Midnight Harvest (21 page)

Capitán Morales sighed; he had hoped to milk their conversation a bit more, but he knew enough about Cenere not to press his luck. “You are to find a foreigner—one Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain—”

“An auspicious title,” Cenere said, sneering.

This remark was lost on Capitán Morales, but he went along with Cenere anyway. “Yes, it is.”

“He is the one you want me to locate for you? Is that all?” He looked about the office. “I should think you would prefer to have him gone, out of reach.”

“It will not serve our purposes. He could make claims in court that would prevent our use of his company for months, if not years, and we cannot have that.” Capitán Morales pursed his lips in distaste.

“Ah. I understand why you summoned me, Capitán. You would prefer to have this Comte de Saint-Germain truly gone, completely out of the picture,” said Cenere. “No embarrassing protests to deal with.”

“Yes. You have it precisely.” He paused, hoping to add impact to what he was about to say. “You are to find him and you are to kill him—unobviously. This is to be an entirely clandestine operation. Nothing of his death is to redound to us in any way, but he must not vanish, or his estate will have to wait the required seven years to settle. He is rich enough to demand attention, so his death cannot rouse questions.”

“So an unobvious murder that will leave no questions. A lamentable accident, in fact,” said Cenere with spurious sympathy.

“Yes. A lamentable accident.”

Cenere flexed his long, thin hands. “Do you have any notion where this Ragoczy is?”

“No, not just at present. We know he isn’t in España.”

“That leaves a great deal of the world in which he may hide,” Cenere observed, unimpressed. “Is there any information that could narrow the search?”

“That is what we are hoping to find out,” said Capitán Morales. “His office should contain material we can use to locate him. I can appoint one man to help you.”

“I’d rather use the receptionist. She’ll know with whom he talks, and she should be able to provide us telephone numbers or street addresses. And if I speak firmly to her, she will want to tell me everything she knows.” Cenere spoke flatly, completely confident that he would get what he wanted.

“Then you may use her,” said Capitán Morales, disliking the way his statement came out. “I will appoint her to assist you.” There. That was less sinister.

“Thank you,” said Cenere, and took another turn around the office. “May I go inspect his files?”

“Certainly,” said Capitán Morales as he stubbed out his cigarette in an onyx ashtray on Druze Sviny’s desk. He would be glad to have Cenere out of the office. “If you wish to remove anything, tell me what it is, so I may give you a certificate allowing you to take it.”

“Very good,” said Cenere, and left Capitán Morales and his three remaining men in the Acting Chairman’s office. He entered Saint-Germain’s office and took stock of it: the room was paneled in mahogany; wall-sconces in the shape of sea-shells provided a soft lighting that was as quietly elegant as the burgundy silk draperies that covered the three tall windows, one of which was fronted by a trestle table made of glossy teak; three Oriental carpets lay over the polished wooden floor, their rich colors luminous; a handsome roll-top rosewood desk dominated one end of the office, facing three high-backed chairs upholstered in celadon damask; golden-oak file cabinets matched a set of glass-fronted bookcases on the west wall. In spite of himself, Cenere was impressed. He rubbed his chin with his forefinger and thumb, concentrating on what he did not see: there were no photographs anywhere. Perhaps, he thought, they had been removed and sent on to Saint-Germain, in which case he would have to find out where they had gone.

There was a tap on the door and one of the soldiers called out, “The Capitán has the receptionist with him, if you would like to speak with her.” His accent was that of Malagá.

“Bring her to me when Morales is done,” said Cenere, exasperated at having his hand forced.

“Sí, Señor Cenere.” The soldier went away.

Cenere waited a few minutes, then went to test the drawers on the file cabinets. Finding them locked, he took a small tool—not unlike a toothpick with a little bend at one end—from his wallet and jimmied them open. He made a swift examination of the tabs and pulled out six of the files, spreading them out on the narrow table in front of the central window. He pulled a handful of onion-skin carbon copies from files, then stacked them, but did not return them to the files. With a hint of a smile, he folded the carbons in half and slipped them into one of the three large pockets in his suit jacket. Satisfied, he took a seat in one of the visitor’s chairs, turning it to let him see the door as well as the desk. For twenty minutes he waited, smoking and thinking, and then there was another knock on the door.

