Midnight Harvest (58 page)

“I was thinking how fast I would have been, had we done this when I first came here; and, given the state of the world at that time, I would have been. After the Great War it all changed,” she said, leaning across the table enough to be heard as she lowered her voice. “But I’m older, too, and who thinks a woman of fifty-two is fast?”

“Who indeed?” Saint-Germain replied. “But you’re right, of course. Manners are changing more quickly than I have ever seen happen, except in times of war or plague.”

“What lovely dinnertime small talk,” she marveled, and sat back in her chair.

The maitre d’ led a party of four to a table on the other side of the dining room; they were chatting, holding drink glasses in their hands, the two women in formal gowns, the men in business suits.

“Still, I thank you for joining me,” Saint-Germain said, his dark eyes resting on her. “I have no wish to inconvenience you.”

“So you said. Coming here isn’t inconvenient,” she told him as she opened the menu. “I should warn you, I’m hungry.”

“Have anything you like,” he said.

“You can afford it.” She glanced at him over the top of the menu.

“I can,” he agreed.

She contemplated her choices and closed the menu, setting it aside and giving him her full attention. “I’ve had an excellent day. I’ve been working on two new canvases. So far they’ve been coming along well.” Bracing her elbows on the table, she leaned toward him. “What on earth is happening?”

“I’ll tell you while you eat. I don’t want to be overheard,” said Saint-Germain. “I know that it sounds absurd, but I am truly concerned.”

“I trust you, even though I’m not sure I believe you; not completely,” said Rowena. “If you say there is trouble, then I know there must be.” She flashed him a brilliant smile. “In case anyone is watching us,” she explained.

“I’m assuming we’re safe here, at least for this evening,” said Saint-Germain.

Rowena smiled and nodded. “Then I’ll make the most of it,” she announced, as if challenging someone in the restaurant to dissent.

As if taking this as a cue, one of the waiters came up to the table; he poured water into their goblets as he asked, “Do you have any questions? Would you like to order now?”

“Yes, please,” said Saint-Germain, nodding to Rowena. “What would you like?”

“I’ll have the rack of lamb with rosemary, medium, and the Green Goddess salad, with a lot of dressing, if you would. What’s your soup tonight?” She reached for her napkin and opened it, dropping it into her lap.

“Cream of leeks,” said the waiter.

“Oh, good. I’ll have a bowl of that.” Rowena held up the menu to the waiter. “I’ll decide about dessert later.”

The waiter nodded. “And for the gentleman?”

“Nothing, thank you. I fear—”

“He’s recovering from an intestinal complaint,” said Rowena, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “He’s not quite ready for solid food.”

The waiter took this awkward revelation as well as he could. “I’m sorry, sir. If you decide you want a bowl of … of broth, I’m sure our chef could make one for you.”

“Thank you,” said Saint-Germain. “But it might be wisest if I have nothing.”

“You know best,” said the waiter; he collected their menus, and went to place the order.

“Very deft,” said Saint-Germain to Rowena.

“I do think on my feet,” she said with a self-satisfied smile.

“Very good,” said Saint-Germain, and glanced out the window. “You can see the cars moving on the bridge.”

“And the electric trains on the lower deck, with the trucks,” Rowena agreed. “I’m not saying it isn’t a genuine accomplishment It’s making a difference in the city already, and it hasn’t been open much more than three months.”

“Isn’t that what it’s supposed to do?” Saint-Germain asked, taking his tone from her.

“Yes, so Mayor Rossi claims. Governor Merriam, too.” She pursed her lips. “But some of it is a way to keep men working. I’m not saying it’s not useful to have bridges instead of ferries, but their biggest benefit is the labor they require.” With a tsk of chagrin, she looked away from him. “I didn’t mean to go off on that. I’ve been re-reading FDR’s second Inaugural Address, and it stirs up so many things.”

“He has a great deal to contend with,” said Saint-Germain.

“And no matter how he tries, it’s an uphill fight for him, poor man,” she said, and ran her finger around the rim of her water goblet. “I feel for him. I voted for him, the first and second times he ran, and I’d do it again, but I still feel for him.”

