Free Midnight Harvest by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

attendant, I can see what the patrons bring with them, and I am in a good position to discover where they go, for they often ask for directions. Even Saint-Germain’s manservant occasionally asks me how to find certain streets, though he claims to be a native of Cádiz. His hair is tawny-and-white and his eyes grey-blue so it doesn’t seem likely that he is. Still—who knows? he might be.” He studied Zapatilla for a long moment, keeping silent.
    Zapatilla hated being forced to ask questions, but he acquiesced. “And thus you are unnoticeable as so many servants are, and you use that to your advantage,” he said heavily. “What has this allowed you to discover about this Ferenc Ragoczy, Comte de Saint-Germain?”
    “I must suppose you know he is from the Carpathians and travels on a Hungarian passport. The government has such things on record, and I know you have been given access to the files,” said Liebre, his attention drifting slightly after his brisk beginning. “I also suppose you know Saint-Germain is wealthy. That is obvious to the meanest intelligence. His suits are some of the best I’ve ever seen—very subtle, very understated, but highest quality, made by the best tailors, English and French. All his shirts and ties are silk. He has the manner that comes with long-held riches.” He picked up his coffee-cup and took another sip. “According to Señor Echevarria, Saint-Germain has a great many business investments, in many countries.”
    “Yes, yes,” said Zapatilla impatiently. “You aren’t telling me anything that we are unaware of.” He tapped the desk with his spoon. “If you have nothing more to add, this conversation is useless.”
    Liebre stiffened. “I know more, of course. I wanted to show you I know what you would expect me to know—” He stopped, and leaned back. “I have learned that le Comte has a mistress in Cádiz; he has visited her privately five times that I am aware of, although it may be more. He has been giving her his attention since last October, so far as I am cognizant of his actions. I have seen him take her flowers, even in January. He is very discreet, for the lady is married.”
    “And this is not new information.” Zapatilla put down his spoon. “I would think that every intelligence service in España knows that.”
    “He has been away from Cádiz for almost a month, though he continues to pay for his suites, which is an expensive gesture if it is only intended as a ruse. His manservant goes with him; his rooms at the Hotel are empty, but paid for for the next five months. Saint-Germain drives a Minerva cabriolet and owns a Riley Monaco—”
    “An unusual auto,” said Zapatilla.
    “He keeps it at the Hotel,” said Liebre. “He may have another auto in Córdoba; I haven’t been able to ascertain that. His manservant has a Voisin C14. Not many employers have an auto for their servants.”
    “We have already determined he is wealthy,” said Zapatilla.
    “That we have,” said Liebre. “It is real wealth, not the flash display that is seen so often with the newly rich. No high airs for le Comte. He tips handsomely but not foolishly.” He paused. “He doesn’t eat in the Hotel dining room.”
    “He likes his privacy, and he has a good-sized suite, does he not?” Zapatilla interjected.
    “He has three four-room suites on the second floor—almost half the wing. He has another four-room suite for his manservant. They say he brought his own bed and it is as simple as a monk’s—just a thin mattress atop a chest.” Liebre shook his head in disbelief.
    “Some men are like that; the Kaiser slept in an iron soldier’s bed all through his youth,” said Zapatilla, doing his best to show indifference to this new and perplexing information. He reminded himself he would have to confirm the information about Saint-Germain’s bed for his records.
    “No doubt they are,” said Liebre. “But le Comte doesn’t appear to be one of them: he’s elegant,