Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 19, No. 99, February 1952

Gifts for His Highness by Sam Young

Here are some random quotations from the letter Sam Young wrote to your Editors, after we had bought his first story: “I sat before my Underwood, wondering how to begin to tell you about myself Michael, my eight-year-old son, entered. ‘What’s the matter, daddy? Is your typewriter broken?’ I answered, ‘No. Would you like to break it?’ He hesitated. ‘No-o,’ he said doubtfully. He watched me type. It fascinates him. I can’t concentrate... Fortunately, a pal of his called him out to play. Alone, at last. My wife’s out in the laundry washing clothes. She won’t bother me, I hope. We’ve been married sixteen years and I still haven’t been able to cure her of the habit of interrupting me when I’m in the throes. But she’s a lovely woman, a wonderful mother to our two children. Laurel’s the other one — she’s thirteen... I mention all this to point up the delicious handicaps I’ve had to overcome in order to write. It’s been a struggle but I can’t say I’ve been unhappy about it...

“I started writing twenty-six years ago when I was seventeen. I wrote for the Paterson, New Jersey high-school monthly, ‘The Spectator.’ When I left high school, I went to New York City. I got a job at Macy’s, did my writing nights. I managed to get in three terms with Angus Burrell’s story-writing class at Columbia University. That constitutes the only ‘college’ education I’ve ever had. Mr. Burrell wasn’t too pleased with my stories. I was writing ‘artily’ at the time. De Maupassant and Chekhov were influencing me. I was letting the dead masters dictate to me...

“All my life I’d been sheltered, protected. When I left New York, it was the bravest act of my life. With a shoe-shining outfit in a zippered bag, I hitch-hiked across the country, shining shoes for meals and lodgings. I became a new person. I found myself going through hardships and actually enjoying them. This was a new kind of loneliness...

“And I continued scribbling... Los Angeles... San Francisco... The town wrapped its arms around me and adopted me... I attended night classes. I had a job during the day, earning eighteen dollars a week. It was when I obtained this job that I sent for Ruth who was back in Passaic, New Jersey. She came to San Francisco. We were married. We lived beautifully on my eighteen dollars a week...

“Why do I want to be a writer? Why do I want to breathe?”

Would you bet on Sam Young? We would...

“Gifts for His Highness” is one of the seven “first stories” which won special awards in EQMM’s Sixth Annual Contest. We thinly most of you will agree that the story has “something” — a quality, a sense of style and mood, a simplicity and sincerity seldom found in the work of a beginner. Yes, we would bet on Sam Young, if only he persists...

Every day the stairs laughed at Hillman Poolk’s 210 pounds. Each step was a chuckle. The entire flight a burst of insulting laughter.

What an indignity! A man of his position. He, the owner of this two-story house, must climb the stairs while his tenant and her brood resided in the flat below.

Ah, but she was of royal blood, this tenant. A Princess from his native Bulgaria whence he had emigrated many years ago. She was old, this Princess. A very old lady. Too frail to mount the stairs.

In the beginning it had been Hillman who laughed at the stairs. Snapped his fingers at them. Pouf! Pouf! A great honor had been bestowed upon him. A Princess lived in his house.

It was Hitler’s invasion of Poland in September 1939 that drove the Princess out of Bulgaria. The Slavic nations were in danger. She fled to Paris with her treasures, her belongings. She moved into a hotel suite. But this wasn’t the Paris she knew as a girl. This was a much noisier Paris, full of bustle and blare and thundering vibrations. The clamor became too much for her. She suffered an attack of the nerves.

It was through the Slavic-speaking doctor who attended her that Hillman Poolk learned of her presence in Paris. He became excited. The veins pulsed on his forehead. He asked permission to visit her. It was granted.

Never, never in his life did he dream that one day he would be in the same room with a Princess. Face to face with her. Breathing the same air with her. In the old country he had been a nobody, a peasant, as were his ancestors before him.

“You will pardon my boldness, please, Your Highness?” He spoke to her in Slavic which came more easily than French which he had never quite mastered. “I have an upstairs flat, Your Highness. At your disposal. Attractively furnished, Your Highness.”

“So? An upstairs flat. An upstairs flat? No. You are kind, but I cannot consider your offer. I am old. I have not the strength to climb stairs.”

