Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 37, No. 6. Whole No. 211, June 1961

Rita Studd The Goat On The Terrace

Number 22 in our new series of “first stories”… The story of a post-War German black-marketeer who is anything but a "gentle grafter" — an especially fine character study for a "first story."

Mrs. Studd is married to a community organizer, and they have three daughters. Her background includes teaching and social work; she lived in Germany for three years after the second World War while her husband was serving on the staff of the Office of Military Government — and all those background influences are clearly evident in her story. She also spent half a year in a Pension in Switzerland where, Mrs. Studd tells us, she "met enough characters to last a lifetime” of writing. We sincerely hope that Mrs. Studd manages, between her leadership of a Girl Scout Troop and her suburban duties in a car pool, to put these real-life characters into words…

He said that he was an architect and it is true that he owned a drafting board. It stood there in the room he called his office, always with the same sketch thumb-tacked to the left-hand side. On the right were a T square and a case of drafting tools, ready for use.

The room itself was dark, too dark to work in. It was on the north side of the house, and although there were several large windows they only contributed to the darkness. Much of the glass had been broken by the concussion from bombings. The broken windows were covered with an opaque, oily material like a tarpaulin. Artificial lighting was, of course, out of the question in the years following the war. The Germans were allotted but a couple of hours of electricity a day. Perhaps he did his sketches on the big table in the kitchen where the light was stronger, but more likely, the architect’s fools were merely props to support a symbol of something he might have been, or the setting for a dream not yet surrendered.

This is not to imply that he was idle. He worked hard and long. His real place of business was his brief case. It was part of his costume, like a magician’s hat, and its contents were just as varied and unlikely. A Meissen figurine, a lace mantilla, a cameo brooch, some fresh mushrooms, a dachshund puppy were but a sampling of the items which constituted his wares. These things the Americans bought — at Herr Honig’s prices.

The Americans, he thought as he walked along. Greedy and generous, that is what they were. Paradoxical perhaps, yet such a combination of traits made excellent customers for a man with Herr Honig’s talents. He took pride in his ability to manipulate these foreigners. A bargain hinted at: “She needs the money quickly, so the candelabra she is willing to sell.” Or snobbishness played on: “The furs were selected for a famous German movie star.” Or competition encouraged: “Your friend Mrs. Adams also inquired about such a Biedermieier table, but—”

He stopped at a small iron gate and pushed the buzzer. A dog came barking across the lawn. The front door opened and a woman’s voice called, “Oh, it’s you, Herr Honig — just a minute now and I’ll let you in if I can just figure out which of these buttons to push.” There was a short buzz. He pushed the gate open. The white wooden nameplate banged against the black iron palings: Colonel John H. Mack. The letters stood stiff and straight, as if to demand a salute for their owner. He looked from the nameplate to the woman standing in the doorway. “The colonel’s lady,” he murmured to himself. Had she ever heard of Kipling?

Mrs. Mack closed the door and came down the front steps. “I just never will understand why you Germans have locks on these little ole fences that any granddaddy hoptoad could jump over.” She laughed at her own exaggeration. American laughter puzzled him. He suspected that they laughed just to show off their good teeth. He could assign no other reason for it.

“Herr Honig,” she drawled, “your cars should be real pink. I just been talking about you. I was telling my friend, Mary Lou, about the dinner. All the ladies just oh-ed and ah-ed at the flowers — but when Elsa served the asparagus they were just bug-eyed. Course, one of ’em did say the green kind like we have at home does taste better but—” she smiled broadly, “I guess I’m like Cory, our ole cook, back home. She always used to say, ‘Yo all can Birds Eye if yo wants but Ah prefers to Fresh Vegetable’.”

The reminiscence caused more laughter. Herr Honig dismissed a slight frown. How much the woman talked to say so little!

“I am pleased that Madam enjoyed the asparagus. Perhaps I could get more in the next days. It is not easy. So many of the gardens were destroyed in the bombings.” He paused significantly.

“Today, if Madam has time, I thought we could plan for Madam’s rose garden.” He opened his brief case and took out a carefully folded newspaper. From its folds he took a long-stemmed yellow rose which he handed to her. She accepted it eagerly, sniffing its fragrance, then brushing a soft petal against her cheek.

