Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 4. Whole No. 143, October 1955

The Perfectionist by Donald McNutt Douglass

Perhaps the most significant development in last year’s competition — EQMM’s Tenth Annual Contest — was the remarkable number of top prizes won by those writers who had originally been discovered by EQMM or those well-known authors who had never written short stories but were now encouraged to do so especially for EQMM. In the latter category there were two: Shirley Barker, an established historical novelist, won a Second Prize for her first short story, “The Fog on Pemble Green,” and Wade Miller, a collaboration with nearly twenty detective-mystery novels already to their credit, won a Second Prize for their first short story, “Invitation to an Accident.” But the record was even more startling in the first category — writers discovered by EQMM. Out of eleven top prizewinners last year, no less than five — nearly half! — made their literary debuts in the pages of EQMM.

A truly impressive development... Stanley Ellin’s very first story, the memorable “The Specialty of the House,” appeared in EQMM, issue of May 1948; last year Stanley Ellin’s “The Moment of Decision” won First Prize. Joseph Whitehill’s first story, “The Day of the Last Rock Fight,” was published in the June 1954 issue of EQMM; last year Joseph Whitehill’s “Stay Away from My Mother” won the Special Award of Merit. Vinnie Williams’s first story, “A Matter of the Tax Payers’ Money,” was printed in EQMM, issue of October 1949; last year Vinnie Williams’s “Dodie and the Boogerman” won a Second Prize. James Yaffe’s first story, “Department of Impossible Crimes” (written when the author was at the ripe young age of fifteen!), was offered to EQMM readers in our issue of July 1943; last year James Yaffe’s “Mom Makes a Wish” won a Second Prize.

And Donald McNutt Douglass’s first story, “The Ghost of Greenwich Village,” represented the author’s baptism in print when it appeared in EQMM’s February 1934 issue; last year Mr. Douglass won a Second Prize with “The Perfectionist” — the story we now bring to you. “The Perfectionist” is an unusual example of how much a writer can grow in a single year — for this new story by Mr. Douglass shows considerable advance over his first story. The canvas is bigger, the characterizations are more fully realized, the style is more mature. Indeed, you will find “The Perfectionist” a remarkably professional story for a relatively new writer: it is both sensuous and sensual; it is smart, suave, and even sly in its subtle sophistication. It is the story of the eternal Battle of the Sexes — a War of Nerves between a clever husband and a sensitive wife. The wife, you will be interested to learn, is The Most Beautiful Woman in New York and she is terribly afraid — afraid she has the bad taste to be... but we have told you enough!

The zoo in central park, new York 17, N.Y., is a pleasant place. On a Spring day when the sun is shining it is utterly charming. One black bear and a black panther are restless, hating their cages; the other animals seem content — the tigers and lions and that poor creature, the tigron, are asleep or torpid. A little old lady — evidently one who believes that rules are made to be broken — is feeding the elephants dandelion greens which ferment and make an elephant happy. The seals are vigorous and sportive, and the empty monkey cages look as though they had been designed by Bemelmans. The monkeys are too delicate to stand the fickle weather and are still inside, smelling abominably and acting like monkeys. Only one thing might be hoped for — that the children play less noisily.

It is surprising therefore to find Mr. Walter Brand, with a very good lunch inside him, his polo coat on the chair beside him and the sun warming his thick and well barbered hair, mentally complaining. The boisterous children do not disturb him, he can shut his mind to mundane things. He has found no fault with his luncheon, he knows that not only his polo coat but his entire wardrobe is impeccable, and he feels that the gray wings above his ears have added distinction to his proud locks and that the sun may deepen his attractive tan. But for a Zoo to exist without giraffes seems to him unpardonable. There is a place for them, he knows. He will not write a letter about it. One does not demean one’s self with such trivialities. But he feels very strongly that someone has been careless and should be punished for it. No giraffes! He is seriously annoyed, for Mr. Brand is a perfectionist.