“The receptionist, Señor Cenere,” called out the soldier who had spoken before.

“Bring her in,” said Cenere, rising with deliberate slowness to greet the much-subdued young woman who came through the door. “Buenas tardes, señorita,” he said, his gallantry enough to make her skin crawl.

“Tardes,” she murmured, staying near the door, her face slightly averted.

“Do come in and sit down.” He indicated another of the visitor’s chairs. “Here.” Reluctantly she did as he ordered, sitting without leaning back on the upholstery, her hands clasped in her lap. “I trust you’re comfortable?” Cenere said, knowing she was not.

“I am,” she lied. “Capitán Morales said I am to answer your questions. I am ready to do so.”

“Very good,” said Cenere. “May I begin by knowing your name?”

“Estrellita Rocio,” she said, giving an Asturian trill to the
ll.

“I am Cenere,” he said. “A pleasure to know you, Señorita Rocio.”

“Tengo alegrarse de verlo, Señor Cenere,” she whispered, her good manners not yet completely banished by her dread.

He chuckled. “Are you sure?” He lit another cigarette—his third since he entered the office—and peered at her through the smoke.

Estrellita shook her head in confusion. “I will tell you anything you want to know.”

“I am certain you will,” said Cenere, and leaned forward. “You are aware that the army is looking for Señor Ragoczy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” she said quickly. “Everyone in the company knows it.”

“It is obvious,” Cenere agreed. “And you must have more information about him than most do.”

“I’m not sure,” she said, her manner more guarded than ever.

“You’re too modest,” said Cenere. “You have a position of responsibility, of trust. You know those whom Señor Ragoczy telephoned, and who telephoned him, you received his telegrams and saw where they came from. You have been privy to a great many communications, and you know who all the visitors have been. Don’t you?”

Estrellita shrugged, her tension making the gesture awkward. “I know some,” she admitted.

“And you can remember a great deal more, can’t you?” Cenere challenged.

“I suppose so,” she said, her voice dropping again.

“Yes, of course you can,” said Cenere as he reached out to pat her hand; she almost shrieked as he touched her, but was able to stifle it so that all he heard was a soft yelp. “Be calm, be calm. Gather your thoughts. We have plenty of time, Señorita Rocio. Do not feel pressured by me—take as long as you need.”

She winced. “I will try to remember.”

“Muy bien,” said Cenere. “Now then, you must have seen mail from other countries sent to Señor Ragoczy—”

“Le Comte de Saint-Germain,” she dared to correct him. “Most of his correspondents addressed him by his title.”

“Of course, of course,” said Cenere, taking another drag on his cigarette. “From which countries did his mail come?”

Estrellita thought a moment. “He had mail from everywhere, even Peru.”

“Peru,” said Cenere, mildly surprised.

“From a professor with a French or Italian name. I recall two letters but neither one came less than a year ago.” She felt a catch in her throat.

“What others?” Cenere asked.

“Letters from a firm in Canada—a chemical factory of some sort, in Winnipeg—such an odd name for a city,” she said quickly. “And letters from a place in Bavaria. Sometimes a letter would come from Greece from someone with a German name. Occasionally he has had letters from the Soviet Union, apparently regarding businesses his family had invested in back when it was still Russia.” She glanced at Cenere to see if any of this was the information he sought.

“Bavaria and the Soviet Union,” said Cenere. “Where else?”

“France, of course, and Italy, from companies interested in our airplanes.” She could not keep from boasting a little. “Also from Sweden and Denmark.”

“Very good,” said Cenere, sounding a bit bored.

“There were letters from a publisher in Amsterdam,” she went on, “and from a group of attorneys in London.”

These two possibilities were more promising, Cenere thought, although he gave no outward indication of his interest. “What would Señor Ragoczy want with a Dutch publisher?”

“I don’t know,” said Estrellita primly. “I received the letters, I didn’t read them.”

