Midnight Harvest (22 page)

I am looking forward to your answer; if you agree to come to work here, we would like you to begin on 1 September, if that is convenient I am aware that the political situation in Europe just now may make travel problematic. Should you need more time to make arrangements, please let me know as soon as possible and I will adjust your starting date to suit your travels.

Incidentally, we can provide you an apartment in Winnipeg until you find housing to your satisfaction, so that need not hamper your plans regarding your work here.

In anticipation of a happy outcome, I will extend a welcome to Canada.

Most sincerely yours,

Horatio Batterbury

Manitoba Chemicals, Ltd.

HB/cd’m

chapter nine

“I have the train schedules, and costs for private cars; we can make arrangements by the end of the week and be away early next,” Rogerio told Saint-Germain as he came into the hotel suite sitting room that overlooked the Charles River. It was a muggy summer day, and Boston was dragging toward evening, men on the street walking slowly; even the laborers were wilting, and the horses drawing wagons amid the automobiles and lorries plodded, leaning into their collars and sweating. Rogerio had removed his jacket and waistcoat and had rolled up his shirtsleeves but the heat still weighed upon him.

Saint-Germain held out his hand for the glossy, printed pages Rogerio carried, holding them up and flipping through them. “It will be good to leave. It’s stifling,” he remarked as he indicated the open window. “I saw heat-lightning a while ago.” He was wearing a black linen dressing-robe over black linen slacks, and although there was no trace of moisture on his face, he was unusually pale, a sure sign that the sultry weather was taking a toll on him.

“This has been a difficult few days,” Rogerio agreed. “But we can be gone by Tuesday, if the contract is accepted.”

“I hope there will be a break in the weather before then.” Saint-Germain turned away from the window.

“Yes, that would be welcome.” Rogerio opened the contract he had finally got from the attorneys. “If you will sign this, Hiram Jaynes will make all the arrangements.”

“It’s just as well that Miles Sunbury recommended this firm to me; I would not have known how to approach one of these Boston firms without an introduction.” Saint-Germain set the brochures aside, took the contract, and read it through, stopping now and then to scrutinize a particular clause. “The law is its own language, no matter what language it’s written in,” he said as he sorted out one especially convoluted provision. “But I surmise I will not have to pay for any damage to the private car if it is damaged as the result of a train-wreck or other external causes.”

“It seems fair that you should not have to,” said Rogerio.

“I see there is insurance I may purchase for the duration of the lease,” said Saint-Germain as he read further. “That will pay for any damage that I do or cause to have done. What, I wonder, do they think I am planning to do while I travel?”

“Hiram Jaynes recommends the insurance, at full value,” said Rogerio.

“No doubt,” said Saint-Germain. “It would be less conspicuous to have it, wouldn’t it.” He had already made up his mind.

“Yes, that was Jaynes’ thought.” Rogerio went to the window and lowered the Venetian blinds.

Saint-Germain finished reading the contract, a slight frown between his brows as he considered the contents. “I’ll telephone Jaynes in the morning.”

“Not this afternoon? He’ll be in his office for another hour,” said Rogerio.

“No; that would give the impression I haven’t thought about the terms, and a man as methodical as Hiram Jaynes doesn’t respect mercurial decisions. The terms and specifications suit me well enough, and any additional changes I might want at this point could draw attention to … certain aspects of my life I would as soon keep private.” Saint-Germain went to the old-fashioned writing desk near the door. He took out his fountain-pen and initialed each page, then signed on the designated line; he held out the pen to Rogerio. “To witness, if you will.”

Rogerio took the pen and signed on the witness line, then blotted the two signatures. “Do you think there could be an objection to me as a witness?”

“Why? You have a vested interest in this travel, but that shouldn’t preclude witnessing the contract. You are in my employ, of course, but you have money of your own, and so you aren’t dependent upon me; there can be no concern in that regard. Besides, whomelse do I know in Boston to vouch for my character? I’ve corresponded with two professors in Cambridge, but they know nothing of me beyond my work with chemicals. No, old friend, you are the obvious choice—anyone with an ounce of sense would see that, and agree you are an appropriate witness.” He folded the contract and put the cover around it. “Tomorrow it will go to Jaynes.” Slipping the blue-covered pages into one of the desk slots, Saint-Germain sighed. “I should go out tonight.”

