Midnight Harvest (19 page)

Saint-Germain considered the offer. “If I don’t take a nap, I would like that.”

“He will make it very simple for you,” Ange assured him. “Airplanes aren’t all that mysterious, you know.”

This was too much for Saint-Germain. “He needn’t bother. I have—or I had—an aircraft design company and assembly plant in Córdoba; I am familiar with airplane engines and the principles of flight. I am much more interested in how your charter company is run, and how well it has done as a business.” His testiness ceased and he went on more urbanely, “I have invested in many shipping companies, over the years, and it may be that a charter service, such as this one, can prove to be another opportunity.”

Ange looked distressed, and his polished demeanor slipped a bit. “I didn’t mean … no disrespect intended.”

“None assumed,” Saint-Germain said, wholly regaining his composure as the airplane picked up speed. “But in future, don’t jump to conclusions so readily. I may be a skittish flier, but I am not unaware of what is transpiring.”

“No,” the young man said hastily.

The airplane began to rise; thirty meters before the end of the runway, it was ten meters off the ground, aimed directly at the English Channel. The sound of the landing gear being retracted silenced the three men in the main cabin.

“Well,” said Rogerio as the land fell away behind them, “a fine day for flying, just as the assistant pilot told us.”

“The winds are light,” said Ange, “and this is especially good.” He unbuckled his seat-belt and stood up. “I have an insulated carafe of coffee. Do you want some?”

“No, thank you,” said Saint-Germain.

“Nor I,” said Rogerio.

“Then I’ll offer it to the cockpit crew,” he said, and went to tap on the hatch.

The airplane climbed higher; soon the water beneath them looked like an expanse of blue-green pebbled silk crepe spreading from the green-and-tan expanse of Europe to the greener expanse of England; the Channel Islands were smears on the clear water. Cherbourg melted away behind them into the general smudge of clustered buildings that marked the edge of the Channel. Rogerio looked out the nearest window, remarking, “It is surprising how much the same all the land looks.”

“Why shouldn’t it?” Saint-Germain asked with a hint of amusement. “It isn’t marked in colors or with boundaries; human beings do that Think how often you have seen frontiers change over the years.”

“I wasn’t expecting blocks of color,” said Rogerio, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Saint-Germain ducked his head. “I know, old friend. I didn’t mean to suggest anything.”

“It is your edginess,” said Rogerio.

“Yes. Indeed.” Saint-Germain fussed with his seat-belt.

Ange came back from the cockpit hatch and said, “If you would like to smoke, you may do so now; it’s safe now we’re in the air. We should be landing in Limerick in roughly two hours forty minutes. We’ll cross over a bit of Cornwall, and then go on to Cork, from there to Limerick, where we will land to take on fuel.” He recited this much the same way he might have recited the tide-table.

“Neither of us smokes,” said Saint-Germain. “Two hours forty minutes?”

“Possibly a little sooner,” Ange replied.

“Then I will stay here in the lounge until we depart for America,” said Saint-Germain, and caught a sharp glance from Rogerio.

Ange shrugged. “Suit yourself, Comte.” He took a cigarette from a pack in his waistcoat pocket and, after a brief hesitation, took out a lighter and began to smoke.

For the next twenty minutes no one spoke; the engines droned on, steady as a swarm of bees. Ange smoked a second cigarette as if to alleviate intolerable boredom. Rogerio occupied himself looking out the window while Saint-Germain sat as if in a trance.

The cockpit hatch opened and the assistant pilot came out, a cup of coffee in one hand; his peaked cap was worn at a rakish angle. “We’ll be crossing over Cornwall shortly. You’ll see our progress more easily from the right side of the airplane than the left, if you want to watch.” He spoke in English, his Irish brogue even more apparent than when he spoke French. “You do understand me, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Saint-Germain in that language.

“Just as well, if you’re going to America; most of them talk English,” said the assistant pilot. “Rory Yeats, at your service, and no, no relation that I know of.”

“To the poet,” Saint-Germain guessed.

“The same,” said the assistant pilot. “The captain is Dennis McInnis; he’s a Canadian, from Halifax—been flying since he was fifteen. He’s the best we have.” He lifted his cup in salute. “The navigator is Conrade Ensuite, from Rouen. And you’ve met Ange.”

“Yes,” said Saint-Germain.