He could not bear that such a prize should slip away from him. Frantically he made the magnificent gesture. “Then live in our flat. Downstairs. We will move upstairs.”

“We?”

“My wife, Gertie, and myself.”

“So? Just you two. How sweet. You will inconvenience yourselves for an old woman?”

“You are my homeland. My body is here, but my heart is there. It would be no inconvenience, Your Highness.”

“This maison of yours, Mr. Poolk. There is no tramway going by? Many autocars? Tracks of the chomin de fer?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Tootling horns! Bells! Locomotives!” She closed her eyes, leaned back wearily in her chair. “They destroy me. I have delicate nerves, Mr. Poolk. I have the migraine.” A frail hand went to her head. “I must have rest and quiet.”

“We are on the Rue Druout — a quiet neighborhood. Gardens. Trees. A peaceful neighborhood, Your Highness.”

“Very well. You may call for me tomorrow morning at ten. I will inspect your apartment. Go now.” A hand fluttered dismissingly. “Thank you for coming.”

The following day, bristling with importance, Hillman brought the distinguished lady to his home. He introduced her to his wife, Gertie. He introduced her to their maid, Pilket, who was also from Bulgaria. He escorted her through rooms stuffed with furniture, laden with objects that were Gertie’s conception of art. In every room there was a radio. There was even one in the bathroom.

“So many radios?” The Princess raised what little eyebrows she had left. She shuddered. “I detest the radio. Noisy, stupid boxes!”

“I own flats, tenements, Your Highness. Sometimes a tenant is unable to pay his rent. So?” He shrugged his meaty shoulders. “I accept a piece of furniture that strikes my fancy. A radio, perhaps. Such is my business. I find it convenient in this manner to collect replacements for my furnished places.”

The Princess moved in. The stairs were no problem to Hillman. The prestige of having a royal personage for a tenant more than compensated for the necessity of climbing them. Hillman’s round tubby body burst with pride. He basked in the envy of his neighbors, his friends, his relatives.

True, there were certain adjustments that had to be made for the sake of the Princess. They must walk quietly, speak softly. They must not slam a door. Their radios must whisper. After 9 o’clock at night — for that was when their illustrious tenant retired — their bedroom radio must remain silent. Her bedroom was below theirs. Ah, but these were only slight inconveniences for the Poolks. Hillman’s bubble of ecstasy refused to be punctured.

Meanwhile, Hitler’s hordes were advancing. The world was in turmoil. Terror prevailed. Unknown to Hillman, the Princess wrote to her niece in Sofia to escape while there was yet time, to come and live with her. The arrival of the niece and her two children caught Hillman unawares.

He had not been consulted. His permission had not been requested. Here was a slap in the face he never expected. He was, after all, the landlord. Toward a landlord a tenant was expected to display a proper respect. Besides, Hillman did not approve of tenants with children.

That was when the great honor began to lose its glow. That was when Hillman became conscious of that long flight of stairs. Resentment needled and festered. But there was nothing he could do. Greater happenings were taking place which overshadowed one’s personal problems. In June 1940 a heart-breaking event took place. France, capitulating, signed an armistice with her ancient enemy. The Germans swarmed into Paris.

Time seemed to stand still then. One day was like another. An apathy settled over Paris, but underneath her inertia sparks of rebellion flickered.

Those were dark days for Hillman. He lost weight. The rich foods to which he was accustomed were no longer available. Many of his flats stood empty. The few tenants who remained were unable to pay their rent. With one exception. The Princess continued to pay hers.

The long flight of stairs sneered at him. Hillman bowed his head and endured. He had no strength, no heart for retaliation.

Then a miracle happened. The Germans were in retreat. It was incredible — but it was so. The war clouds lifted. Suddenly, as though it had never happened, the war was over.

To the Princess’s menage arrived a new addition on substitute legs. This was Gormel, husband to Namka, the niece. He had lost his legs on some battlefield.

By this time Hillman had recovered, more or less, his former self. He shook the moths out of his self-esteem. He became once more a man of importance. True, the value of the franc had depreciated. He had to spend more to buy less. Nevertheless, he was better off than most people.

Returning soldiers sought a place to live. Hillman’s flats were renting again. His belly returned to its status quo ante. Through the black market he was able to buy the rich foods he enjoyed. But the stairs were reminding him now of his weight. They mocked his straining muscles. They laughed at his puffing breath.