“Late?” Rogerio asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes. I may not return until shortly before dawn. I am still enervated from the airplane journey.” He disliked the admission, and he quickly changed the subject. “The contract stipulates that the car has sleeping accommodations for four in two bedrooms.”

“That is my understanding; a full bedroom and a second, smaller one,” said Rogerio, unfazed by the shift in conversational direction. “And a sitting room, a small dining room, and, of course, appropriate water closets.” He smiled at this. “Not that either of us have need of one.”

“If they provide baths or showers, we will have,” Saint-Germain reminded him.

“Yes,” said Rogerio quickly. “Baths and showers.”

There was a mutter of thunder but the lowering, pink-tinged clouds did not open.

“Tell me,” said Saint-Germain a moment later, “is the summer so fierce all the way across the country? The wireless—the radio,” he corrected himself, “certainly would make one think so. Yet I find it hard to imagine that the weather is uniform, given the size of the land. This isn’t the Year of Yellow Snow.”

“That was cold, not heat,” Rogerio reminded him.

“So it was.” He mused a long moment. “Madelaine told me San Francisco was chilly in the summer.”

“That was eighty years ago,” Rogerio reminded him.

“Do you mean it might have changed?” Saint-Germain asked, then went on, “They say the drought in the middle of the country has made everything different in only three years; there were dust-storms that made the drought worse, last year and the year before. The devastation is reported on the news twice a day even now. So your point is well-taken; San Francisco may no longer be foggy in the summer. We will not rely upon the weather.” He regarded Rogerio with curiosity. “Will that have a bearing on our travel, do you think?”

“As much as the weather ever does,” said Rogerio.

“Such a circumspect answer,” Saint-Germain chided him gently. “Very well; I won’t plague you with any more questions neither of us can answer; my Word on it. We will be on our way by next Tuesday and we will find out for ourselves.” He checked his new wristwatch, saying, “As I have already mentioned, I plan to go out shortly after sundown.”

“Have you a destination in mind?” Rogerio asked.

“I think I will begin with the Commons and then go where my steps take me.” Saint-Germain smiled a little. “There must be someone in this city who will let me visit her in sleep.”

“There must be hundreds, if only they knew,” said Rogerio, and regarded Saint-Germain with some concern.” They say the police here are vigilant.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Saint-Germain. “I have no wish to end up in an American prison cell. Or a psychiatric ward,” he added with distaste.

“Surely it wouldn’t come to that,” Rogerio said.

“Because I am foreign and rich?” Saint-Germain asked sadly. “At this time, I think both those things might well count against me here, and Americans, like the Germans, have taken to using the mental hospitals as de facto prisons for those who prove too awkward for them.” He took a deep breath. “You needn’t worry. I will be discreet.”

“And good thing, too,” said Rogerio with a touch of asperity. “What shall I lay out for you?”

“My tropical-weight wool jacket, I think, with the red-and-black lining. No waistcoat, not in this heat. A white linen shirt and the deep red tie in silk brocade.”

“As you wish,” said Rogerio, and went to attend to sorting laundry in preparation for their coming departure.

