Midnight Harvest (57 page)

“Are you sure it’s safe to meet in such a public place?” she asked.

“Unless the man is psychic, yes. We can be easily lost in a crowd, and protected by numbers. Once we’re isolated, then he can hunt us with relative impunity.” Saint-Germain had a brief impression of the many times that had happened to him, and he made himself banish those painful memories.

“Julius’ Castle at five. I’ll be there,” she said.

“If I’m being foolish, we can enjoy the view. If this is something more, then we’ll be in a good place to observe.” He managed a rueful chuckle. “You like Julius’ Castle, or so you’ve said.”

“Yes. I do. Thank you,” she said.

“I’m sorry about dragging you into this, but I think it would be best if we are in accord on how to deal with this—if there is anything to deal with.” He added the last to ease the tension he felt increasing between them. He sought to lessen it, saying, “I don’t want you to get caught in anything again.”

“This isn’t going to turn ugly, is it?” she asked.

“Not if I can stop it,” said Saint-Germain. “There may be nothing that should be stopped, but I am troubled by what Oscar King told us.”

There was a brief silence between them. “You got me out of that cabin in the Alps, I’ll assume you’ll get me out of this.”

“If there is anything to be got out of,” he appended. “I hope I am being too wary, but better this than not careful enough.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Rowena.

“I would prefer to be wrong,” he conceded.

“We’ll talk about this later,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” he said as he heard her hang up. After he broke the connection, he dropped another nickle in the slot and gave the number of his Clarendon Court house to the operator.

“Good afternoon,” said Rogerio, picking up on the second ring.

“And to you, old friend,” said Saint-Germain in the Latin of Imperial Rome.

“I gather something is wrong?” Rogerio said in the same language.

“It seems so,” Saint-Germain answered.

Rogerio was silent an instant. “Shall I make preparations to leave?”

“Not just yet,” said Saint-Germain. “I hope it won’t come to that. But there is a man who is perhaps following me. Tall, slender, mid-thirties or a trifle older, perhaps. He’s seen my car and probably has the license number. It won’t take him too long to get the address from the state.”

“If he knows to look for the address there,” said Rogerio.

“We must assume that he will do so,” said Saint-Germain. “If he is any kind of a professional, he will know how to find me.”

“Yes, I imagine so.” Rogerio sounded unruffled, but Saint-Germain knew him well enough to be aware of his dismay.

“You know how to deal with this,” said Saint-Germain.

“Of course,” said Rogerio.

“I have implicit trust in you,” Saint-Germain said. “You know how to handle these problems.”

“And so I shall,” said Rogerio. “Thank you for alerting me.”

“Thank you for preparing the house,” said Saint-Germain. “I’m not going to be back until later tonight; if my plans change, I’ll let you know.”

“Very good,” said Rogerio.

“By all the forgotten gods, I hope so,” said Saint-Germain, and finished in English. “Be careful.”

“I will. And you.”

As he got back into his car, Saint-Germain checked the mirrors with extra care, and then drove toward California Street. He turned off in three blocks, driving parallel to California Street on Sacramento, and then returning to California, finally crossing on Arguello to Clement, where he found a parking place on a cross-street, and then walked over to Clement, making his way west on the south side of the street. Three blocks along the street he went into a bookstore, asking the clerk, “Do you have a public telephone?”

The clerk pointed to the rear of the store. “It’s a pay phone.”

Saint-Germain went to the telephone booth and took up the directory, and looked up the number of a taxi company. “I’m going to be at Clement and Arguello and I want to go to Julius’ Castle. Will you please send a taxi to pick me up here at four-thirty? I’ll be on the southwest corner, if that will be satisfactory?” he asked as soon as the operator connected him.

“Four-thirty at Clement and Arguello, southwest corner, going to Julius’ Castle. You got it,” said the dispatcher.

“Thank you,” said Saint-Germain. “The name is Weldon.” It was an alias he had been using for two hundred years; he had found it convenient because it was in no way related to Ragoczy, Saint-Germain, or any form of Francis.

“Very good, Mr. Weldon,” the dispatcher told him, and hung up.

