Midnight Harvest (45 page)

“That alone makes this evening memorable, and there are many other reasons to mark it,” he said, and lifted his own glass to be filled. They touched the rims of their glasses. “To memorable nights,” he said.

“Amen.” She gulped down almost half the champagne. “You’re being … very nice to me. I’m having a wonderful time.”

“It’s easy to do, Dorothy, being nice to you,” he said, a trifle too glibly; he had to make a recovery. “I’d begun to think that Americans only thought about money and movie stars. I was beginning to believe that it was impossible to find someone of substance in this country. And then I met you. You are an intelligent and sympathetic woman, and those are wonderful qualities to find in anyone.”

“You are a flatterer,” she said, the merest hint of a slur in her speech.

“I hope not. I may compliment you, which is only speaking the truth favorably; flattery assumes I am praising you for what does not exist” He let this sink in, and added, “I must assume all the men in Chicago are dolts, to leave you on the shelf.”

There was just enough of a sting in his remarks for her to wince; she collected herself and managed to say, “Thank you, Mr. Cenere” before she drank more champagne. He carefully refilled her glass.

“I would like to think that you would not be entirely adverse to seeing me again, when I’ve finished with my mission.” He let the suggestion hang in the air between them.

“Oh, Mr. Cenere, that would be … quite splendid,” she said, knowing it was folly to let a man know you were interested in him so early in the acquaintance.

“Good. Then we should toast to that, as well,” he said, lifting his champagne glass and prompting her to do the same.

Miss McAllister threw caution to the winds, and said, “I’ll look forward to it.”

The waiter arrived with their bowls of soup on polished brass chargers and set them in place. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“Not now,” said Cenere, expecting the man to go away. He gave his full attention to Miss McAllister. “This looks very good, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly does,” said Miss McAllister, less than truthfully, for she was beginning to feel the impact of her drinks, and food seemed oddly unappetizing.

“Then enjoy your meal,” said Cenere, and picked up his spoon.

Miss McAllister managed to finish about half her cream of tomato soup before it became too much for her. She began to wonder if she had been right to order the duck; her digestion wasn’t what it was a decade ago, and this might prove too much, no matter how good it was. When her soup-bowl was removed, she had to fight the urge to ask the waiter to be sure the leftovers were given to a soup-kitchen or other service, so it wouldn’t go to waste. She drank a little more champagne, as if that could make up for her leaving the soup. “I’m afraid I’m beginning to feel the alcohol,” she said to Cenere.

This was precisely what he wanted to hear, but he managed to look concerned. “The food will sop it up. You don’t need to worry, Dorothy.”

“You’re being so nice to me,” she said, not wanting to appear ungrateful for all he had done for her.

“I’m glad I can do this,” he said. “I only hope I can do something more to show you how much I value this evening.”

This effusiveness would have alerted her, had she been more watchful, but her usual keenness was blunted, so she struggled to return the compliment. “It’s very special to me, as well, Mr. Cenere. I wish I could tell you how much. You quite … overwhelm me with kindness.” This seemed a bit too impersonal, but she could think of nothing more intimate to say. She wanted to learn his first name, but she knew that Europeans could be a great deal more reserved about such things than Americans were; Mr. Bishop insisted on a high level of decorum in the office, and for Miss McAllister, that tended to carry over into everything she did.

“Thank you, Dorothy; I’ll try to be worthy of your high regard.” He saw the waiter approaching with their entrees and fell silent.

She beamed at him, thinking things she had not dared to think for more than a decade, not since George Eastman had died in Flanders. To be treated so well—almost courted—was an experience she had assumed was lost to her. When the waiter set down her dinner, she tried to push those burgeoning hopes away, reminding herself that this man was a foreigner and a stranger, and she actually knew almost nothing about him, that his attention might not be anything but courtesy to a secretary who had been useful to him. Finally she murmured, “This is really superb,” and trusted he would think she meant the food.

Cenere ate sparingly, finding the meal fairly ordinary, but he was careful to give no indication of this. He also refilled both their glasses. “Just in case,” he said.