“Why, it’s just like one Momma used to have, right by the side porch.” She started across the lawn. “I know just the vase I’ll put it in, the pale blue one.”

Herr Honig allowed himself a smile. “I suggest that we plant the roses before we pick them — if Madam does not object.”

“Whoa! I was rushing things a bit, but I can hardly wait to see all those roses blooming. I talked to the Colonel about the place you suggested for the rose garden. He said it was okay with him as long as we didn’t expect him to have anything to do with it.” She snapped off a dry ivy leaf from the corner of the house. “He doesn’t think you can move the statue.” She wagged her finger playfully. “But I just told him — if it can be done, Herr Honig can do it. Didn't he get me a hot-water heater in one day when your ole Army Engineers said three or four weeks.”

They had come to the end of the terrace at the rear of the house and stopped in front of a statue. The cast-stone figure depicted a young goat standing on his hind legs, his forelegs aimed straight ahead as if he were about to leap to a higher crag. She patted the rough head affectionately.

“He looks so frisky you can almost smell him.”

Herr Honig watched her. Could it be that she had any appreciation for this work of art? Had she heard something? But of course not — she would know no one who would recognize a piece of Sintenis sculpture.

“He’s a little too frisky for a rose garden, nicht wahr?”

She nodded. “I suppose so. If it were one of those cute little children with a basket we could let it stay, but an old billy goat cavorting around — how much do you reckon he weighs?”

“It would be hard to say. Two or three men could handle him, I think. I have spoken to my cousin about the truck. The difficulty is, of course, the benzine — the gas he could get some, but first he must pay—”

She cocked her head inquisitively. “And how many cartons of cigarettes will he need?”

“Cigarettes are not so good at the moment. Fat perhaps; Crisco — the three pound cans; soap — Ivory; coffee — but in the vacuum pack.” Somehow this amused her. She laughed again.

“I declare, Herr Honig, you’d be right at home in the A. and P. You know so much about American groceries.”

She turned and started back toward the house.

“Let’s go see how much of a down payment is left in the pantry. It’s just my luck to have ordered tons of cigarettes. Ah, well, the Colonel’s flying down to Italy the end of the week, maybe he can pick up soap there. I’m sending an order to the Export Company. What do you think I should get? Mrs. Adams tells me cocoa is worth its weight in gold these days.”

He shrugged. “Every day it is different. Who can say? You order it today. You get the order a month later. Maybe then it is cigarettes are good again.”

“Speaking of orders, I’m planning one for Sears Roebuck. Does your wife want anything besides the stockings and the sweater?”

“Madam is too kind.”

“Oh, Herr Honig, you know I just love shopping even if it has to be by catalogue. By the way, didn't the shoes fit your boys?”

“The shoes were fine, Madam. The boys are still wearing them to school each day.”

“I just wondered. Mrs. Adams told me that if I saw you today to have you stop by as she had some shoes for your boys. I knew they couldn’t outgrow shoes in three weeks. I thought maybe the ones I’d given them had been too small and you didn’t want to hurt my feelings by telling me.”

He glanced at her suspiciously. “No, Madam, the shoes were fine, but when their cousins saw them they were feeling bad. It did not seem necessary to mention the cousins. Mrs. Adams is such a busy lady I did not think to bother her with my relatives. Does Madam believe I should say—?”

She interrupted, “But of course not, I’m sure many shoes are needed.”

He studied her face. Her expression was guileless enough. His pleasure in swindling the Americans was never quite complete. He couldn’t even be certain that his subtler shafts of sarcasm hit their mark. Like the time he had told Mrs. Mack about the Russian soldiers being so impressed with German plumbing that they removed the faucets to take back to their own country. The anecdote had amused her, but she had laughed just as much when, after procuring a dinner set for her, he had inquired, “And now what will you serve on your fine Meissen? Spam?”

Then there had been the affair of the books. (Had the book dealer recovered yet? he wondered) Mrs. Mack had wanted books — about twenty of them. Neither the authors nor contents were important. The size of the volumes and the color of the bindings were the prerequisites of purchase. The books must be big enough to balance a collection of music boxes which she insisted belonged on the library shelves.