He began to mutter as he climbed them. He cursed them. He cursed the day he invited the Princess to live here. Gormel he did not mind. Gormel had a good reason for not climbing stairs. But Gormel’s children Hillman resented bitterly. They ran in and out of the house. What humiliation! What irony! The children, who were able to fly effortlessly up and down stairs, were not required to do so.

His wife Gertie was also complaining. She was putting on weight. Her legs were swollen. Pilket, their maid, came in every day to clean, to launder, but it was Gertie who had to do the shopping, the cooking.

The glamor was gone, forgotten. When they spoke of the Princess, she was no longer Her Highness. They referred to her as “the old lady.”

“Only once!” Hillman raged. “Only once would I like to see that old lady climb the stairs.”

“It would kill her,” Gertie pointed out.

“Would we weep? Is it not time she died? She is over ninety. She has lived out her life. Must she go on living to spoil our lives?”

“If she died, that would be nice,” Gertie agreed. “Then we could tell the others to go. We would move downstairs. No more steps to climb.” She sighed deeply.

Finally the time came when Hillman reached the breaking-point. Coming home from rent collecting one day, he puffed his way up the stairs. He neared the top. All at once something stabbed him in the side. A most excruciating pain. It squeezed his windpipe. He could not breathe. Dizzily he clung to the bannister. Perspiration oozed from every pore. Ah, he was dying, dying.

As suddenly as it came the pain left him. He was able to breathe again. What blessed relief. Then it wasn’t death, after all? Not this time. But the next time? Surely it was a warning. The stairs had spoken.

Weakly he mounted the few remaining steps. He staggered into the living-room. He collapsed on a divan.

Gertie was there, embroidering. She stared at him. “What is it?”

“An attack. Here. In my side. As I was climbing the stairs.” All at once he was consumed with rage. He stood up. He clenched his fist. He waved it in the air. “No more! I should endanger my life for that old woman? No more! It is ridiculous!”

“Why don’t you speak to her, Hillman? Why don’t you explain to her? Tell her she must go.”

“Why?” His eyes bulged at her. Flecks of red showed in them. “You ask me why? Because I too have pride. She regards us with contempt. In Bulgaria she was a Princess. We were peasants. To her we are still peasants. Has she once invited us into her home? Never! She lives in the past, that old lady. She does not realize that in France we are a republic — that here we are her equal. Ah! Such arrogance!”

Rage gave him a sense of power. The blood raced through his veins. He reached into the humidor for a cigar. He thrust the end of one between his teeth. He lifted the metal cover of the humidor and banged it shut over the opening.

“You hear that, Gertie? Listen.” He slammed the lid down again, even more loudly. “You know what that is, Gertie? That is noise. That is what the Princess does not like.” Abruptly he yelled at the top of his voice, “Gertie! The living-room door is open! I will shut it!” He reached out, banged the door shut.

Gertie was fascinated by his performance. In her lustreless eyes appeared a dull glow of appreciation. She nodded vigorously. “Good! Good!”

Hillman puffed a light on his cigar. He blew out the match. “That is only the beginning. Ha! What a fool I am. Why didn’t I think of it before?”

He pointed a stubby finger at her. “From now on — I am in the living-room, you are in the kitchen — no more do we come running on tiptoe when we want to say something. We stay where we are. We call out like this.” He took the cigar from his mouth and bellowed, “Ger-rtle!” He lowered his voice. “Now. Your turn.”

“Hillman!” she yelled.

“Louder! Louder!”

“Hi-illman!” she screeched.

“That is better. Don’t forget. No more whispering. No more closing the door softly. From now on we bang the doors. We play the radios as loud as we please. A-ah!” He paused, struck by an inspiration. “The radio! At 9 o’clock she goes to bed. At 9 o’clock we will turn on our bedroom radio full force.” He stopped to see the effect on his wife. He puffed on his cigar.

She was impressed. “Wonderful!”

He went on excitedly, “It will shatter her nerves. Those delicate harp-strings. It will kill her, perhaps? Killed by noise.” An expression of wonder came over his fleshy face. “What a weapon for a murder — noise! If she dies, it will be as though we murdered her. Do you realize it, Gertie? And we cannot be arrested for it.” He chuckled.