There were others on that terrace who were annoyed with Mr. Brand, for it was felt by some that he could enjoy the day and the sun without monopolizing one of the too few tables long after he had finished eating. Mr. Brand was unaware of this annoyance and would have been undisturbed if he had been aware of it. There was a certain regal hauteur about the man that discouraged those who had even considered asking him to move. In this respect their instincts were correct. If one had asked him whether he would mind moving his coat so that someone else could share his table, Mr. Brand would have replied that he certainly did mind — and the ensuing small scene would have spoiled the would-be diner’s digestion and fazed Mr. Brand not at all. Indeed, aside from the absent giraffes, he found nothing worthy of his attention. That is, until she came along.

She was rather taller than average, probably 25 to 30, slim and neatly but not tastefully dressed. She was walking slowly and shyly looking for an empty place on which to put her tray. She was nothing remarkable whatever except to the eyes of Walter Brand. He recognized her as beautiful. Mr. Brand, besides being a perfectionist and perhaps because of it, was a connoisseur. He made his living, which was an exceedingly good one, by the importation and sale of foreign objects of beauty. He recognized beauty at a glance whether it was covered with the dust of a century or disguised, as this one was, by an inappropriate setting and the wrong attire. He knew perfectly and precisely what the absolutely beautiful woman should look like. Not perfect features. There must be some tiny fault to show that the lady is human. But so nearly perfect that the tiny fault is adorable. And she must have an unidentifiable spark. Somehow this girl had it. She was a gem improperly cut and mounted in a garish setting entirely unworthy of her and, because he had seen it, of him. He rose quickly and bowed.

“Madam. Take this table please. I am just leaving.”

“Oh! Thank you. Today it is very crowded.” The th might almost have been s. The very might have been fairy, and when she smiled other less discerning eyes than his could see a glimpse of hidden beauty.

As she seated herself he picked up his coat. Then, “I see that you had the happy thought of iced coffee. Iced coffee is out of season and so this is exactly the time to have it.” He replaced his coat on the chair and strode purposefully towards the cafeteria.

Now would be the time for her to escape, to leave her tray untouched, to rise swiftly and, gathering her gloves and purse, walk away as fast as she could. It would be better still to run, not looking behind her, until the city gave her sanctuary. But how was Magda Lederer to know? The thought of leaving did not cross her mind. When Walter Brand came back and sat beside her she was pleased.

“Yes, you were right, precisely,” he said, sipping at his straw. “The man who says he dislikes champagne or beer or Coca Cola is a fool. There is a time and place for every drink. This is the time and place for iced coffee and I detect that they have the discrimination here to brew it long and dark.”

Magda did not reply. She was eating. But she was pleased.

“My name,” he said, “is Walter Blackford Brand. I am forty-one years old. I have a shop under my name at 507 Madison Avenue where we sell imported antiquities. I bank at the Fifth Avenue Bank, live at the Forest Hills Inn in Forest Hills, am a member of the New York and Huntington Yacht Clubs, and am a widower with no children.”

Magda went on eating, more pleased than ever. Walter was pleased too. She ate delicately, without affectation, and detested chatter. He sat quietly, enjoying his thoughts until she had finished. He looked at her benevolently and said, “Now, tell me about yourself.”

Magda was very shy but the quiet and direct approach had reassured her.

“My name is Magda Lederer. I am twenty-seven. I am born Hungarian but am an American citizen because my husband was. He was a flyer and was killed flying three years ago. I work for a decorator also on Madison Avenue. I have the afternoon off because we have nothing to decorate and she went home. I too am lonely.” She smiled at him. “But I haff neffer had an avair and do not intend to ’ave one.” Magda’s accent invariably increased with the emotional context of her words.

“Splendid, splendid,” he said. “In ten minutes we know each other and have put our cards, face up, on the table. And I agree with you. Affairs have a way of turning sordid. To my mind, sordid is the most distasteful word in the English language. And if there is one thing I pride myself upon, it is my taste.”