“This is a very big country, and its problems are complex; what benefits one group or region is detrimental to another,” said Saint-Germain, suiting his conversational tone to hers. “That may be stating the obvious, but it is nonetheless true. Look at the problems with the power companies in Oregon and Washington.”

“Hiring movie stars to tell the voters that publicly owned power companies mean trouble,” she said condemningly.

“And it does,” said Saint-Germain sardonically.

“Yes, it does—for the private power companies.” She dismissed this with a toss of her head. “That’s hitting below the belt.”

“That it is,” said Saint-Germain.

“You might as well put Lucky Luciano in charge of the FBI,” she said. “And he’s in prison, thank God.”

The waiter came back to the table bearing a tray with soup, a basket of bread, and a ramekin of butter, all of which he put down with ceremony. “Your Green Goddess salad—do you want it now, with the soup, or before your entree?”

“After the soup, if you please,” Rowena said as she picked up her spoon. “Thank you.”

The waiter went away to take the order of a couple who had been seated a few minutes ago.

“Is it to your liking?” Saint-Germain asked as she tasted the soup.

“It’s fine,” she said, without paying much attention to it. “I’ve had it before.” She waited a moment, then prompted, “Are you going to tell me about what’s going on?”

“Yes,” he said, speaking softly once more. He was grateful that no jukebox blasted out popular tunes, or radio program penetrated the conversations at the tables in the dining room. “When I left Oscar King’s office today, I’m fairly certain I was followed, as I told you.”

“Yes?” she encouraged him.

“I wish it weren’t the case, but I’m convinced that you should be on guard. If he is the man I think he may be, he is a very resourceful and ruthless piece of work, capable of horrible acts, and willing to employ all manner of methods to gain what he seeks. There’s no telling what this man will find out about me, nor what use to which he’ll put the information, or how he may obtain it.” He saw her suppress a shiver. “He isn’t von Wolgast, but he could be quite—”

“Dangerous?” she suggested, her golden eyes shining with angry tears. “No doubt. You wouldn’t be warning me if you thought he was harmless, would you?”

“No.” He took a long breath. “I don’t know for certain what peril this man represents, but I’d like you to think about taking precautions. If you have a pistol and you know how to use it, you may wish to have it handy.”

“I have a pistol and I know how to use it. I have a shotgun, as well. One of my father’s over-and-unders; it was one of the things I inherited.” She continued to eat her soup, saying nothing for a short while. “All right I’ll get them out of the attic, clean them, and load them. Anything else?”

“I hope I’m not crying wolf,” he confessed. “At the same time, I very much want this to turn out to be a tempest in a teapot.”

“Aphorisms for all occasions,” she said, and then looked at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that as it sounded.”

“No harm if you did,” said Saint-Germain.

“But I hate the notion of being frightened again,” she grumbled. “I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

“For which I am deeply contrite,” Saint-Germain reminded her.

“Oh, it’s not your fault, not entirely. I have not gone out of my way to avoid you, in spite of the trouble you attract. You see, I would rather have your company than not, and, it appears, you collect enemies.” She sighed and worked some more on her soup. “Have you any more information about this fellow who may or may not be following you?”

“No, nothing more,” Saint-Germain said. “I’ve had time to think about it, and I still can’t tell if this is the man Oscar King mentioned, or if he is someone who is working for the White Legion.”

“Do you intend to try to find out?” Rowena asked.

“Certainly. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder every waking minute.” He could see she was still upset; he went on, “If I find out that this could make you a target, then I’ll keep away until I’ve—”

“But I don’t want you to do that,” said Rowena. “I want to spend as much time with you as I can, until you leave San Francisco. I know I’ll miss you dreadfully when you’re gone, and sooner or later, you will go.” She set her spoon on the charger. “I know you aren’t going to stay here, and not because you don’t stay anywhere for very long. You’re too caught up with what’s happening in Europe to stay away from it, as much as you say you want to. You’ll reach a point where you have to go back.”

He could not bring himself to answer her; he was glad to see the waiter and bus-boy coming with her Green Goddess salad.

