Midnight Harvest (52 page)

“Why don’t you let me do that?” Saint-Germain suggested as he came up to his host. He was very grand tonight, even among such well-dressed guests, in tails with his sash and Order of Saint Stephan of Hungary blazing on it, and ruby studs in his pin-tucked shirt.

“I can … manage,” King insisted, working the cork with his thumbs.

“You don’t have to pry the cork that way. If you give it a half-twist, it will come out more easily,” Saint-Germain assured him.

“Damned if I’ll resort to that,” King muttered, and finally levered the cork loose enough to pop. “Get a glass! It’s foaming.”

Saint-Germain obeyed, holding the glass to catch the spume that welled from the bottle. As the flow diminished, he set the glass aside and reached for another. “You’re entertaining lavishly, Oscar,” he observed.

“I can afford it. 1936 was good to me; I did twenty-two thousand in fees—not that I’m boasting—and I want to encourage 1937 along the same lines.” He put the champagne bottle down. “I’ll take that round when the record’s finished.”

“I’m sure you’ll get plenty of grateful guests who’ll be glad of a refill,” said Saint-Germain, looking at the five couples attempting the Viennese waltz in a room not quite large enough for it.

“But not you,” King said, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve been watching you. No drink and no food that I’ve noticed.”

Saint-Germain nodded apologetically. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing against you. I suffer from a tedious complaint that limits my diet severely.”

“Diabetes?” King guessed. “You should have a little something to eat. Diabetics shouldn’t starve themselves.”

“Not diabetes. Something inherited.” That sounded too personal for most people to inquire further, but Saint-Germain could see the spark of curiosity in King’s bright-green eyes. “It is an affliction limited to those of my blood.”

“Oh. Hemophilia, or something like that,” said King knowingly.

“Something like that,” Saint-Germain concurred, and poured more champagne into the two glasses, for the foam had subsided.

“I suppose that’s why you’re not married—you don’t want to pass it on?” King was just drunk enough to pursue matters he would normally leave alone, but not so drunk that he could not make fairly sensible conversation.

“But I have been married,” said Saint-Germain. “My wife was Russian. She didn’t live long enough to have children. She was killed while we were trying to get out There was an English ship waiting for us.” He did not add that Xenya had married him on the order of Ivan Grosny, and that their escape had taken place in 1585, and that the ship, the
Phoenix,
was waiting at the port now called Archangel, but was then Novo-Kholmogory.

“Oh,” said King, almost soberly. “I’m sorry, Ragoczy. I had no idea.”

“It was many years ago,” Saint-Germain said truthfully, and let King think what he would.

“Sorry to bring up something so unpleasant. It’s New Year’s. You should be positive, optimistic. That’s why we toast the New Year, to bring us all good luck and good times.” King forced jollity back into his voice. “Your companion, Miss Saxon? is having a good time. You should take a page from her book.”

“Excellent advice,” said Saint-Germain.

King winked. “I’ll bill you.”

“Do all attorneys jest about fees?” Saint-Germain asked, a sardonic lift to his brow.

“Most have to. I do it for fun.” He laid his finger beside his reddened nose. “Sugar for a bitter pill.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Saint-Germain, and strolled away toward the dining room, where the buffet had been set out. Aside from the ham and turkey, there were two rice dishes, one with mushrooms and scallions, one with raisins and chestnuts; an aspic mold with crab and shrimp; a tureen of corn chowder; a large bowl of black-eyed peas—a dish that Luella King served every year for good luck; a platter of celery stalks stuffed with pâté and cream cheese; a bowl of mixed olives; sourdough French bread and a basket of dinner rolls, both with sticks of butter beside them; a deep dish of spaghetti and meatballs; a relish platter with three kinds of pickles, radish-rosettes, and toasted onions; a platter of deviled eggs; and a two-tiered display of petit fours and babas-au-rhum. An impressive feast, Saint-Germain thought, but one for which Luella King had made every dime count. The only excess for the evening was the champagne. Behind him, the phonograph stopped playing.

The cook and Mrs. King made a last survey of the table, and then, as the cook retired to the kitchen, Luella King rang a crystal dinner-bell to summon her guests to their midnight meal. “Plates and silver are on the left. Go around and help yourselves. If you want to sit down properly, there are coffee tables set up in the den.”