It was after eight in the evening when Saint-Germain strolled out of the hotel and into the warm, close summer evening. There were occasional flashes of lightning, but no rain had yet fallen, and the whole city seemed breathless in anticipation. Four blocks brought him to the Commons, and he walked across it, admiring the old trees and watching the autos doing their best to negotiate the narrow streets around the Commons. He gave a half-dollar to a man in a ragged overcoat and advised him to buy something to eat with it, for the man was dreadfully thin. Walking farther, he noticed a tavern at one of the corners, a sandwich board standing in front of it advertising food and drink, its doors standing open more in hope of a breeze than invitation to patrons; a group of men were bustling into the low-ceilinged establishment, one of them propounding emphatic political opinions. Realizing this was no place for him, Saint-Germain went on, following the street past the church and winding up a hill. A few of the buildings were dark, but most were alive with activity, their lights shining against the night. Saint-Germain stepped aside as a small procession of autos went past him: a Hudson, a Packard, two Studebakers, a Buick, a Cadillac, a Lincoln, a Hupmobile, and a Pierce Silver Arrow; their headlights were dazzling in the deepening twilight; the occupants of the autos were apparently all bound for the same function, for they kept in their formation for as far as Saint-Germain could watch them go, their taillights marking their progress down the curving street. When the autos were out of sight, he resumed his walk, coming at last to a cluster of larger houses with gardens and lawns, and the general look of prosperity, although one had overgrown hedges. He stopped at the fence and studied the house beyond, noticing that it was kept up but without any excesses or obviously new work. The lights were on in half of the rooms, judging by the windows, but there was little sign of much activity, although there were faint sounds of a radio on the second floor.

A large black dog—a mastiff with something else in the mix—bounded up to the fence where Saint-Germain was standing, barking ferociously while wagging his tail.

“Max! Max! Cut it out!” The voice was young and female, and in a little while she came out of the rear of the house, calling, “Max! Stop it, now!” as she hurried toward the fence. She caught sight of Saint-Germain and stopped. “Oh. Sorry.”

“He’s protecting you,” said Saint-Germain.

“Yes,” said the young woman. She stared at him, a bit wary, and patted her thigh to call Max to her side. “The tail isn’t very frightening. I guess he doesn’t think you’re dangerous.” She spoke with a flat Boston accent and possessed the angular prettiness that promised charm and chic in later life. She had lively blue eyes and slender hands; her dress was of good quality but at least three years old and her light brown hair was in need of cutting; she regarded Saint-Germain with a mixture of chariness and curiosity.

“How good of him,” said Saint-Germain.

She smiled at the dog. “Good Max. Good Max.” She patted him on the head as he sat beside her.

“He is a good dog,” said Saint-Germain, his praise accompanied by a new, louder roll of thunder. “He pays attention to you and he guards your house.”

Apparently aware he was being praised, Max flattened his ears and thumped his tail on the ground.

“We’re saying
good
a lot,” the young woman said, her smile now more relaxed. She came to the fence. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Alas, no. I am from Europe, only recently arrived on your shores. I have been looking about your beautiful city.” He held out his hand as he had seen Americans do. “Ferenc Ragoczy, at your service.”

She took his hand and shook it once. “What kind of a name is Ferenc?” she asked, a bit apologetic for her lapse in manners; she folded her arms as lightning spangled almost overhead, followed in less than two seconds by a sharp thunderclap.

“Hungarian,” said Saint-Germain. “The English version is Francis, I believe.”

“I’m Bronwen O’Neil.” They shook hands and she blushed. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Hungarian before.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Bronwen O’Neil.” Saint-Germain took a step back.

“Are you moving to Boston, Mr. Ragoczy? Or are you visiting?” She stumbled over the unfamiliar combination of syllables.

“No; I am traveling through,” said Saint-Germain.

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed.

“I want to see more of America while I have the opportunity.” He gave her a quick, one-sided smile.

“There is a great deal to see,” she said as if indulging in dinner conversation. “Have you plans for your explorations yet?”

“I leave for Chicago early next week,” he told her.

“Chicago.” She stared into the distance. “My father went to Chicago, two years ago, looking for work.”

“And you’ve remained here,” said Saint-Germain.

“Mother said it was best, until something was settled.” Her frown revealed that this had been more than an inconvenience.

“That must be difficult for you, having him in Chicago and you remaining in Boston,” said Saint-Germain, speculation in his voice.

“He … didn’t get the work he wanted. He told us he had to look elsewhere, so he left Chicago last year, or he said he did. We haven’t heard from him for months.” She was so forlorn that Saint-Germain could think of nothing to say to her; she recalled herself in a fluster. “Oh, dear. Listen to me! I am so sorry. I shouldn’t impose upon you.” She smoothed her hair back from her brow. “I hope things go better for you in Chicago, and wherever your travels may take you.”