Gertie was worried. “She may go to the Prefecture.”

“What! The Princess?”

“If not her, then the others may go.”

“Let them. What have we done? We made noise. In our own house. A door slammed. An iron pot dropped. Are we not entitled to our quota of noise the same as everybody else? Ah! The radio? Perhaps there we made too much noise. My wife and I — we do not hear so well. You understand. If my tenants are bothered, all they need do is to move out. Simple!” He grinned at her with the cigar clamped between his teeth. “Have no fear, Gertie. They will not go to the Prefecture. They will realize how useless it would be.”

Later, in the kitchen preparing supper, Gertie banged pots, rattled dishes. They had their meal, and waited nervously for 9 o’clock to come. “She thinks we won’t dare,” Hillman sneered. “Wait. She will see.”

The hour arrived. From the living-room Hillman scurried down the long hall to the bedroom. Before closing the windows, he swung the shutters against them. He did not want to antagonize his next-door neighbors. He turned the radio on full blast. He became deafened by a roar of sound. It made him dizzy. It made his heart beat faster.

There now, this was the test. Here was the weapon with which to kill. The sudden shock. That should do it.

He hurried out of the room. He closed the door behind him. The blare followed him, becoming fainter as he came to the living-room. He shut the living-room door.

They sat there for two hours. Hillman smoked and worked on his ledgers. Gertie embroidered. Diamonds gleamed on her fingers. Her swollen vein-mottled legs sought comfort on an ottoman. Eleven o’clock came. Hillman turned off the bedroom radio. They went to bed.

The next day was Wednesday. The Poolks did not leave the house. Four-thirty in the afternoon the doorbell rang. Hillman pressed the buzzer that unlocked the front door. He went to the head of the stairs. Below stood Matta, eight-year-old daughter of Namka and Gormel. Carefully she held a glass dish upon which were a small round tin and a large oval tin.

“Good evening, Mr. Poolk.” She spoke in Slavic. Her voice trembled.

“Good evening, Matta.”

“I have brought you something.”

“You expect me to come down for it?”

“Oh, no! I can come up? I was waiting for permission.”

“Come up. Come up.”

Resentfully, he watched how she defeated the stairs. She came fluttering toward him as though propelled by a breeze.

“Well! What have we here?” He examined the gifts. “Caviar. Breast of pheasant. So! Noble food for the belly of a peasant.” Suddenly he thrust his bloated features in front of hers. “The old lady. Is she — is she well?”

Matta shrank from his breath, from the frightening glitter in his eyes. “You mean...?”

“Is she... is she perhaps — dead?”

Matta was bewildered, frightened. She blushed. She shook her head. “Oh, no! She is in pain. In bed all day. Her head. We called the doctor. He gave her medicine. But she lives.”

A fear smote Hillman. “He gave her sleeping pills?”

“She asked for them. I heard her. He refused. He said they would be bad for her heart. He gave her a liquid medicine. He said that would make her sleep. Please? May I go now?”

Hillman straightened. He shouted toward the kitchen where his wife was getting supper ready. “Gertie! Did you hear? The old lady, she still lives!” He turned to the girl. Imperiously he waved her away. “You may go.”

So? A liquid medicine to make her sleep? Well, they would see which was stronger, the radio or the medicine. At 9 o’clock Hillman repeated the business with the bedroom radio. At 11 o’clock, when they went to bed, he turned the radio off.

Thursday afternoon the doorbell rang. This time it was Tomasso, twelve-year-old brother to Matta — a slim, dignified young man.

“More peace offerings,” Hillman muttered to his wife. She sniffed. Together they leaned over the railing at the top of the stairs.

“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Poolk.”

“Good evening, Tomasso.”

“It is a pleasant evening out, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Please, may I come up? I have something for each of you, something I am sure you will both like.”

“Come up, Tomasso. Come up.”

He came bringing a box of cigars for Hillman and a bottle of expensive perfume for Gertie.

Hillman examined the box of cigars. “I see somebody knows the brand I like.”

“You told us. Last Noel. So we bought you a box.”

“Yes, I remember. Tell me, Tomasso, how is the old lady? The medicine — is it helping her?”