Saint-Germain emerged from the telephone booth and began to peruse the shelves, his briefcase, hat, and umbrella giving him the appearance of an ordinary customer; more than shopping, he was buying time, giving himself an opportunity to discover if anyone was paying attention to his actions. He looked at the titles in the nonfiction section, selecting
Inside Europe
by John Gunther; he thumbed through the pages, and decided it would be interesting to read, and tucked it under his arm as he made his way to the recent-fiction shelves, where he debated between Huxley’s
Eyeless in Gaza
and Steinbeck’s
In Dubious Battle.
He finally took both of them and made his way up to the counter at the front of the store. “I’ll get these,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

The clerk punched in the prices on the adding machine, cranking down for each of the hardcover books, and adding the sales tax. “Nine seventy-six,” he said, sounding slightly bored.

Saint-Germain handed over a ten-dollar bill and accepted his twenty-four cents’ change, then watched while the clerk took a length of brown paper and wrapped the books carefully, taping the package closed. “Thank you.”

“They’re costly,” said the clerk as if he was used to hearing complaints. “Especially the Gunther.”

“But books are important,” said Saint-Germain as he opened his briefcase and put the books into it. “They’re money well-spent.”

“We like to think so,” said the clerk, and lit a cigarette. “If you like buying books so much, come back anytime.”

“Thank you,” Saint-Germain said as he went out of the shop. He ambled west on Clement Street, needing to keep occupied until four-thirty. It was a blustery afternoon with no hint of spring in it; lowering clouds and bad-tempered fits of rain provided an excuse for him to keep his hat pulled low on his brow, and his overcoat buttoned. From time to time he opened his umbrella to shield him from the sudden squalls, and that provided him more anonymity. It was hardly a disguise, but it made him like most of the men on the street, except for those with hand-lettered signs advertising pencils, apples, matches, and leather coin-purses, who were wrapped in ragged coats and looked out at the world with pebble-flat eyes as they did their stoic best to be indifferent to the miserable weather; these men were constant reminders of the country’s difficulties, and seemed to be a rebuke to everyone earning a living. Saint-Germain bought a coin-purse, so as not to be wholly indifferent to these men, and kept on walking. Eventually he found a coffee shop and went in. A Wurlitzer jukebox in the front of the dining area was playing “I Got a Feelin’ You’re Foolin’,” which was followed by “A Fine Romance.” Without being too obvious, Saint-Germain sat down in a rear booth, ordered a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee, opened his briefcase and took out the package of books. He opened the Huxley and began to read, letting the writing engulf him; he hardly looked up when the waitress—an angular woman in her mid-twenties—arrived with his coffee and food.

Twenty minutes later she returned and slapped down a bill for eighty-eight cents, noticed that neither the sandwich nor the coffee had been touched. “You want a warm-up for that? It’ll be a nickle.”

“No, thank you,” he said, looking up from the page. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a little time to read. If you want to add that to the check, I’ll be glad to pay for the space. I don’t want to take advantage.”

The waitress blinked in surprise. “No; it’s okay,” she said after a brief consideration. “We aren’t busy right now. You can stay until we start to fill up, no charge, but if we get busy, then you’ll have to buy something more or go.” She blushed a little, and stopped to slip a quarter into the jukebox before she went back to her post behind the counter. Strains of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” filled the diner.

Saint-Germain caught the young woman staring at him; he answered this with just enough of a smile to elicit one from the waitress, who later confided to the cook that the stranger in the expensive overcoat was a real gentleman. “He’s got that air about him—you know, like Ronald Colman.”

“How would you know?” the cook growled. “How many real gentlemen you seen come in here?”

“You can tell,” she said knowingly.

“You and your movies and love songs,” the cook scoffed, but he took advantage of a chance to look at the well-dressed stranger in the rear booth, and conceded that he looked classy. “Not like most of the guys we see in here.”

By four o’clock, Saint-Germain was more than a hundred pages into
Eyeless in Gaza
and was almost sad to give up reading the book for the time being. He put the book back in his briefcase, wrapped the sandwich in two paper napkins and slipped it into his overcoat pocket, dropped a quarter on the table, and went to pay for his food.

The waitress took the dollar he gave her and offered him change, smiling as she did. “You come back, now,” she said.

