Midnight Harvest (77 page)

The clerk stared at the money. “I think we may have the man you’re looking for,” he said at last as if his tongue were dry.

“Very good. Tell me about him,” said Saint-Germain with an affable smile.

“Well, his passport is Italian, but he might not be from there,” said the clerk with a confidential smile. “He seems to talk a lot of languages, or he says he does. He has a fair amount of money, or he seems to. He’s paid up till the end of November.” He frowned. “There’s something strange about him.”

“You’re saying he might not be interested in more work,” said Saint-Germain.

“He might not,” the clerk said, one finger coining to rest on the twenty.

“Is he in his room tonight?” Saint-Germain asked, his eyes on the bill.

“I think so.” The clerk took the money. “Room 414.”

“And what is the man’s name?” Saint-Germain asked as an afterthought.

“Cenere. He said it’s Italian, as I mentioned,” the clerk told him, adding, “Do you want me to ring his room and tell him you’re on the way up?”

“If you want to,” said Saint-Germain as if that did not interest him one way or the other. “It makes no difference to me.”

The clerk blinked. “The elevator’s on your right.”

“Thanks,” Saint-Germain said, going in that direction but selecting to take the stairs that ran up immediately behind the elevator. He did not bother to see whether or not the clerk called to warn Cenere; for once he was beyond the lobby, he moved far faster than most men could run, climbing to the fourth floor at a sprint and stepping into the corridor, which was softly lit by shell-shaped sconces on the walls between the doors. He took stock of his surroundings quickly; 414 was at the other end of the corridor, and Saint-Germain approached it carefully, for he could hear the telephone in the room ringing.

“Yes?” said the voice on the other side of the door. “Who?… On the way up?… Thanks.”

So Cenere was warned now, and would make himself ready; just as well. Saint-Germain acted quickly, going directly to the door and knocking twice. “Signor Cenere,” he said, still affecting a Russian accent. “I have a proposition to put to you.”

“What might that be?” Cenere asked.

“My associate is seeking a translator. The work would not be long, and the pay would be generous.” He waited for a response.

“Who is your associate?” Cenere demanded; he made no offer to open the door.

“An expatriate Russian currently working with Italians, We are engaged in some … delicate negotiations that need real skill in translation beyond our capacity to accomplish.” Saint-Germain supposed this indirect answer would intrigue a man like Cenere. “He’s not without means, and his need is urgent.”

“How much are we talking about?” Cenere asked.

“Five hundred now and five hundred at the end of the week, when the work is done,” said Saint-Germain.

“Fifteen hundred, all of it now,” Cenere countered promptly.

“Nyet,” said Saint-Germain.

“Then we have nothing to say to one another,” said Cenere.

Saint-Germain paused. “I’ll call my associate and see what can be arranged. I will have to go down to the lobby to use the pay telephone.”

“I can wait,” said Cenere. “You’re the one who came to me.”

There was an edge to his tone that Saint-Germain heard clearly. “I will make a telephone call and return.”

“Go ahead,” said Cenere.

“I’ll return shortly.” Saint-Germain retraced his steps down the hall, hit the button to summon the elevator, and then slipped into an alcove near the entrance to the stairs. As he had anticipated, he had not long to wait: as soon as the elevator came, waited, and descended, Cenere’s door opened and the man stepped cautiously out, a pistol in his hands, and he came down the hall, glancing over his shoulder as he moved. From his hiding-place, Saint-Germain watched Cenere hurry to the elevator, shoving his pistol into his trouser’s waistband at the small of his back. There was a shine of sweat on his forehead. He was very much the man Saint-Germain remembered seeing, the man he had described to the police, and for an instant, he had a flicker of wrath that very nearly precipitated impetuous action, but he was able to restore his composure and purpose, keeping to his place of ambush.

Cenere tapped the button to summon the elevator and began to pace, his body tense and his face hard. He halted in front of the elevator, and stood, tapping his toe while he glanced at the unmoving floor indicator. Growing impatient, he looked about for the access to the stairs, and started toward the door with a quickly muttered oath in a language not English. As he stepped through the door onto the landing, he was too annoyed to notice the swift motion behind him, until a small, powerful hand closed on his neck.

