal gown of pale silk under an elaborate lace jacket with a tulip hem; her head was turned slightly away from the camera and showed the elegant line of her forehead, nose, and cheek to advantage. Zapatilla stared at her, struck by her beauty; he could find it in his heart to envy her absent husband: the woman was a prize of the highest order. He moved the photograph aside, placing it where he could look at it. A tap on the door disturbed his concentration, and he stacked the papers on top of the photograph. “Who is it?”

“Señor Liebre is here,” said Esteban.

“He’s early,” Zapatilla complained as he squared off the sheets of paper and put the file envelope on top of them. He sighed as an indication of the concession he was making. “But you might as well show him in.” He paused. “And I suppose you should bring in coffee in ten minutes. Ask Señor Liebre what he would like in his.”

“Yes, sir,” said Esteban, and, after an exchange of barely audible words with the visitor, opened the door, admitting Cornelio Liebre; in his neat business suit, he did not much resemble the parking attendant at the Hotel della Luna Nueva, which was his intention—he seemed older and more solidly built, with a hint of menace in his walk that was entirely lacking when he was at the Hotel. “Señor Liebre,” Esteban announced.

“Good morning, Señor Zapatilla,” said Liebre, extending his hand as he came up to the desk. “It’s good of you to admit me early. I’m sorry if I intrude.”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Zapatilla, scowling as they shook hands. “If you will take a seat?”

Liebre pulled up one of the wing-back chairs and set it directly in front of Zapatilla’s desk. “You have received my reports, I believe?”

“Yes, I have, and I thank you for providing them.” Zapatilla sounded stiff, but he was unconcerned. “It is your duty to do so.”

“Of course,” said Liebre.

Zapatilla tapped the desk with the end of his pencil. “It is my understanding that you have kept special files on this Conde de Saint-Germain?” He inclined his head. “A pretentious name, don’t you think—presumptuous at least?”

“I couldn’t say,” Liebre replied, uninterested in what the foreigner called himself.

“Well,” Zapatilla conceded. “And what have you learned about him? I have some information here already, but I am told your records are more complete.”

“I have kept special files. I was asked to do so,” said Liebre in the same stiff tone as Zapatilla favored. He settled into the chair with a degree of comfort that Zapatilla found insulting. “I am more than willing to share my information with you; it is why I am here, at the behest of the army. I have been assured by my superiors that it is permissible for me to provide you with as much information as you may want from me.” His hauteur was subtle, but enough to annoy Zapatilla.

“We are all pledged to the same purpose,” he reminded Liebre. “You and I have an obligation to preserve España from her enemies.”

“When we can be certain who they are,” said Liebre.

This was more than Zapatilla was willing to tolerate. “If you have any reason to question my loyalty, do so. Otherwise I expect you to remember the position I occupy, and to honor it.” He tapped his finger on the desk next to his telephone. “We are in dangerous times, Señor Liebre. Our fighting has been fairly confined, but it may yet erupt in open warfare. You must keep in mind that if you fail to do what you are sworn to do, many of your countrymen will die.”

“Many of them will die no matter what you or I do,” said Liebre, then adjusted his posture so that it was more attentive.

“You’re cynical,” said Zapatilla, disapproval radiating from him like body heat.

“I am experienced,” Liebre corrected.

Zapatilla was about to take issue with this when there was a rap on the door and Esteban, not waiting for a summons from Zapatilla, let himself in; he carried a tray with two steaming cups of coffee on it, along with a jug of milk and a small jar of sugar cubes. “Oh. Yes.” Zapatilla motioned to the place on his desk where the tray should be set. “Do you want milk or sugar?”

Liebre leaned forward and poured in a generous dollop of milk, then took the tongs and dropped three cubes of sugar into his coffee. He selected one of the small spoons on the tray and began to stir the contents of his cup in a negligent manner. “Thank you, Señor Zapatilla. It is most gracious of you.”

“It is my pleasure,” said Zapatilla in a tone that implied the opposite. He put one cube of sugar into his coffee and gave it a perfunctory stir. “You may go, Esteban.”

His assistant withdrew promptly, taking care to close the door with a final sound that made it apparent that they would be private.

“And now, about this Ferenc Ragoczy,” Zapatilla prodded. “You have had the opportunity to observe him. What have you found out?”

“That you aren’t the only official looking into his activities,” said Liebre with a smug little smile. “The army is curious about him, too. I am proof of that. And I am not the only one assigned to monitor his activities.”

“Yes,” Zapatilla muttered. “I had heard something of that.”

“His actions are watched and his professional dealings are observed most carefully, particularly his correspondence, as I suppose you are aware.”

“Yes. I have received notice of this,” said Zapatilla. “And what have you discovered from your inquiries in this regard?”

“There have been letters from Germany and England and Russia. Most of the English letters come from a firm of solicitors and barristers, I believe they are called.” Liebre let this information sink in. “There have also been letters from Canada, and from a university in Peru, apparently from a woman with a French name. There may be more: I haven’t checked the letters for myself and that is all the desk clerks have told me. I cannot seem too curious, or Señor Echevarria may put me to work in a less convenient place than in the car park.”

“Wouldn’t you learn more at the desk?” Zapatilla inquired.

“I might, and I might not, but I am not yet sufficiently trained—in Señor Echevarria’s opinion—to do that work, nor am I in a hurry to learn.” He managed a little chuckle to indicate how ridiculous he thought this. “It is as useful for me to tend the autos as to go to the registration desk—more useful, in fact.” He tasted his coffee and set it aside. “I can learn all I need to know without appearing to … to snoop.”

“Do you mean to say you are watched?” Zapatilla asked. “You?”

“Of course I am. All the employees at the Hotel della Luna Nueva are.” He looked mildly amused. “Do you suppose that I receive any undue attention? I do not; I am a nonentity, less to be noticed than the autos the guests drive. If I behave well, no one pays any attention to me. But chambermaids have been known to pilfer, and desk clerks from time to time take bribes that are compromising to the hotel. Everyone has to be careful of clerks and maids. Not so much so with cooks and waiters, but they see very little of the guests, and what contact they have is very formal, limited to meals in the dining room. A parking attendant? I hear the same gossip as all the others, and I am practically invisible so long as I do nothing to draw attention to myself. I would be a fool to steal an auto, or to damage one; everyone knows that. As an attendant, I can see what the patrons bring with them, and I am in a good position to discover where they go, for they often ask for directions. Even Saint-Germain’s manservant occasionally asks me how to find certain streets, though he claims to be a native of Cádiz. His hair is tawny-and-white and his eyes grey-blue so it doesn’t seem likely that he is. Still—who knows? he might be.” He studied Zapatilla for a long moment, keeping silent.