“I shouldn’t have any more,” she said as she fiddled with the half-duck; the skin glistened and she had to press down with the knife to slice it, an action that made her wince. The temerity she had thought was so enlivening a few minutes ago now seemed rash and ill-considered. “In fact, I probably shouldn’t have had any.”

“As you wish,” he said, not pressing her, but he did not move her glass.

She ate less than half of what was on her plate. “I’m sorry, but I’m full; I can’t manage another bite,” she said contritely.

“They are generous in their servings,” he said. “But you aren’t compelled to do anything you wouldn’t like, including finishing your entree.”

“It seems so … wasteful. I ought to eat everything on my plate.” She could feel color mount in her cheeks and she thought she should say something more. “It’s wrong to leave so much behind.”

“Perhaps they will let you take some of this with you,” he suggested. “I’ll ask the waiter, if you like.”

Now she was very confused. “Would it be correct to ask? Doesn’t the kitchen staff dine on the left-overs?”

“I don’t know,” said Cenere, who did not care what became of the unfinished dinners. “But if you want the rest of the food, you shall have it.”

She shook her head, and, without meaning to, took another sip of champagne. “If you don’t think I’ll overstep—”

“Does it matter? The waiter is here to serve us. Let him do his job,” said Cenere.

She dropped her eyes. “Whatever you think is best.”

“I’ll have him box up your food. You can get another evening’s meal out of what’s on your plate.” He signaled the waiter and issued his orders. “So you see,” he said to Miss McAllister as the waiter left, “it’s done.”

“Thank you,” she said, admiring his air of authority. “I hope this isn’t an imposition, but—”

“I do understand,” he said, and paused for a long moment. “I hope, when I return from my mission, that you’ll let me take you out again.”

She hesitated, reminding herself not to read too much into this simple request, and at the same time longing to have it be a promise of something to come, and she spoke in a rush. “If you decide you’d like to see me again, I’d be delighted to see you. You could have a long way to go to find your criminal. I know you may not come back through Chicago, so I want you to know, whether or not I see you, I’ll always remember this evening.”

For a short while Cenere said nothing; then he said, “I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to find this Ragoczy.” He saw Miss McAllister start at the name. “Do you know who this man is?”

“I think I may,” she said carefully.

“The attorney I spoke to in London indicated as much,” he said, “but your employer wasn’t willing to tell me anything about him. If Ragoczy weren’t such a dangerous man…” He let this dangle; he took care not to look at her.

“He is a client of the firm,” said Miss McAllister, ignoring the uneasy sensation that niggled at her. “And he is no longer in Chicago.”

Cenere turned an expression of gratitude on her. “Oh, Dorothy,” he said in a manner calculated to engage all her compassion. “I don’t know how to thank you for that. It makes my mission much easier, knowing he has left Chicago. I won’t have to spend time here looking for him.” He paused as if to weigh his options. “You probably shouldn’t tell me anything more, but for as much as you have said, I am grateful. I hope it won’t put you at a disadvantage with Mr. Bishop, but I must tell you: you’ve been very helpful.”

She lowered her eyes. “I’m glad to help you, even though I probably shouldn’t I’m supposed to maintain Mr. Bishop’s confidentiality, and generally I would. This is different. If Ragoczy is a dangerous criminal, as you say he is, I think it may be my duty to give you what information I—” Now that she thought about it, she began to wonder if it might not be imperative to help Cenere, if Ragoczy was an enemy of the state in Spain, and moving through America without any limitations on him.

“You know what these exiled aristocrats can be like—decadent, exploitive, treacherous,” he said flatly, as if everyone shared his opinion.

Miss McAllister gave a shudder of dismay. “I wish I could tell you as much as I know. He bought a car here.” That much seemed to be all right to tell him, since vehicle registration was a matter of public record.

“Did he?” Cenere said. “I assumed he was still traveling by train. But you say he has an automobile.” He smiled at her. “I think you have simplified my search, and that may bring me back here sooner than I expected I would be.”

“Oh,” she said, trying not to look too pleased, in case his intention was not what she expected.