The soup-bowl was whisked away on the charger by the bus-boy and the salad-plate set in its place by the waiter, a perfect pas-de-deux. “Would you like pepper, ma’am?”

“No, thank you,” said Rowena, and reached for her salad fork.

Saint-Germain waited until the waiter was gone, and then said, “It’s not my intention to leave, at least not for a while.”

“I know,” she said.

“But if it is prudent for me to keep to myself for the time being, I’ll do it, much as I would prefer to be with you,” he went on.

“I know,” she said.

“You may decide you’d prefer to leave the city for a time—go where you’ll feel safe, where you can be protected, for as much as I wish it were otherwise, I cannot protect you now. My very presence creates the risk I am trying to help you to avoid.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping still lower. “If I could spare you this and still remain close to you, I would, but, Rowena, it may not be possible.”

“Yes; I know,” she said patiently. “And I promise you, if it seems that I am in danger, I’ll consider everything you’ve said. And find an appropriate means of dealing with it. But I’m not yet persuaded that I have anything to worry about. How can this man find me—and why should he wish to? Oh, I’ll make sure I have new locks on my doors and windows, and I’ll alert Clara Powell that no one unknown to her is to be admitted to the house, under any circumstances, but I’m not going to leave the city simply because you
suspect
an unknown man
might
be following you. What kind of paltry woman do you take me for? I’m not going to fall apart because there’s a hint of sinister activities taking place around you.”

“It seems a remote possibility, on the surface.” Saint-Germain wished he could convey to her the nature of the trepidation he felt. “But such unlikely possibilities have a way of materializing, and I don’t want you exposed to anything that might … disrupt your life.”

“Having to change the locks disrupts my life,” she observed, jabbing her fork into the lettuce. “Having to protect myself disrupts my life.”

“For which I am sorry, but it is a small price to pay for safety,” he said, thinking he sounded far too prim. “You shouldn’t have any of this touch you.”

“But it touches you, and through you, it touches me. So I’ll resign myself to dealing with the potential consequences.” She moved her salad-plate aside, half of it uneaten.

“A good beginning,” said Saint-Germain, doing his best to look relieved. “I appreciate your candor, no matter what happens.”

“You’re very adroit,” she said, and signaled to the waiter to bring her main course; she dabbed her mouth with her napkin, and returned it to her lap. “I’m not easily scared off, Comte. I might have been when I was younger, but no more.”

Saint-Germain reached across the table and took her hand, his dark eyes fixed on her golden ones. “You humble me, Rowena.”

At that she laughed. “Why don’t I believe you?” she asked, expecting no answer. “That’s the last thing I’d want to do.”

“Ah.” Saint-Germain rubbed her hand once and released it. “I won’t embarrass you by making an effusive display in public.”

“No, certainly not,” she agreed. “You can do that later, when you take me home.”

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
M
ILES
S
UNBURY IN
L
ONDON TO
D
OÑA
I
SABEL
I
NEZ
V
EDANCHO Y
N
UÑEZ AT
C
OPSEHOWE IN
H
AMPSHIRE
.

43C Siddons Lane

City of Westminster

9 March, 1937

Doña Isabel Inez Vedancho y Nuñez

Copsehowe

nr. Briarcopse

Hampshire

My most dear Doña Isis,

I cannot thank you enough for the many kindnesses you have done me since my dreadful assault. Your presence has sustained me far more than anything the medicos have accomplished on my behalf. I am grateful to you for all you have done for me, your attention, and your help in my long weeks of recovery. It has been a terrible burden you have taken upon yourself, and you have borne it easily, as if it were no imposition at all, but instead a most welcome pastime, which is more than I am prepared to believe.

I don’t want you to feel that you must continue your ministrations—although I would be less than truthful if I didn’t own that I would want them continue—for you are a married woman, and I would repay you most shamefully if I allowed you to damage your reputation or compromise your conjugality through any act of mine. So, if you deem it proper that we discontinue our friendship, I will understand and respect your decision. A man in my profession too often sees how even the most innocent good-will can seem dalliance to those with such inclinations, and for that reason alone, I would urge you to reconsider your frequent visits and other signs of distinction you have been so good as to extend to me.