Magda stood up. “We must leave,” she said. “Others need our table.” The figure, under the badly cut dress, was exquisite.

“May I spend your holiday afternoon in your company, Magda?” he asked.

“I would like that,” she said simply. “Let us ride on the carousel. I have never done it here. One feels foolish behaving in a childish way alone. But with a companion, childish ways are fun.”

There are other splendid things to do on a fine early Spring day when one is not alone. They took the sightseeing boat around Manhattan and it was almost empty and, by then, a little cold so that it seemed natural that most of the way he hold her hand. He took her to a tiny, quiet restaurant on Fifty-Eighth Street and convinced her with little trouble that this was the occasion for champagne.

She told him about her husband. It wasn’t as tragic as it should have been. She had been twenty and had fallen for his dash. “Speed,” they called him — Speed Lederer — and he had done everything with speed. Too much speed and dash, not time enough for tenderness. There had been four years, most of the time in separation, usually a day or two together, at most a week, and he would be off, speeding to somewhere. Finally he had run his fighter plane into a mountain and that was that — before she ever really knew him.

And Walter told her about Elsie. He told it well, sadly and courageously, trying in no way to absolve himself from blame. “Of course I was to blame,” he said. “They said she jumped or fell. Ridiculous. When one is alone on the fifteenth floor of the Lord Baltimore Hotel one does not fall from the window. Of course she jumped, and, since she was not ill, it must have been because she was unhappy, desperately unhappy, with me. Why is another matter. In what way I failed her I cannot tell. For twelve years I was a loyal, faithful husband but somehow we grew apart. When she left to visit her mother I thought it a good idea, the change might do her good. I knew she was unhappy — she always had seeds of unhappiness within her. Some people are made that way and one cannot change them. But that she would take her own life — it seemed then and seems now — incredible. And it is deeply on my conscience.”

“I shouldn’t think it would have to be,” she said, feeling sorry for him. “Even husbands and wives know very little about what goes on in the other’s mind. Life is essentially lonely. She may have known people you did not know, had thoughts you never dreamed of. I can conceive of a wife having a tragedy completely separate and unknown to her husband.”

“Perhaps. It is kind of you to say so. And tonight, for the first time in years, I do not feel lonesome.”

“ ’Sank you. Nor I either.”

They fingered long over their dinner and drank a little more champagne than was good for her but Walter was the perfect gentleman. He dropped her at her dingy little apartment on Fourth Avenue and, before he drove grandly off to Forest Hills, he gallantly kissed her hand. She walked up the two long flights of stairs rather unsteadily and had trouble with her key but when she looked in her mirror she was smiling. He had arranged for dinner and the opera, no less, for the following night. She took her lipstick and ringed the date, April 3, 1953, with a big red O.

The opera too was a great success. She always wept at Madame Butterfly and it pleased and warmed her that he also found it necessary to wipe his eyes. Again he dropped her formally, respectfully, and slightly inebriated at her door. But the following Saturday he became more direct. They were seated in his private office, which was beautifully furnished as such offices should be. His two clerks, he had explained, took care of all but the most important sales, for he found buying stimulating and selling unpleasant.

“You may have wondered, my dear, why I have been giving you such a rush.”

“Yes.” Her eyes crinkled. “Yes, I haff, Valter.”

“It is because you are very beautiful.”

“No. I know better than that.”

“You do not know it but it is nevertheless true. To be brutally frank, you have bad taste.”

“Oh, I know that too. Mrs. Webster, for whom I work, has told me often enough. She only hires me because I can draw. She cannot draw.”

“I did not realize how appalling your taste was until I showed you over the shop. You invariably picked the worst and did not even see the best.”

“I know. Isn’t it terrible?”

“It is terrible — so I will proceed to transform you. Your hair, your make-up, your clothes — bah! That evening gown you apologized for — you knew it was bad but you had no idea how bad. It was hideous.”