“Then you and I will have a wonderful time, Dorothy.” He glanced at the waiter as he came up with the packaged remainder of Miss McAllister’s dinner. “Do you want dessert, my dear?” he asked at his most chivalrous.

“No; I don’t think I could eat another thing,” she said, still amazed that he had called her
my dear.
She knew he might mean nothing by it, but it had been so long since a man had called her that, that she was stunned.

“Then will you let me take you to the movie theater?
The Petrified Forest
is playing at the Royale, and that is nearby. I must admit, I would prefer not to part just yet.” He waited a long moment. “I do enjoy your company, and, I confess, so far from home, I get lonely.”

She sighed, reluctant to let this magical night come to an end, but aware of her obligations. “It’s a work night, and I really shouldn’t, but I’ve wanted to see it; I understand it’s wonderful. It’s Humphrey Bogart and Leslie Howard…” With a sudden decision, she said, “Yes, please. I’d be delighted to go with you.”

“Wonderful,” he declared, reaching into his jacket for his wallet and pulling out a ten and a twenty. “Let me get the bill.” He summoned the waiter with a snap of his fingers. “The check. Now.”

The waiter offered a sour smile and went to obey the order.

While waiting for the waiter to return, Miss McAllister finished off the last of the champagne in her glass, so that something so expensive would not go to waste. She continued to try to sort out her feelings, which only confused her more completely. Finally, as Cenere sorted his change, rose, and offered his hand to help her out of the booth, she blurted, “You’ve been divine, Mr. Cenere.”

He offered her his arm and went to collect their coats, their hats, and umbrella. Cenere paid the hatcheck girl and added a generous fifty-cent tip. He helped Miss McAllister into her coat, and then donned his own. “The storm’s still going on. Do you think we should call a cab?” He had no intention of doing it, but realized he was expected to make the suggestion. “I have an umbrella.” He held it up.

“Do we have time? To walk?” asked Miss McAllister, who clung to his arm. “It’s only two blocks, and the weather isn’t that bad. The cab would be too extravagant.”

“Your wish is my command,” said Cenere, and unfurled his umbrella as they stepped out of the restaurant and onto the wet sidewalk. Just as he had expected, the street was fairly empty. “Come, Dorothy,” he said, putting his hand over hers in the bend of his elbow. Wind-driven sleet battered at them as they pressed close together in the shelter of the umbrella. They walked fairly slowly, Miss McAllister savoring their growing intimacy, Cenere seeking an opportunity. At last he saw a side-street, and directed her toward it. “I think this will save us half a block.”

As much as she was reveling in this time alone with him, she was beginning to shiver, so she made no demur, and allowed him to turn her away from the well-lit avenue into the access alley. It was not very long; she could see the cross-street a short way ahead, the marquee of the Royale blinking its fine array of lights around the featured attraction:
Humphery BOGART Leslie HOWARD Bette DAVIS THE PETRIFIED FOREST.
The thrill that shot through her was almost painful, and she found herself blinking back tears. She felt Cenere slow his pace, and her heart caught in her throat as she felt his arm go around her. “Oh, dear,” she whispered as he took her chin between his forefinger and thumb and bent to kiss her. As she began to respond, his hand dropped to her neck.

He let go of the umbrella, and, keeping his mouth pressed to hers, he tightened his hands on her throat, strengthening his grip inexorably while her struggles diminished and ceased, until the pulse in her neck was still and she was a limp, dead weight in his embrace. Then he half-dragged, half-carried her to a cluster of garbage cans and shoved her body down behind them. That done, he retrieved his umbrella and went off into the wet, cold night.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
L
UCINDA
B
ARNES OF THE
S
ANTA
R
OSA
P
RESS
-
D
EMOCRAT
TO
C
ARLO
P
IETRAGNELLI.

P
RESS
-D
EMOCRAT

1561
M
ENDOCINO
A
VENUE

S
ANTA
R
OSA,
C
ALIFORNIA

November 9, 1936

Carlo Pietragnelli

Pietragnelli Winery

Geyserville, California

Dear Mr. Pietragnelli,