“Just so,” said Cenere, thinking of the carbons in his jacket; he would match them up with what Estrellita revealed when he was done with her. “How does it happen that you recall these letters? Was there anything unusual about them?”

“The stamps,” she said at once. “My little brother collects them, and so I try to get as many for him as I can.”

“Ah,” said Cenere. “So it is a fortunate accident that you have such a clear recollection of the letters. And you would not let one slip your mind, would you?”

“If it was delivered when I was on duty, no, I would not,” Estrellita said. “I had permission to remove the stamps, you see,” she added self-consciously.

“I do see,” said Cenere. He got up and came around behind her chair. “What more, Estrellita? What can you tell me?”

She went more pale. “I … I can think of nothing more.”

“What of visitors?” He waited a long moment. “Tell me who came to see him.”

“Do you mean non-Spaniards?” Her hands were shaking; she knotted them together in an effort to steady them.

“Yes, that is what I mean.” The edge in his voice made her jump.

“Well,” she said, struggling to concentrate, “there was a man from Egypt who wanted four airplanes. He is some kind of nobility there and said he preferred airplanes to camels.” She attempted a smile without success. “There were two men from Germany, but le Comte refused to see them. He had a policy not to use his airplanes for military purposes. That’s changed now.”

“So it has,” said Cenere. “Who else?”

“An American journalist called once, but le Comte was in Cádiz. He left no message.” She shivered as if the room had abruptly turned cold.

“No message? Are you sure?” Cenere asked.

“If he did, I never saw it, and he was only here for a few minutes.” She huddled in on herself as if she hoped to escape Cenere by vanishing. “A pilot from Hungary came once, hoping to get work, but he left before he flew any of the airplanes. He said he had a better offer from a company in France.”

“Do you remember any other foreigners?” Cenere’s manner suggested only slight curiosity, but he was keenly alert to her answer.

“No, no, I don’t.” She pressed her lips together. “That’s all I can think of.”

“Um-hum,” said Cenere. “Well, then I think you had best return to your duties:” He saw the startled look in her eyes and permitted himself a hint of amusement. “I’ll be here tomorrow, in case you should think of something more during the night.”

The dismay on her face was almost comical. “That’s all of it, Señor Cenere. I promise you, it’s all.”

“Yes, yes. But something may occur to you, and it would be worthwhile to tell me. I won’t fault you because something slipped your mind.” His geniality made her queasy. “You can let yourself out, can’t you?”

“Yes.” With that, she all but bolted from the room, leaving Cenere to take out the carbon copies from his vest pocket and begin to look for letters to a Dutch publisher and an English attorney.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
H
ORATIO
B
ATTERBURY IN
W
INNIPEG,
M
ANITOBA,
C
ANADA, TO
D
RUZE
S
VINY IN
T
OULOUSE,
F
RANCE.

Compton House

658 Selkirk Road

Suites 4–9

Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

27 July, 1936

Druze Sviny

c/o Hotel Belvoir

47, Rue des Bergers

Toulouse, France

My dear Doctor Sviny,

I thank you for your letter of the 23rd which has just arrived via airmail. You were very right to send it to me, and I appreciate your timeliness in making this contact Our current contractual schedule would make your addition to our work deeply appreciated, and we’re looking forward to a long association.

I hope this will put any anxiety you may have to rest at once; yes, I am interested in employing you. I already received a sterling recommendation from Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain, who has been your employer and our investor, and who has given me his personal assurances that you would be a true asset to Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd. I have reviewed your curriculum vitae and I am as impressed as Saint-Germain said I would be. Your credentials are truly remarkable, and I know you will fit into our company most suitably.

While I realize that moving across the Atlantic is not a venture to be undertaken lightly, I think I can assure you a handsome salary, starting at $6,500 a year with the potential of increasing to $10,000 in five years, rates that are more than competitive with any other business in Canada that might offer you a position, and certainly as good or better than any salary you could command in Europe or the United States. We will also include $1,500 for moving expenses, which should make the upheaval less of a burden for you. If you have chests or crates you would like to send on ahead, we will be pleased to supply storage for you.