A sullen expression came over the boy’s face. “She is not ‘old lady.’ She is ‘Her Highness’.”

“No more!” Hillman bellowed. “We are in France. In France she is ‘old lady.’ In France the landlord is Your Highness.” Unexpectedly he burst into laughter. He laughed so hard he was seized with a fit of coughing — spluttering, spraying, tears streaming down his face. Gertie grinned appreciatively, showing her gold teeth.

Different tears were streaming down Tomasso’s face, tears of humiliation. He raced down the stairs and out of the house.

Later, Gertie finished the supper dishes and came out of the kitchen to behold a strange sight. Hillman was stretched out in the hallway, his ear pressed to the open heat-register. Curious, Gertie came closer and listened.

“They’re moving her bed into the living-room!” he stage-whispered. With a struggle and his wife’s assistance, he came to his feet. He chuckled. “So! The medicine was not so strong, after all.”

That night it was the living-room radio that brayed loudly. The Poolks were in their bedroom, each sitting on top of one of the twin beds. Hillman read the newspapers and smoked. Gertie embroidered. The bedroom radio was playing softly. At 11 o’clock he ambled leisurely into the living-room and shut off the radio.

On Friday, Hillman spent most of the morning on a chair by the open register, listening. Gertie would come for a report.

“Anything?”

“Nothing.”

During lunch, he said between mouthfuls, “They are plotting something. I know. I feel it. Remember in the old country when a guest had to sleep overnight and every bed was full — remember what we did?”

“We made a bed in the kitchen out of chairs. You think...?”

He nodded.

“Don’t they know we also have a radio in the kitchen?”

“They know, but they think we do not know where she will be sleeping.”

Later they waited at the railing for the bell to ring. At a quarter to five, it rang.

“This time it is Gormel, the legless one,” Hillman chuckled to his wife.

Gormel, father of Tomasso and Matta, smiled up at the two pumpkin heads peering down at him. “Good evening!” he sang out in a lyric tenor.

“Good evening,” they responded solemnly.

“I have something for you.” He had a hand hidden behind his back. “A surprise, a wonderful surprise. May I come up?”

“Please do.”

They watched, their eyes glittering with interest, how cleverly he manipulated his artificial legs. With one hand he clung to the banister, the other hand behind his back holding the surprise. When he arrived at the top, there were beads of perspiration over his upper lip, but he was still smiling.

“How did you enjoy the caviar? The breast of pheasant?”

“We haven’t opened the tins yet.”

“We are saving them for a special occasion,” Gertie volunteered.

Hillman stared at her sternly. Be still! his eyes told her. I will do the talking.

“Look!” Gormel flourished the gift before them. “Something to go with the caviar. Champagne from the old country. One hundred years old!”

Hillman tried not to show how impressed he was. He cleared his throat. “Thank you. Tell me,” he croaked. “How is she... the old one?” With a shattering sound he cleared his throat again.

Gormel shook his blond head. He smiled sadly. “Her nerves are in a bad way. The doctor says she must have rest and quiet. During the day she dozes. Fitfully. She cannot sleep. Street noises bother her. The children. She has had no sleep these past few nights. You understand.” Gormel gazed at them hopefully.

“I am sorry to hear it,” Hillman said stiffly. “Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Poolk.” Holding onto both banisters, Gormel swung himself down the stairs.

When the front door closed, Gertie demanded indignantly, “Why don’t they take her to a hospital? Why don’t they move out?”

Hillman nibbled one of her chins with his fingers. “Patience. There is something else I want to see happen.”

In appreciation of the champagne Hillman turned on the kitchen radio, not loudly, not softly, just medium. The same with the bedroom radio. The same with the living-room radio. Then they put on their coats and went to a neighborhood movie. They came home at midnight. They looked at the stairs. They looked at each other. Hillman chuckled. Gertie grinned. When they arrived in their apartment, they turned off the radios and went to bed.

The next day Gertie inquired, “Tonight Namka will bring something, you think?”

“Yes. Then only the Princess remains.” Hillman rubbed his hands. His eyes glittered.

Gertie’s eyes popped open. “You think she will come? The Princess? She is ill. Dying, maybe.”

“She will come. Ah! That is what I’ve been waiting for. To see her climb those stairs.”

