Read Online Midnight Harvest by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Free Book Online
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
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enough. It doesn’t matter if the records are not in Spanish.” This was a subtle little boast; Mercurio Zapatilla had risen to his present post in large part due to his linguistic abilities—he spoke nine foreign languages: French, German, Italian, English, Dutch, Swedish, Czech, Russian, and Greek, and had a nodding familiarity with an additional five—which he liked to remind his underlings of from time to time was the reason for his promotion to his present position.
“Of course,” said his assistant, and rang off.
Zapatilla sat staring into the dull morning light that filtered into his office through the gaps in the draperies; he was growing perplexed with the very visible but strangely elusive Conde de Saint-Germain. Fussily he smoothed the waves of his thinning, greying hair, and then touched the ends of his meticulous, narrow mustache, as if seeking to make himself more presentable for any visitor he might have; he had a slight resemblance to Claude Rains, which he carefully cultivated, combing his hair as the actor did, and affecting the elegant manner that was Rains’ hallmark. A small clock on his desk delicately chimed eleven, and, as if reminded of a forgotten engagement, Zapatilla rose from his leather-upholstered chair and paced the length of his tall, oaken bookcases, pausing by the window to lift the edge of the deep teal velveteen draperies the better to look at the bustle on the floor beneath him in the busy street. He felt himself remote from the activity below, which both saddened him and made him proud of his position. Eventually he would be posted to Madrid, but for now he had to be content with Sevilla. A discreet tap on his door halted him in his tracks. “Come in,” he rapped out.
His assistant was a slender man of about thirty wearing thick glasses that magnified his black-brown eyes to the point that they resembled those of frogs. Aside from this, Esteban Pasotorpe was a good-enough-looking fellow—fashionably lean, clean-shaven, and as well-dressed as his salary would allow. “I have the files you asked for, Jefe.” He used the title with an air of jest that was just enough to keep it from being insulting. “Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias and Doña Isabel Vedancho y Nuñez.” He held the two thick envelopes for Zapatilla to see.
“Put them on my desk, Esteban, and send down for two cups of coffee,” said Zapatilla. “Bring them in when Liebre gets here—not just at once; wait five or ten minutes.”
“Of course, sir,” he responded, and did as he was told, withdrawing from the room quickly.
Zapatilla went back to his desk and sat down, unfastening the string closure on the uppermost file. He took out the various papers and photographs, spreading them out, the better to contemplate them. His concentration made him tense as he scanned the material from the file. Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias was a thriving firm, that much was certain: well-financed and successful, meeting its contractual obligations in a timely manner. The Scythian airplanes were the best-selling of their models, and had been sold all over Europe. He studied the information on the assembly plant and the level of production it maintained. “Most commendable,” he muttered as he reviewed the records. No wonder the generals were interested in the business. He looked at the most recent additions to the file—copies of the resignation letters of Elias Lundhavn and Armando Pradera, both signed on the same day. He contemplated them. Lundhavn had been offered work in Germany, so his desire to leave was understandable. But Pradera was a bit of a puzzle. His letter cited personal reasons for his departure, with no hint as to what they might be. The pay records showed both men had received handsome closing checks, so it seemed unlikely that they had been forced to resign. But that they left on the same day continued to trouble him. He would have to get to the bottom of it. The letter from Colonel Juan Enrique Senda was
“Of course,” said his assistant, and rang off.
Zapatilla sat staring into the dull morning light that filtered into his office through the gaps in the draperies; he was growing perplexed with the very visible but strangely elusive Conde de Saint-Germain. Fussily he smoothed the waves of his thinning, greying hair, and then touched the ends of his meticulous, narrow mustache, as if seeking to make himself more presentable for any visitor he might have; he had a slight resemblance to Claude Rains, which he carefully cultivated, combing his hair as the actor did, and affecting the elegant manner that was Rains’ hallmark. A small clock on his desk delicately chimed eleven, and, as if reminded of a forgotten engagement, Zapatilla rose from his leather-upholstered chair and paced the length of his tall, oaken bookcases, pausing by the window to lift the edge of the deep teal velveteen draperies the better to look at the bustle on the floor beneath him in the busy street. He felt himself remote from the activity below, which both saddened him and made him proud of his position. Eventually he would be posted to Madrid, but for now he had to be content with Sevilla. A discreet tap on his door halted him in his tracks. “Come in,” he rapped out.
His assistant was a slender man of about thirty wearing thick glasses that magnified his black-brown eyes to the point that they resembled those of frogs. Aside from this, Esteban Pasotorpe was a good-enough-looking fellow—fashionably lean, clean-shaven, and as well-dressed as his salary would allow. “I have the files you asked for, Jefe.” He used the title with an air of jest that was just enough to keep it from being insulting. “Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias and Doña Isabel Vedancho y Nuñez.” He held the two thick envelopes for Zapatilla to see.
“Put them on my desk, Esteban, and send down for two cups of coffee,” said Zapatilla. “Bring them in when Liebre gets here—not just at once; wait five or ten minutes.”
“Of course, sir,” he responded, and did as he was told, withdrawing from the room quickly.
Zapatilla went back to his desk and sat down, unfastening the string closure on the uppermost file. He took out the various papers and photographs, spreading them out, the better to contemplate them. His concentration made him tense as he scanned the material from the file. Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias was a thriving firm, that much was certain: well-financed and successful, meeting its contractual obligations in a timely manner. The Scythian airplanes were the best-selling of their models, and had been sold all over Europe. He studied the information on the assembly plant and the level of production it maintained. “Most commendable,” he muttered as he reviewed the records. No wonder the generals were interested in the business. He looked at the most recent additions to the file—copies of the resignation letters of Elias Lundhavn and Armando Pradera, both signed on the same day. He contemplated them. Lundhavn had been offered work in Germany, so his desire to leave was understandable. But Pradera was a bit of a puzzle. His letter cited personal reasons for his departure, with no hint as to what they might be. The pay records showed both men had received handsome closing checks, so it seemed unlikely that they had been forced to resign. But that they left on the same day continued to trouble him. He would have to get to the bottom of it. The letter from Colonel Juan Enrique Senda was
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