Saint-Germain moved away from the table and slipped out the side door into the hallway. He went in the direction of the study.

Obediently the fourteen other guests began to file in, some of them showing the signs of overindulgence already. Millard Taylor, King’s oldest partner, a white-haired man of sixty-two, was very ruddy, with bits of cigarette-ash clinging to the front of his tuxedo, and he slurred his words when he talked, much to the chagrin of his wife, who constantly excused his misbehavior to anyone who would listen. Rowena was next-to-last in line, Oscar King coming behind her.

“I wanted to tell you how glad we are that Ragoczy brought you tonight,” he said, doing his hostly duty.

“Thank you for having me,” said Rowena, equally good-mannered. “It’s been a lovely evening so far.”

“And the food’s going to be great,” King enthused.

“It really looks wonderful. And it smells delicious,” she said, going along with him.

“I understand you’ve known Ragoczy a long time?” This was more than simple pre-dinner small talk, but he tried to make it seem so.

“We met some time ago, in England. At my parents’ estate, in fact. He came down for the weekend,” she said.

“Was he traveling with his wife?” King asked artlessly.

“No,” she answered, doing her best to be unaffected. “He was on a mission for Czar Nicholas, as I recall. It wasn’t a family journey.” She picked up a plate and silverware.

“Oh,” said King. “He must have been pretty young?”

“I didn’t think so at the time, but you know how easily young people imbue persons in authority with age. I assumed at the time he must be … oh, at least thirty.” She began to serve herself from the buffet, selecting carefully, and in smaller quantities than many of the guests had done.

“You don’t need to be shy. Have all you want,” King urged. “It’s New Year’s.”

“That’s what I’m doing. I’ve found, as I’ve got older, that I mustn’t overeat in the late evening if I want to get any sleep at night.” She smiled at him, to be sure he wouldn’t read an oblique insult into her remarks.

“I know how that can be,” he said, beginning to fill his plate. “But I’m making an exception tonight. As I’ve said, it’s New Year’s.”

Rowena nodded to show she’d heard and took a stalk of pâté-stuffed celery. “Your wife has certainly done a splendid job, Mr. King.”

“We’re not in the office. You may call me Oscar if you like.” He grinned, more avuncular than flirtatious, though he and Rowena were roughly the same age. “Luella is a fine woman, and she is a first-rate manager. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s been the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“And a good thing that you know it,” said Rowena. “So many men take their wives for granted these days.”

“Not I,” boasted King. “I tell everyone that Luella is a jewel.”

“I’m sure she appreciates it,” said Rowena.

King was taking another deviled egg and trying to find room for it on his plate. “She’s a swell gal, my Luella. Finest woman ever to leave Alabama.”

“How good of you to say it,” Rowena told him as she stepped away from the table and threaded her way through some of the others to go—not too obviously, she hoped—in search of Saint-Germain. As she reached the corridor, she went down it toward the open door of what she supposed was the study and found him in the corner in an overstuffed chair, beside the big, square Stromberg-Carlson radio, his head bent as he listened to the news reports. The three other couples sitting at the card tables paid no attention to him, preferring their own conversation. Approaching him, Rowena asked, “Anything interesting?”

“I wish the radio here covered European events. All I have been able to find out is that there has been a fire in Seattle and that it was put out quickly.” He dropped his head and continued to listen for a short while, then said, “No, nothing. I suppose I’ll have to look at the newspapers in the morning, and hope they’ve given some space to European news.”

“What about the
Voce del Popolo
or the
California Demokrat
?” Rowena suggested, referring to San Francisco’s Italian- and German-language newspapers.

“You’re right. I’ll pick them up day after tomorrow,” Saint-Germain said, turning off the radio. “Have I told you that you look smashing tonight?”

“Yes, but you can tell me again,” she said, turning slightly to show off her mauve velvet long gown with the elbow-length bell-sleeves and draped cowl neckline. She wore this with a double-strand choker necklace of black pearls she had inherited from her mother, and a pillow-cut pink zircon ring set in white gold.

“You do look smashing,” he said.

“Thank you,” she responded. “Is there a place I can sit down in this room, or must we go out and find another spot?”

“It might be best to go out,” he said, indicating the way so she could precede him. “Turn to the right down the hall.”