She laughed aloud. “But Valter, I could not afford, even if you tell me vot I buy.”

“I will buy these things.”

“No, Valter, dat I could not accept.”

“That you will accept because my intentions are honorable. If you become what I know I can make you — the most beautiful woman in New York — I will ask you to marry me.”

She was very much amused. “I neffer heard of anysing so romantic. Dat is vot you call a conditional proposal, no?”

“I am perfectly serious. We have an appointment with Isadora Elmenstein at 11.”

“And who is Isadora Elmenstein?”

“Your mirror will tell you after we have seen her.”

Six hours later — after the visit to Isadora Elmenstein — Walter Brand called the little French fitter at Bergdorf-Goodman’s aside.

“Here is my card.” With it was a large bill.

“Yes, Monsieur Bhrant, oowhat do you weesh?”

“You will help madame into these things I have picked out?”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“You will see that she is completely nude and you will report to me any imperfections, bulges, wrinkles, moles, scars, pendulosity.”

“Imperfection. Bulges, wrinkles, grain de beauté, cicatrice, oui. Pendulosity? Ah, oui. Pendant.” She laughed. “Comprend bien, Monsieur.”

In fifteen minutes she was back. “Imperfection? Non. Parfait, magnifique! Monsieur ees een luck.”

“Thank you,” he replied without a smile. It was the second such report he had had that day. Mr. Brand never did things by halves: a thing worth doing was worth doing thoroughly, and it was well to check.

He and Magda stood before the tall pier glass.

“Regard yourself, my dear. Galatea is finished.”

“The hair is good. Black is much better. And the clothes are wonderful. I feel like a fallen woman. But it is still me.”

“Yes, it was always there — but hidden. I have merely brought it to light.”

In the mirror she caught his eyes and saw the desire in them and was, for a moment, frightened. But as they left the store and walked over to the Plaza for a cocktail, as they drank and had dinner, as they stood in the theater lobby during intermissions, she saw that it was not “still me.” Always eyes were on her — eyes of men and women alike. He must have transformed her more than she herself could see.

On Sunday it was the same. Everywhere they went people would stop talking, stop thinking of what they were thinking, to look at her. One would have to be a fool not to admit to one’s self that she had become, overnight, a sensation.

He could have satisfied his desire on Sunday. Her head was dizzy with champagne. She felt that he had given her so much, she could give him a little bit of her. But instead he asked her to marry him and that is not a little bit, it is giving all.

“Oh, Valter, I cannot belief you are serious. It vas as if I vas — I am so mixed up! I cannot be de mos’ beautiful voman in New York. Dot is crazy! An’ yet people look at me like I vas!”

She was honestly surprised.

“You are. I have made you so. But I do not want you to marry me now. I have not even kissed you. I do not want to hurry you. But I tried an experiment and it has succeeded. You are the most beautiful woman in New York and I don’t want you as my mistress. I want you as my wife. I want you to promise to marry me in six months.”

“Oh, Valter!” It was a reprieve. “If you still vant me den, I vill.”

He was a clever fellow, that Walter Brand, a perfectionist, knowing what he wanted and how to get it. The next day, Monday, he did not see her and on Tuesday, seven days after he had met her, he sailed for Europe to do his annual buying. If he had not gone away and she had seen him regularly for six months she never would have married him; Magda Lederer did not have taste but she did have character and insight. That hectic glamorous week with her transformation as its climax was the biggest thing in her life. When she reported for work on Monday, her employer, Mrs. Martha Webster, literally keeled over. She sat down heavily on a brocaded love seat and put her hands to her beautifully coiffured white hair.

“Holy—!” she said, not blasphemous but awed. “What have you done to yourself?”

“I’ve dyed my hair,” said Magda diffidently.

“What have you found? A new hormone? Dyed your hair! My sainted charge accounts! When you left this place on Friday night you were a colorless drudge. I’m sorry. You were always sweet but you had as much oomph as stale beer. Now you walk in here and you are the most gorgeous dish I ever saw in my whole life.”

