Free Midnight Harvest by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

not puritanical.”
    Zapatilla decided not to pursue the matter with Liebre. “What else have you observed? Is there any event that stands out in your mind, or any detail, no matter how small, that might reveal important information about the man? What has caught your attention about him?” He laid his forearms on the desk, his thumbs just touching. “And keep in mind that I’ll be sending a report to your superiors.”
    Liebre hesitated for an instant—a tactical error with Zapatilla—and attempted to mask it by having a bit more coffee. “I don’t think he likes going out during the day. Whatever he does in his suites, it occupies him until sunset.”
    “He never goes out in the day?” Zapatilla asked, instantly suspicious of Liebre.
    “I didn’t say that. He does it less frequently than most of our patrons at the Hotel,” Liebre told him, still uneasy.
    “Many Spaniards prefer to go out during the night,” Zapatilla pointed out. “Most of the entertainments of life happen after sundown.”
    “So they do,” Liebre agreed, a little too quickly. “But le Comte is a foreigner, and many of them are not accustomed to our ways. It is unusual for a foreigner to—”
    “That doesn’t mean that he isn’t able to live as we do,” Zapatilla interrupted, beginning to count this interview as a waste of time.
    “No, it doesn’t,” Liebre conceded. He finished his coffee and set the cup down. “But there is something I have noticed that may be of interest to you.” His early cockiness had faded and he seemed subdued, tentative. “It’s what he keeps in the Hotel safe.”
    “And what would that be?” asked Zapatilla, prepared for almost any outrage from this self-important young man. Still, he was curious enough to want to find out what Liebre was prepared to vouchsafe him.
    “He keeps jewels. Many jewels. More than a hundred, I should guess; perhaps as many as one hundred fifty. A considerable fortune, in fact.” Liebre’s voice dropped to a whisper.
    “And how do you know this?” Zapatilla demanded.
    “The night clerk showed me, at the end of last month.” It was a stunning admission, and, if true, a potentially alarming circumstance, for the lapse in confidentiality this indicated was troubling.
    “Are you certain the jewels are genuine?” Zapatilla asked smoothly.
    “According to what Señor Echevarria told the night clerk, all of them have been examined by jewelers of the highest repute and they have certified the quality of the stones, which is very, very high.” Liebre cleared his throat. “They were astonishing to see, like bits of the rainbow sitting in a metal box.”
    “And has he done this before, the night clerk, with other patrons’ possessions? Shown you what they kept in the safe?” Zapatilla almost held his breath for the answer.
    “Yes,” said Liebre as if offering up an obtuse apology; he volunteered nothing more.
    “How often?” Zapatilla asked. “And which patrons?”
    “Only the foreigners,” said Liebre, as if this made such behavior more acceptable. “He never interferes with any property of our Spanish guests.”
    “Oh, very good,” said Zapatilla with heavy sarcasm, his head lowered and his hands spread out. “He does not break the law for Spaniards—only the foreigners are afforded that privilege,” he scoffed; but even as he spoke, it occurred to him that the night clerk might also be working for one of the governmental offices, which would account for his behavior. “Who is this most accommodating clerk?”
    Relieved to be able to shift some of the error away from himself, Liebre said, “Eduardo Deshielo. He comes from Asturias.”
    “Which accounts for something, to be sure,” said Zapatilla at his driest, just as he supposed Claude Rains would say it.
    “I thought you’d want to know,” Liebre said, a suggestion of sulkiness in his attitude. “If I erred—”
    “And so I do,” Zapatilla allowed hastily, then paused to consider what he had