Midnight Harvest (46 page)

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chapter nine

Two men in overalls were struggling with a rolled carpet, trying to position it in the living room so they could lay it out with a minimum of fuss. The older of the two was sweating in spite of the chill in the room; the younger was glaring in frustration.

“If you gentlemen would like a cup of coffee?” Rogerio offered, coming in from the kitchen carrying a tray with two good-sized ironstone cups on hefty saucers. There was a plate on the tray as well, with four doughnuts laid out on it.

“Oh, good,” said the older man, glad to relinquish his burden. He looked around for something to sit on, and decided to make do with the floor. “When’s the rest of the furniture coming?”

“Very likely next Monday,” said Rogerio. “You have today and tomorrow to complete your work.” He glanced toward the dining room and the fine Oriental carpet, which had been laid that morning. “You shouldn’t need much more than an hour in here, and then the runners for the stairs and upper hall, and the carpeting in two of the bedrooms.”

“It’s a lot to do in two days,” said the younger man.

“Aw, Stevie, don’t complain. You got paying work, which is more than most of your family can say.”

“My dad’s going to work at Treasure Island,” the young man grumped. “Building the dock for the China Clippers.”

“Good thing, too. It’s time he brought in some money instead of leaving it to your mother to earn everything from her nursing. Not that
that
pays enough for the five of you; if you weren’t working, it’d be a lot harder on everyone. My brother’s been useless for the last three years. It’s good he’s joining the Thirty-Niners.” He chuckled at the designation given the workers building Treasure Island. “I hope he makes his fortune. Too bad he couldn’t sign on with Tripp to build that hotel on that island—Wake, isn’t it? Way out in the Pacific, anyway.”

“You don’t give him enough credit,” mumbled his son. “He’s not like you. Pop’s been doing everything he can. But he doesn’t like the union, so he has trouble getting work.” He took a cup from the tray and reached for a doughnut. “Mighty good of you to do this for us; lots of people don’t bother,” he said to Rogerio.

“My employer believes in showing appreciation for work done,” he said, and put the tray on the floor between the two men.

“Is he in?” asked the older man.

“He’s upstairs,” said Rogerio a bit vaguely; Saint-Germain was in the attic, turning it into his alchemical laboratory.

“Do you find him a good man to work for?” Stevie made the question a challenge. “Isn’t he real Old World?”

“I have been with him half his life, which should make me somewhat Old World as well,” said Rogerio, not adding that half of Saint-Germain’s life covered over two thousand years. “I would not stay if he were not.”

The two carpet-layers exchanged looks, and the older man nodded. “Not too many like that left these days.”

“Uncle Albert’s a romantic—he thinks the past was better than the future. He’s saddened by progress. Says he’ll never travel by airplane.” Stevie met his uncle’s gaze with the steadiness of long habit. “I think the future is going to be a lot better than anything we can imagine now. Look at the Bay Bridge. It opened just fine, in spite of the nay-sayers, and the party’s still going on. The same will happen with the Golden Gate, you wait and see. And they’re just the beginning. The country’s going to turn around. FDR’s on the right track, and this area is the proof. In ten years, you won’t recognize this city.”

“Stevie hasn’t lived long enough to value the past,” said Albert; their wrangle had the sound of a well-established family debate. “I tell him, he should keep an eye on Europe before he says the future is rosy. It looks pretty messy over there, if you ask me, and they’re supposed to be making things so much better.”

Rogerio prepared to leave the two alone. “Put the tray in the kitchen when you’re through, if you would.”

“Why? You going to be too busy?” Stevie asked sharply.

“No; because I’m going to be out. I have much to do today, probably almost as much as you do. As you see, this house needs a great many things, and they won’t get done on their own. It’s part of moving in.” He paused. “Mr. Ragoczy will answer any questions you have. You needn’t go upstairs to fetch him. There’s a newly installed buzzer in the kitchen that will summon him if you press it.” It had been put in two days ago, in anticipation of the arrival of various tradesmen.

“Where’s this buzzer?” Albert inquired around a mouthful of doughnut.

“By the refrigerator. I’ll just let him know I’m on my way out.” He went to the stairs and climbed two floors to the attic, letting himself in after a single knock. “The dining-room carpet is done, and they are about to work on the living room. Just at present they’re having coffee and something to eat. I’d check on them in an hour, if I were you; they work well, but they may need supervision. Their names are Albert and Steve, or Stevie. Albert’s the uncle, Steve his nephew. Their last name is Morris. I suspect it was something more Slavic, a generation or two back.” He paused, waiting for a response.

Saint-Germain looked up from his half-assembled athanor. “And where will you be, old friend?”

“I’m going out to pick up the linens I’ve ordered,” said Rogerio. “I should be back here within two hours. I’m stopping by the drapers on my return.”

“Very good,” said Saint-Germain. “Do you have enough money?”

“Six hundred dollars in tens and fifties, and a pocketful of change,” said Rogerio. “It should more than cover everything.”

“I’d imagine so,” said Saint-Germain. “But you needn’t skimp; if you find something you like that you didn’t anticipate, buy it. It will not be an imposition.”

“Have you made another profitable investment?” Rogerio asked, only partly in jest; over the centuries, Saint-Germain had made and lost many fortunes through investing in local businesses. Some of those ventures—like Eclipse Shipping—were still paying dividends, centuries later.

“Nothing like that, or at least not yet. The transfer of funds came in from London, so there’s more than enough in the accounts to last another three years and the purchase of an additional house. I’ve also put five thousand more into Pietragnelli’s account. I don’t want him running short of money just now.”

“Is he buying more land?” Rogerio asked.

