Midnight Harvest Read Online Free PDF

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    “The university in Lima is her sponsor, if I remember correctly.” He had a swift recollection of Lima as he had seen it in 1641 on his way to Cuzco; he knew it had changed a great deal since then but he could not change his memory of it. “They have an arrangement with one of the museums in France—I think it is in Provence, or perhaps the one at Lyons; she has done a great deal of work for them recently.” He looked toward the tub. “I’m going to rest when I’m through with my bath.”
    “For how long?” Rogerio inquired. He took Saint-Germain’s singlet, hardly noticing the broad swath of scar tissue that reached from his employer’s sternum to his belt; it no longer shocked him to see it.
    “Probably an hour or two. If you have any errands to run, perhaps they will wait until I rise?” He unfastened his belt and opened his fly to step out of his slacks.
    “Certainly,” said Rogerio. He took the black wool slacks and folded them over his arm. “Need I do anything to these?”
    “You may sponge them when you press them, if you would; they don’t need anything more than that,” said Saint-Germain as he walked into the bathroom and stepped into the tub, getting onto his knees as he reached for the washcloth and began to rub a bar of Pears soap on it, watching the lather build up before he began to wash; he was quick and efficient, and soon had rinsed the soap off his skin, added a little more hot water to the tub, and prepared to relax. He had just settled back in the water, his head resting on the edge of the tub, supported by a folded hand-towel, when the telephone in the sitting room shrilled.
    Rogerio answered it, and after a few quick questions in oddly antiquated Spanish, he called to Saint-Germain, “A Colonel Senda is in the lobby and would like to talk to you.”
    “Colonel Senda?” Saint-Germain repeated, trying to place the man; he made no move to get out of the tub. “I don’t believe I know a Colonel Senda.”
    “My master says he doesn’t recognize your name,” Rogerio said to the telephone, and waited. “He tells me you haven’t met.”
    “Then I will gladly arrange an appointment for him,” said Saint-Germain.
    Rogerio put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Do you want to provoke him?” he asked in an under-voice.
    “No, I don’t,” said Saint-Germain. “But I don’t want to be too accommodating, either. That would be as suspicious as too much resistance.” He opened his eyes enough to shoot a knowing glance at Rogerio.
    “Very well,” said Rogerio, and addressed the telephone again. “I am sorry, Colonel, but my master is preparing to go out for the evening; he has a pre-existing engagement. There is a reception at—Yes, the British Consul’s residence. Perhaps you can call again in the morning—say at half-ten?” Whatever the Colonel’s answer was, Rogerio stood more stiffly, his face set in hard lines. “I will convey your remarks to my master, and I will tell him to expect you at ten in the morning.” He waited a moment. “And thank you for calling,” he said in a tone that was barely polite before he hung up.
    “What does Colonel Senda want?” Saint-Germain asked, lifting his head to watch how Rogerio responded.
    Very meticulously Rogerio said, “The good Colonel has asked me to inform you that he has some urgent questions to ask you concerning your contracts with certain Italian and French industrialists. Apparently he seems to think you are using them as a cover for political activities Generals Mola and Franco and their supporters do not support.” His disapproval was so pronounced that he could hardly speak.
    “They’re in Spanish Morocco,” Saint-Germain said, wanting to dismiss them.
    “Their influence is everywhere, even in Madrid,” said Rogerio. “And Cádiz is a garrison city. The army matters here.” He began to pace. “If they can make an example of you, they can put the entire international community on notice.”
    “Yes;