The bindings must pick up the color in the draperies — certain shades of green and brown would do. There must be some With illustrations suitable for framing, and several with red bindings. She needed red for an accent color. He remembered the pained expression on the book dealer’s face as she selected a magnificent folio of Albrecht Durer’s prints exclaiming, “This shade is just light! How many copies do you have?” It was probably the largest sale the store had had in months, and Herr Honig’s double commission — one from the dealer and an even larger one from Mrs. Mack — was only, he felt, his just due. Yet he could not resist saying, “We Germans have been told that China has a great culture but no civilization, whereas the United States has a great civilization but no culture. Does Madam think this is true?”

She had looked thoughtful for a moment then replied, “Hey, how about that!” Yet only a few sentences later she made mention of General Clay granting amnesty to all lesser Nazis. Did he only imagine it or had she stressed the last two words?

But enough of this conjecturing. The degree of her naivete was unimportant. What was important was that the statue would be his and soon — and the American lady none the wiser. She would never know that she had discarded something whose value was far greater than all her other acquisitions.

They went into the house where the pantry yielded “the down payment” to his brief case.

“My cousin must get the benzine from the zone. By next week the arrangements I will have made. I will at the same time bring some of the rosebushes.”

She took a box of cookies from the shelf. “Here, take these to your boys.”

“Thank you, Madam — but you spoil them.”

“It’s nothing. And say Hi to Mrs. Honig.”

As he closed the gate he thought of his conversation with the art dealer in Kurfurstendam. The dealer had been dubious. Naturally the charming little animal figures of Renee Sintenis were a rarity and much prized these days. She had done only a few larger pieces, and to have discovered one of them was indeed unbelievable. Few sculptors matched her ability to capture and reproduce instantaneous movement. He recalled the art dealer’s comment, “If it is so, we’ll both be rich — very rich.”

The arrangements for the truck could be made quickly. However, with the Americans it was better to prolong the job. He decided that seven days would be the proper interval of delay.

Early the following week Herr Honig received a message to call Mrs. Mack. When he telephoned, she was vague and mysterious. She said she had a surprise for him. He would be so pleased. He must stop by as soon as possible. Neither the urgency nor the mystery impressed him. She was always in a rush to snatch up some bargain. She had probably discovered “just a wonderful little place” where they made leather goods and wanted him to negotiate and interpret for her. He knew that she delighted in the dark backrooms where so many of the purchases were made. The atmosphere seemed to make her feel that she was playing a part in some minor intrigue and added to the excitement of shopping. He agreed to stop by as soon as he was in the neighborhood.

He had hardly touched the bell at the gate when the buzzer sounded. Mrs. Mack opened the door and came down the steps.

“We’ll go right around to the garden,” she called.

He hurried to catch up with her. When they came to the rear terrace she stopped.

“See anything different?”

It was then that he did see — or rather he didn’t, for it was no longer there to be seen. It was gone. His statue was gone. She kept talking and laughing but he heard nothing. He stared at the spot. Comprehension came slowly. Her words began to filter through to his consciousness. “… and there he was — staring right out from the page — our goat. It was just like seeing an old friend in a crowd on television. I was so excited I just forgot all about those pictures I was looking for. At the store I’d noticed some real pretty pictures in some of those books. I figured maybe I could get several of them framed to hang over that chest in the hall, but I sure didn’t expect to find our Billy prancing around those pages. ‘Boy,’ I said, ‘you must be somebody to have your picture in such a big book.’ Then I started phoning. I called the Education Branch first ’cause they always know everything. They told me the man to call in Cultural Affairs. He was just so nice and interested. He called back this morning to report that the statue had been delivered to the artist’s home yesterday. It seems she’s quite old and her studio was destroyed in the war. She doesn’t have many of her works left. She was delighted to have this one returned to her — and you, Herr Honig, you should be delighted too. You don't have to bother about getting the truck or any of that. Isn’t it a good thing I bought all those red books? I never thanked you enough, Herr Honig, for finding that cute little book shop for me.”

For once Herr Honig had no sly remark.