“You’re a perfect escort,” she said lightly, and was about to pass along the hallway when she almost ran into Millard Taylor, who took up a stance in the middle of the corridor, glaring at the diamond star-burst on Saint-Germain’s sash.

“Piece of nonsense, if you ask me,” he declared, a bit too loudly.

“I beg your pardon?” Saint-Germain said politely.

“That ostentatious display on that red sash you wear. Who do you think you are?” He was swaying a little, as if his choler buffeted at him like a wind.

“Does my Order offend you, Mr. Taylor?” Saint-Germain asked mildly, regarding the taller man with an air of indulgence reserved for obstreperous teenagers and drunks.

“Order!” he scoffed.

“Of Saint Stephan of Hungary. It’s given for service to the crown.” He took a step forward, paying little heed to the warning glance Rowena shot him.

“Paste and rhinestones,” said Taylor conclusively. “We don’t have trumpery geegaws like that in America. No titles, no nobles.”

“And it has suited your country very well,” Saint-Germain soothed. “If I were an American, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to wear this, but since I’m not…” He bowed slightly. “If you will excuse me?”

“Excuse you? Ex-
cuse
you?” Taylor was shouting now, his face turning a dark plum color as he lurched a bit closer to Saint-Germain.

Saint-Germain lowered his voice, and although his stance did not change, there was an air of authority about him that he had not displayed until now. “Mr. Taylor, you are not sober, and so I will not protest what you are saying. You are also my host’s partner, so it would not be appropriate for me to reprove you, particularly not here, on this happy occasion. I see that inebriation has made you uncouth, but it is pardonable, under the circumstances. If you will stand aside, I will consider this forgotten.”

Taylor seemed about to bluster more, but something in Saint-Germain’s steady gaze took the wind out of his sails, and he mumbled something about ill-mannered foreigners, and continued past Saint-Germain toward the open door to the bathroom.

“That was unpleasant,” Rowena whispered as she and Saint-Germain entered the living room.

“He’s drunk and wanted to show off,” said Saint-Germain, indicating the sofa on the far side of the room.

“A fine way of doing it,” said Rowena, shaking her head. “Some men ought not to drink, and he’s probably one of them.”

“Probably,” said Saint-Germain, dismissing the matter. “Aside from that little display, have you been enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, yes, very much,” said Rowena. “I hadn’t thought this would be so much fun.”

“I knew you had your doubts,” Saint-Germain said, a trace of amusement in his eyes.

“So had you, as I recall,” she countered. “But after I monopolized you for Christmas, it was the least I could do—and accepting an invitation to a party is hardly an imposition.” She maneuvered her plate so that it rested fairly securely on the arm of the chair, and prepared to eat her supper.

“Would you like some more champagne?” Saint-Germain offered.

“Not just now, thank you. I don’t want to start the New Year with a throbbing head, which I will do if I drink much more.” She cut a wedge of the ham. “It has a pineapple glaze.”

“Is that good?” he asked.

“It’s not bad,” she said carefully.

Saint-Germain was chuckling as Oscar King came up to him. “There you are.” He had loosened his tie and was starting to look tired. “I just remembered something I should have told you earlier. A fellow came by my office yesterday afternoon, said he was a business associate of yours from Spain and wanted to look you up. I wasn’t going to see him, but my secretary said he was most insistent, and I think he scared her a little. Since I understood you had left Europe in some haste, and that your situation in Spain is still unresolved, I said that I could do nothing more than forward a message to you, but he declined, asking only if you were still in the city. I’m afraid I wasn’t quite honest with him and I said I didn’t know.” He noticed that Saint-Germain was frowning. “Is something the matter?”

“I don’t know,” said Saint-Germain. “I can’t think of anyone I worked with in Spain who would have reason to look for me here who doesn’t know I’m here already.” He paused. “Can you describe the man to me?”

“Tall, lean, dark brown hair going grey, ears flat to the head. Not bad-looking, but something a bit … serpentine about him. That’s all I noticed. He had an accent, but it didn’t sound Spanish to me.” He shrugged. “Well?”

“He doesn’t sound familiar,” Saint-Germain said after a brief moment of consideration. “No, I can’t recall knowing anyone like that. Did he happen to mention how he knew me?”