“Mr. Cenere, if you try to fight, or to aim your pistol, I will have to break your neck; please believe that I will,” said Saint-Germain as softly as if he spoke to a good friend.

Cenere stood very still, trying to take stock of the situation; he knew at once that this was Ragoczy, and that he should still be incapacitated by the injuries he had received in May. Carefully his eyes slid to the side in an effort to see his attacker for himself, to confirm his impression and to assess the man’s condition. “So it is you. Whatever you’re going to try, it won’t work.”

“Do you think so?” Saint-Germain said, vindication giving force to his purpose as he tightened his grip enough to restrict the flow of air to Cenere’s lungs and blood to his brain, holding on with unexpected strength until the taller, thinner man wobbled on his feet in a near-faint; Saint-Germain removed Cenere’s pistol, took out the ammunition clip, and dropped it and the pistol down the stairwell, hearing them fall all the way to the basement, as he had intended. The clatter attracted no attention, and Saint-Germain continued, “Do you think you can make it down to the ground floor?” He knew better than to expect an answer; he shoved his shoulder under Cenere’s, as if to prop up a man too far-gone in drink to manage for himself, and then began his descent to the main floor. Occasionally he spoke to Cenere in his heavy Russian accent as he applied more pressure to Cenere’s neck, to give the illusion that the man was inebriated. “You should stay away from schnapps, my friend. It always goes to your head. Schnapps is the very devil.”

They reached the main floor, and after a brief perusal of the place, Saint-Germain saw a door leading to the side of the building, away from the front desk; no one was paying any attention to this secondary exit. He lugged Cenere in this direction, still providing occasional exhortations about schnapps. As he worked the door open, he had to release his hold on Cenere’s throat; almost at once Cenere began to struggle, his arms flopping in a feeble attempt to strike at his captor. All his efforts were useless, having no apparent impact on Saint-Germain, and for the first time Cenere began to wonder if he could deal with the man at all. Once the door was open, Saint-Germain renewed his grip on the man’s neck and this time he held him until Cenere’s body drooped, unconscious. Slinging the tall man over his shoulder without any apparent effort, Saint-Germain went out into the alley and made his way toward the street. Holding Cenere as if he were a seaman’s large duffel, he kept to the shadows as he made his way toward the waterfront and Fisherman’s Wharf and the bristling commercial piers beyond it.

There were fishing boats riding in their berths, the lines holding them to their berths moaning as the rise and fall of the water shifted the strain on them; a few had lights on, and men working at cleaning the rigging. Hurrying on, Saint-Germain passed beneath the restaurants, going on to the long piers giving access to the ships and the warehouses beyond. Saint-Germain could feel the movement of the bay beneath the wharf pull at him, sapping his strength, but he kept on, even as he realized Cenere was regaining consciousness, and was aware he would have to go more quickly, or risk having to subdue the man again. He turned along the waterfront, making for the pier on which stood a warehouse with his winged-disk device on the doors and the name
Eclipse Shipping
beneath each one. Going to the office door, Saint-Germain pulled a key from his jacket-pocket and opened the lock, then slipped through the door and gratefully dropped Cenere into a wooden chair.

“Where are we?” Cenere muttered as he strove to take in his surroundings; the dim light made him blink in an effort to see.

“We’re at a shipping office, Mr. Cenere,” said Saint-Germain.

“How do you—” Cenere surged to his feet, his head lowered as he rushed at Saint-Germain.

Saint-Germain swung aside, took hold of Cenere’s jacket and used the man’s own momentum to bash him into the solid-oak desk that faced the door; Cenere staggered and slumped. “That was foolish, Mr. Cenere.”

Cenere could hardly focus his eyes, but he spat to show his contempt. “What are you up to?” His speech was slurred.

“I am dealing with a man who likes to hurt people; you wanted to kill me, which is one thing, but you tried to harm Rowena Saxon, which is another matter entirely,” said Saint-Germain levelly. “I am putting a stop to your antics.”

This last word stung Cenere to the quick. “You underestimate me, Ragoczy.”

Saint-Germain laughed. “Do you think so?” He nodded toward the side of the warehouse. “No one but I knows where you are.”