“We’ll be with you all the way to Boston,” said Yeats.

“I should hope so,” said Saint-Germain with a little of his customary urbanity returning.

Yeats laughed. “Good point,” he exclaimed. “So far everything looks fine; if there’s any change, I’ll let you know,” he assured them before returning to the cockpit.

“Encouraging,” said Rogerio after a brief silence.

“I would expect no less,” said Saint-Germain. “It wouldn’t be in his best interests to contribute to our apprehensions.”

Rogerio knew of old that when Saint-Germain retreated behind elegant vocabulary that he would reveal little of his inner thoughts, so he replied, “No. I should imagine they would like their passengers calm.”

“Or possibly comatose,” said Saint-Germain. “As soon as we leave Ireland, it is my intention to accommodate them.” He closed his eyes as the airplane bounced a bit “Yes,” he said as steadiness returned, “I am sure that would be best.”

“It’s going to be—”

“Fine,” Saint-Germain finished for him. “I know. But I can’t rid myself of the agitation I feel. I don’t want to burden you with it, but—” He shrugged.

“You have no need to apologize,” said Rogerio.

“But I do, you know,” Saint-Germain corrected him gently. “And I thank you for putting up with me.”

“You can see Cornwall,” Ange informed them from the entry to the alcove that was the galley:

“At least it is quick,” said Saint-Germain.

“Not like that voyage to South America,” Rogerio reminded him.

“Three centuries past,” Saint-Germain added. “Not too long ago, all things considered.” He pointedly looked away from the nearest window.

“And certainly preferable to the voyages across the Arabian or Black Seas,” Rogerio said.

“True enough.”

Cornwall passed beneath them, and then Saint George’s Channel. Ireland lay ahead, its intense green relieved here and there by the green-gold of planted fields. The engines changed pitch subtly as the airplane began its descent into Limerick.

“Keep your seat-belts buckled until Captain McInnis turns off the engines. If you intend to leave the airplane for any reason while we’re refueling, please make sure to tell me where you can be found—we will not be here long.”

“I think we’ll stay where we are,” said Saint-Germain, adding to himself that if he left the airplane he might not want to return.

“As you wish. I am going to get a few meat pies and potato wedges for the Captain and the crew; that and if you’ve changed your minds, anything you may like to eat? We can’t offer the fine fare of dirigibles, but we don’t take as long to get across the ocean, either.” He received head-shakes for answers, so he sat on his separate short bench and buckled himself in; the airplane was dropping lower and lower, and the scenery below seemed to be moving faster the closer they came to the ground.

Saint-Germain closed his eyes and fought off the queasiness coiling within him. He sat very still until the airplane had taxied and stopped. As the engines shut down, he opened his eyes and tried to give an encouraging smile. “Very good,” he said.

Ange unbuckled and stood up. “I won’t be very long,” he announced, then went to open the door in the side of the airplane. A moment later, steps were rolled up, and Ange hurried down them; a few minutes later, Rory Yeats ambled out of the cockpit and stepped out onto the landing, his peaked cap shoved back on his head, shading his eyes with his hand. After a short while he sauntered back into the cockpit without stopping to talk to Saint-Germain and Rogerio. There were shouts and bustle as the ground crew hurried to top off the fuel tanks, and just as the flurry of activity began to diminish, Ange returned with a canvas bag held daintily in front of him. The preparations for departure were made quickly and efficiently, and in what seemed to be too brief a time the airplane engines started again.

“Newfoundland,” said Saint-Germain as the airplane taxied to take-off position.

“Newfoundland,” Rogerio seconded as the airplane began to pick up speed over the ground.

They had just begun to rise into the air when Ange said with elaborate nonchalance, “There was a man, a Spaniard, looking for you. At the airport. He had on a Colonel’s uniform. Not bad-looking but much too gruff for my taste.”

Saint-Germain did his best to conceal his dismay. “What did he want?”

“He didn’t say,” Ange reported primly. “But he did say a Spanish court is going to take control of your Spanish businesses. He had some sort of official notification with him, very official by the look of the envelope. It had a seal on it.”

“So you talked to him?” Saint-Germain asked, a bit too quickly.

“Just a bit,” said Ange. “He knew that your manservant chartered this airplane. I couldn’t deny that, could I?”