Saint-Germain strolled down Clement, pausing to give his sandwich to a youngster trying to sell pads of lined yellow paper for fifteen cents before continuing on to the southwest corner of the intersection with Arguello; he took up his position on the curb, hat pulled low, umbrella open, waiting for the cab to arrive.

Five minutes later one pulled up. “Weldon?” the driver asked. “Going to Julius’ Castle?”

“Yes,” said Saint-Germain, closing his umbrella and getting into the rear seat, placing his briefcase beside him.

“Some weather we’re having,” said the driver as he turned down Sacramento Street. “Makes you think winter’ll last forever.”

“I understand it’s fairly usual at this time of year,” said Saint-Germain, who had seen a winter that lasted all year, and who found the mild climate of this region only inconvenient, not dangerous, as Russian winters were.

“Not from around here?” The driver seemed determined to have a conversation, for he kept his eye on Saint-Germain’s hat-brim in his rearview mirror.

“No,” said Saint-Germain, not wanting to provide the man with any information he might recall about him later.

“You don’t sound like it,” said the driver, leaning on the horn to encourage an elderly Dodge Brothers sedan to get moving. “You follow the Seals at all?”

“Sorry; no,” said Saint-Germain.

“You got your own teams at home, huh,” the driver said, and shot ahead along the street.

“Yes.”

“I know how it is. You like the home-teams best.” All the rest of the way to Telegraph Hill, the driver kept up a running commentary on sports of all kinds, from various ball games to horse racing, interspersing his summaries with renditions of “I’m an Old Cowhand from the Rio Grande,” all without protest from his passenger, so that by the time he dropped Saint-Germain at the foot of the walkway leading up to the restaurant, he was in a comradely state of mind. “Pleasure having you in the cab. That’ll be a dollar even. Sorry we had to sit at that light On Van Ness, but when fire trucks are—”

Saint-Germain handed him a dollar and a quarter. “No problem.”

“Thank
you
,” said the driver, touching the brim of his cap in salute. “Wish more of my fares were as nice to drive as you.” He glanced around to see if anyone was hailing him, then pulled off slowly down the narrow street.

Julius’ Castle commanded a fine view of the Embarcadero, the Bay Bridge, Yerba Buena Island, and the East Bay hills. It was handsomely appointed, the furniture a tasteful mix of contemporary and traditional, the decorations tending toward the European. Glassware, flatware, linen, and napery were impeccable, comfortably elegant, all of these making the restaurant a very popular place. The maitre d’ had shown Saint-Germain to a table by the large, rain-spattered window, proffering a menu, and saying, “The kitchen won’t be serving for half-an-hour, if you don’t mind waiting.”

“I don’t,” said Saint-Germain. “I’m expecting a friend to join me, a Miss Saxon. She will probably ask for me.”

“Very good, sir,” said the maitre d’, and withdrew.

Saint-Germain looked over the selections and the prices, and wondered momentarily what Rowena would choose for herself—the prices were high but not completely outrageous, and he could easily afford the best they had to offer. He had not long to wait to find out what Rowena would select; five minutes after he opened the menu, the maitre d’ escorted Rowena to the table by the window. He rose to greet her, kissing her hand in greeting, then watching her shrug out of her red-fox coat and hang it over the back of her chair. “You look lovely,” he told her.

“Thank you; I try,” she answered lightly, knowing she was well-turned-out; she had on a cocktail suit with a trumpet-skirt and long, fitted jacket of dark green faille over a blouse of ivory lace. Her hair was newly cut and styled, rolled off her face and secured with three decorative combs; she wore a lapel-pin of yellow jade in the shape of the character
the creative;
her scent combined roses, jasmine, and amber. She carried a small purse of green snake-skin which she laid on the table between them. “I see you’ve been looking at the menu. Tell me, is there anything you recommend?” she asked, teasing him affectionately.

“Judging by the aromas from the kitchen, the pork roast and the lamb with rosemary should be quite good.” He smiled at her. “Thank you for coming. I’m sorry to inconvenience you.” As he said this, he thought again how much change the twentieth century had ushered in: three decades ago he would not have suggested to Rowena that she meet him anywhere in public without making sure she was chaperoned. Now it was only the very old-fashioned who thought twice about women going on their own to meet men they chose to know. He was about to say something of the sort when Rowena anticipated him.