“No; he’s employing three more men with families. That will cover their salaries—eighty to one hundred dollars a month plus room and board—for more than a year, with a little left over for emergencies.” Saint-Germain achieved a hint of a smile. “He tells me he’s going to need men to manage the new plantation and wants them to get started during the winter.”

“He knows his business.”

“As he’s shown us so clearly,” said Saint-Germain.

Rogerio started toward the stairs, but stopped before he closed the door. “Are you going out tonight?”

“Rowena Saxon and I are attending the opera. It’s one of the Verdis:
Traviata
or
Trovatore,
or perhaps
Ballo;
I don’t quite recall which. She has season tickets and wants a companion for the night, and I would be glad of some music.” He volunteered nothing more, but was not entirely surprised when Rogerio had another question for him.

“Should I expect you back tonight?”

“Probably not until very late. I’ll let myself in.” He began to work again.

“Of course,” said Rogerio, and went down to the first floor, where he saw that Albert and Steve were once again wrestling the rolled carpet “I’ll be back in two hours. Mr. Ragoczy knows you’re here.”

“Fine,” said Albert, and shoved the carpet, trying to align with the oaken flooring.

Rogerio left the house and went to his Auburn and climbed in. The engine started promptly and Rogerio pulled away from the sidewalk, headed toward Stanyan.

It was roughly forty minutes after Rogerio left that a black Ford opera coupe pulled into the place his Auburn had vacated. A tallish, thin man got out, his hat worn low on his brow, his tie the wrong width, his suit showing the effects of years of wear; his walk was slow, revealing fatigue and perhaps an aching back. His long face had deep lines worn into it, although he was not old. He went up to the door and used the knocker. “Open up. Police.” He was about to repeat himself when Steve opened the door.

“If you’re police, do you have identification?” Steve asked.

The man produced a badge and a card that said he was Inspector John Smith. “I’m here to see Mr. Ragoczy.”

“If you got nerve enough to say you’re John Smith, I got nerve enough to let you in,” said Steve, and stood aside to admit the inspector, a hard expression on his face. “Ragoczy’s upstairs. I’ll go let him know you’re here.”

Albert was just pressing the living-room carpet flat, but he rose uneasily. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes, but not to Ragoczy’s discredit,” said Smith. He watched Steve go into the kitchen and heard the distant buzz, followed shortly by a closing door and crisp steps descending the stair.

“Good morning,” said Saint-Germain, coming down the last step into the space between the living and dining rooms. “What may I do for you—?”

He held out his badge. “Inspector John Smith,” he said. “San Francisco Police Department.”

Ragoczy made no comment on the name, only saying, “What may I do for you, Inspector Smith?”

“If you don’t mind, I have some questions I have to ask you; I won’t be here long,” said Inspector Smith. “I should tell you this is in association with the break-in to your suite at the Saint Francis—part of our continuing investigation of the crime.” He tightened his mouth in what might have been a smile, and deliberately loomed over Saint-Germain; this move usually made anyone cooperative. He had moved his hat farther back on his head, but did not take it off.

Saint-Germain was unimpressed; he offered Smith an urbane nod. “I think we should talk in my study,” he said. “It’s off the entry-hall, under the stairs.” He started toward it, saying to the carpet-layers, “If you need me, knock on the door.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Albert, recognizing Saint-Germain’s air of authority, and was ambivalent about his response; he was unused to being impressed by strangers unless they were prominent politicians or sports figures.

The study was not large, but it had a bay window that gave it plenty of light, and the window seat in the embrasure provided a place to perch among the cartons and smaller boxes that were everywhere on the floor. Indicating the window seat, Saint-Germain said, “If you’d like to sit, please do.”

Smith hesitated, not wanting to give up the advantage of his height. “I’ll stand, thanks.”

“As you wish,” said Saint-Germain, taking a seat on a large crate. “I thought you might want to give your back some relief, but if you’d prefer not to—” He saw the surprise in Smith’s face. “You walk as if your back is sore, Inspector.”

“Comes with the job, like sore feet,” said Smith, trying to recover control of this interview. “I’m used to it.”

“If you change your mind, don’t hesitate to make yourself as comfortable as you can in this disorder.” Saint-Germain studied Smith, his expression politely curious. “What progress have you made?”

“Not as much as I’d like,” he admitted. “The thieves are still at large, and they’ve struck twice since they raided your rooms: once at the Sir Francis Drake and once at the Mark Hopkins. They targeted suites both times. The mayor is getting upset; with all the Bay Bridge opening celebrations going on, he doesn’t want another such incident. It’d put a damper on a swell occasion.” He hated to tell Saint-Germain so much, but the information had already been in the newspapers and it was likely that Saint-Germain had read some of the accounts.

“So I gather,” said Saint-Germain, confirming Smith’s suspicions. “You’re sure they’re the same perpetrators?”

“We have fingerprints at all three scenes. Thanks, by the way, for letting us take yours. It makes it easier for us in identifying the thieves’.” He took a notebook from his outer jacket-pocket and thumbed through the pages. “There are three of them, or there are three sets of fingerprints, in any case—they don’t belong to anyone working for the hotels, and they don’t belong to any of the guests we’ve been able to fingerprint. The victims at the Mark left before we could fingerprint them, so we’ve got some questions there. They had to catch a train to Denver—it wasn’t a suspicious departure. This isn’t helping the hotels, having a ring of thieves breaking into their high-ticket rooms.”

“I should think not,” said Saint-Germain.

“I have to ask you—I know you were asked before, but you might have remembered something since you moved here—if you noticed anything out-of-place at the Saint Francis, anyone loitering in the vicinity of your suite, or the elevators?” He pulled out a pencil and prepared to add to his notes.