“Probably not,” Saint-Germain told him, his self-possession returning. “Did you learn anything else?”

“Only that you’re in trouble about some woman—she vanished after spending the night in your company.” Ange’s brow went up speculatively.

“Going to England is hardly vanishing,” said Saint-Germain.

“Just as you’re going to America,” said Ange, apparently satisfied with the answer he had been given.

“Exactly,” said Saint-Germain as the airplane headed out across the Atlantic Ocean.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
M
ILES
S
UNBURY IN
L
ONDON TO
F
ERENC
R
AGOCZY, LE
C
OMTE DE
S
AINT
-G
ERMAIN, HELD AT
G
ENERAL
D
ELIVERY IN
B
OSTON,
M
ASSACHUSETTS.

S
UNBURY
D
RAUGHTON
H
OLLIS
& C
ARNFORD

SOLICITORS AND BARRISTERS

N
EW
C
OURT

C
ITY OF
L
ONDON,
E
NGLAND

22 July, 1936

Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain

General Delivery, Central Post Office

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

My dear Comte,

I have enclosed copies of all transactions I have undertaken on your behalf in the last ten days: I trust you will find that all is in order and done to your satisfaction; if you have any questions, I will be pleased to answer them promptly. I am, in accordance with your instructions, sending this via airmail, special delivery, to General Delivery in Boston, Massachusetts.

The sum of ten thousand pounds (£10,000) has been transferred to the Mercantile Bank of Massachusetts where you will find cheques waiting for you upon your presentation of the agreed-upon identification. Also the amount of fifteen thousand pounds (£15,000) has been wired into a new account for you at the Bank of America (formerly the Bank of Italy) in San Francisco, California, along with another two thousand pounds (£2,000) to the account of Mr. Carlo Pietragnelli of Geyserville, California, at the Bank of America in San Francisco, as per your annual instructions. You will find enclosed the receipt for all three transfers, as well as the exchange rate currently prevailing: five dollars fifty cents to the pound. I could have improved upon that, had I had more time to negotiate; as it is, I took the best rate I could get in the last forty-eight hours.

While I share your concerns over various European currencies, I do not necessarily think that the dollar is much safer than the franc or the lira, given the state of affairs in America. Little as I may like the German regime, I must say the mark is holding very strong, and I would be astonished to see it devalued again for the rest of the decade. The Germans learned a lesson a decade ago, and they’re not likely to forget the trouble inflation caused them then. If you wish to transfer more of your wealth to dollars, that is, of course, your decision, but I must say that I would be remiss if I did not advise strongly against it.

I have received the annual report from Horatio Batterbury for Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd. and I am pleased to say that they have turned a modest profit for the second year in a row; I have transferred twenty-five thousand pounds (£25,000) from your development account, as you instructed me to do in your telegram of 9 June, and I have Mr. Batterbury’s assurances that the company will continue on sound footing.

If you decide to increase your investments while in the United States, let me recommend the services of Messrs. Bradley, Hunt, and Shumaker; they are Wall Street brokers who have survived the dreadful Crash and are still able to do business successfully. They have excellent reputations and their probity is beyond question. I will be pleased to make any arrangements with them you may wish if you would prefer to draw upon your resources here in England rather than transferring funds across the Atlantic.

Also, I can recommend attorneys in Boston, New York, Chicago, Denver, St Louis, and San Francisco if you find you have need of such services. You will find many American attorneys to be more flamboyant than many English barristers: incidentally, they do not separate their solicitors and barristers as we do, but put all under the blanket of attorneys. They deal with this by allotting specializations to partnerships or members of the partnerships. You may find it confusing at first, but they insist it works as well as our system does. In Boston, Hiram Jaynes of Jaynes Jaynes Fleming & Gries will be happy to serve you; in New York, Morton Putnam of Guilifoyle Avery Putnam Jones & van der Hoovn; in Chicago, J. Harold Bishop of Horner Bishop Beatie Wentworth & Culpepper; in Denver, Willard Powell of Latimer Trace Dawson & Powell; in St. Louis, Timothy McGregor of McGregor Little & Moulin; in San Francisco, Oscar King of King Lowenthal Taylor & Frost I can personally vouch for every one of these men and their firms. I know you will find them discreet attentive, well-informed, and meticulous. Each firm has been in business for more than thirty years and has proven its integrity many times over.