That evening they waited by the railing. Gertie passed a remark. “I hope no more perfume. Don’t they know I never use perfume?”

At six o’clock the bell rang, the door opened. There stood Namka, wife of Gormel, mother of Tomasso and Matta, niece of Her Highness, the Princess. A beautiful figure of a woman was Namka. Tall. Regal. With black hair and flashing eyes.

Hillman gazed at her greedily. He felt his wife brushing against him. He frowned. He moved away and came to the head of the stairs. He beamed at the visitor. “Good evening, Namka. How goes it with you?”

“With me all is well. I wish I were able to say the same for Her Highness, my aunt.” She looked at him coldly. Her lips curled. “I have something for you, Mr. Poolk, and something for Mrs. Poolk. Stay where you are. I will bring them up to you.”

She bounded lightly up the stairs. From a pocket of the coat she was wearing she brought out a brooch and a watch. The brooch she gave to Gertie, the watch to Hillman.

Her voice was flat, lifeless. “Those are heirlooms. They are priceless. That is a chime watch, Mr. Poolk. It was made in the old country. In good condition still. It will strike the hours.” She hesitated. When she spoke again, her voice trembled. “That brooch, Mrs. Poolk, was worn by Queen Zora, grandmother of my aunt, the Princess.”

Suddenly she burst into tears, clapped her hands to her face. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, and ran blindly down the stairs. The door slammed behind her.

From pink, Hillman’s face changed to red; from red, to purple. He was finding it difficult to breathe. Furiously he flung the watch away from him. He snatched the brooch from Gertie and flung that away.

“Bribes! Insults!” He paced the floor gesticulating. “Do they ask us once to shut off the radios? To please, I beg of you, not to play the radio so loud? Not to slam the door? No! They will not condescend to beg a favor of us. We are peasants. We are common. And they? Nobility. Pah! They bring me gifts. Cigars. Champagne. A silly watch. Not enough! Not enough, I tell you!”

“Hillman! Hillman! Do not excite yourself!”

With an effort he calmed down. “All right. Tomorrow night it is her turn. Then we shall see. The radios cannot kill her. Perhaps the stairs will do us that favor. We shall see.”

Sunday evening she came. The Princess. A very old woman. Very old. But holding her head high, carrying herself with dignity. On her head was a tower of yellow-tinted white hair. Jeweled combs glittered. Her face was like a death’s-head, so little flesh was left to cover the bone structure. So sunken were her eyes, it was as though she had no eyes at all. Now and then a highlight flashed from their hollows. Blue veins stood out on her forehead; blue veins also on the backs of her hands that were like the long bony claws of a scavenger bird. She wore a yellow lace evening dress with a high collar, and around her shoulders, a silken shawl. High-button shoes peeked out from the rim of her dress.

With one hand she clutched an elaborately carved ivory jewel-chest. The other hand clung to the balustrade. Slowly she mounted the stairs, one at a time. At every second or third step she would pause to rest.

She was muttering, shaking her head, unaware of Hillman and Gertie watching breathlessly from above. The voice, speaking their native tongue, floated up to them.

“I am old. Yes. Of course, I am old. Who says I am not? I am an old woman but I am also the Princess. Stop! Stop!” She paused on a step, closed her eyes. “My head! My blood pressure! Ah! Better now.” She resumed her climb, resumed her muttering. “Do not forget who you are, I beg of you. Do not forget why you have come. That is important. You should have come in the very beginning.”

She looked up and for the first time observed the two faces staring at her. She gave a start. “Oh! There you are!” She smiled, displaying dental plates that were yellowed like old piano keys. “My friends!” she croaked. “You see? I come at last. Wait. A little patience. I will soon be with you.”

Watching her tortuous journey became too much for Hillman. He rushed to the head of the stairs, Gertie also. “Shall I help you, Princess?” he stammered. “It is an honor...”

“No! Stay where you are. I am almost there. A few more steps. I will rest just once more, if you don’t mind.”

They stood there helplessly. Slowly she came... closer, closer. Only two more steps. One step. At last! What a relief. She was on the landing. She leaned against the railing, closed her eyes, clutched the ivory box.

Finally she opened her eyes. She smiled at them. “Look what I have brought you.” She drew herself erect. She opened the box. With one quick movement she brought out a jewelled pistol and shot them both dead.