“You can’t keep me here,” Cenere said contemptuously.

“You think not?” Saint-Germain studied his prisoner. “Now, why would you do that?”

“You’re a dead man, Ragoczy,” Cenere accused.

Saint-Germain offered him a slight, ironic bow. “As you see.”

“If I don’t kill you, someone else will,” Cenere told him defiantly.

“Very likely. But not today, I think. And not here.” He made a gesture encompassing the office. “This pier is owned by Eclipse Shipping, and there is a merchant ship loading for Europe—Spanish ports among them—just beyond the warehouse doors.”

“All very interesting,” said Cenere with an air of boredom while he tried to think of how he could attack Saint-Germain.

“It should be,” said Saint-Germain. “You’re going to stow away on it.”

“And how am I going to do that?” Cenere asked, but no longer as daring as he intended.

“You’ll be in a crate, of course. You’ll be able to get out of it, at least you should be able to—in about twenty-four hours. Consider it as my way of returning you to the men who sent you.” Saint-Germain shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend you attempt to pull my legs out from under me, or to slam something against my knees. If you try anything, I will be obliged to give you a concussion, and that could be dangerous for a man going into a crate.”

“In fact, you’re concerned for my welfare,” said Cenere, heavily sarcastic.

“No, nothing quite so altruistic,” said Saint-Germain. “I’m being pragmatic.”

“You mean you’re going to kill me,” said Cenere in disgust.

Saint-Germain shook his head. “I think I’ll let your employers take care of that.”

“How do you reckon that?” Cenere asked.

“If you remain here, you will cause more trouble. If you are … sent back to your employers, they will deal with you in their own way. As I suspect you already know.” Saint-Germain had no expression in his voice.

“Do your dirty work for you, in other words,” Cenere accused.

“I should think that would be up to you,” Saint-Germain responded.

“I’d think you’d want to kill me yourself,” said Cenere. “To be rid of me for good. To be sure.”

“Because that’s what you’d do to me if you could?” Saint-Germain did not wait for an answer. “I’m a good deal harder to kill than you imagine, although you came closer than many who have attempted it.” This admission gave him a trying moment as he recalled many close calls he had endured before: Cenere had been more potentially deadly than many others. In this preoccupied state, he sensed more than saw Cenere make a swipe at his leg; he kicked out twice—once on Cenere’s ribs and once on his jaw, and had the satisfaction of seeing the man double over and lie still. He checked the pulse in Cenere’s neck, and assured he was still alive, Saint-Germain went to fetch the packing-crate he had set aside for this use; a box of crackers and a quart of water were in the crate already, along with a rough blanket—little enough for a man who was going to spend at least twelve hours encased. He had a hammer, four-inch-long nails, and a customs label near to hand as he went to work, making sure that the crate could be opened with a good deal of effort from the inside.

It was almost two hours later when Saint-Germain let himself out the warehouse office door and went along the waterfront. He was fairly certain that since it was well after their appointed time to meet, that Rogerio had returned to Clarendon Court. Saint-Germain set out for Broadway, where he would be able to find a taxi. He thought about his efforts of the evening, and was generally pleased. Cenere would disappear: his crate was addressed to Carpathian International Traders in Barcelona and was part of a stack of crates the stevedores would begin loading at six in the morning. He had no doubt that Cenere would be discovered well before Spain was reached, but he knew the
Eclipse Corona
was not scheduled into another port-of-call until Acapulco, which ensured his escape from the United States, the very thing Saint-Germain most wanted.

By the time the taxi let him off at Frederick and Cole, Saint-Germain had considered all the ramifications of what he had done, and had narrowed his plans down to three, which he would present to Rogerio and Rowena for their consideration. Walking the last half-mile uphill to Clarendon Court, he gave himself a little time to enjoy the city around him. It was so unlike the place that Madelaine de Montalia had described to him in her letters, about eighty years ago, and yet most of what she had found charming in the place remained, although somewhat changed, as it would continue to change. As he let himself into the house, he found Rogerio seated at the dining-room table, an account ledger spread out in front of him.

“I noticed that Eclipse Shipping has been improving its profits,” Rogerio observed as if they had been discussing this only moments before.