“I’m engaged,” said Magda, herself rather awed at the reception.

“Listen, child.” Mrs. Webster was regaining her composure. “I have read more women’s magazine stories than you have. I know that becoming engaged is supposed to brighten the eye and tone up the blood. I have even been engaged myself and these snowy curls came straight out of a bottle — but please give me a blow-by-blow description! What happened to you?”

Magda felt like a schoolgirl caught smoking. “Last Tuesday I met Mr. Walter Brand. He picked me up.”

“The antique dealer up the street?”

Magda nodded.

“I know him. He’s good.”

“He said I did everything wrong. My powder and rouge, my hair, my clothes.”

“Yes, yes. I could have told you that. So he bought you these clothes... Well, the old saying is right: you can’t tell a book by its cover. Anyway, congratulations.”

That was the way it went. When she saw him off on the Liberté she got more attention than the ship itself and Walter felt a warm glow from being envied. For she had promised to marry him.

But she would not have done so if he had stayed — and Walter knew it. She liked him. He had changed her life — but that did not mean she loved him. She did not love him, but he was not there to remind her of the fact. So the other suitors — and there were many who, from the unlikeliest spots, came suddenly to flock around — were kept at bay. And when he returned and had picked out a suitable apartment on Sixty-Fourth Street, they were married quietly, with Mrs. Webster as her attendant, in the Chapel of the Church of the Heavenly Rest.

That little fact of Mrs. Webster’s being her attendant speaks volumes. Martha Webster was not as discerning as Walter Brand but when she was taught a lesson she learned it. When Walter returned from Europe, Magda was no longer employed by Mrs. Webster because she could draw. She was a junior partner because she not only could draw but she could double the business and had. Men who had balked at their wives’ extravagant ideas found it a pleasure as long as the business was done through Mrs. Lederer, and even the frostiest dowagers were softened by her warm smile. Her taste had not improved but Mrs. Webster had enough for two. She still did small chores but her function was as business-getter and she found it fun. She was therefore entirely adamant about giving it up. Yes, she would marry Walter because she had promised and had no valid reason for changing her mind, but she insisted on keeping her job. This had irritated Walter at first but not for long. It meant that she was seen — in circulation, so to speak — during the day as well as in the evening when he paraded her. It gave him great satisfaction to be known as the husband of Mrs. Magda Brand.

Nor did marriage make Magda actively unhappy. She became bored with the parading — restaurants every night, cabarets, stares, and the conceit that seemed to ooze out of her husband on account of the stares. And the constant surveillance — “This is wrong, buy that — no, not that color, are you mad? This!” She was simply his most expensive objet d’art, and although she often felt like a freak in the circus, on what basis could she complain?

The real trouble would have to be explained by Dr. Kinsey. Walter’s two scouts, Isadora Elmenstein and the French fitter at Bergdorf’s had not lied. Naked, she was perfection — but just how wanton did her husband expect her to be? His delicate taste could so easily be offended. Gradually she came to see what was wrong. Not only did she not love him, but neither did he love her. Perhaps that was why Elsie had jumped out of the window. Perhaps Elsie had been more emotional than she, Magda, was. Perhaps the fact that she had no taste dulled other perceptions as well. At any rate, she had no intention of jumping out of a window. Her first marriage had not been all sweetness and light. She supposed very few marriages were. The trouble was a nebulous one, possibly imaginary. She was healthy, wealthy, and if you couldn’t be wise could you help it? Magda had character and, wisely, decided cheerfully to make the best of things.

There is something about the New Year that stimulates housewives in New York City into redecorating. The holiday spirit remains, the plans can be made and the work done while they are away in Florida or on a cruise, and the income tax is not quite due. Such a stimulus had come to Mrs. St. Clair Van Allen and when that happens it does not involve peanuts.

Mrs. Martha Webster was seriously distraught. “Magda, darling, for a decorator I have committed the unforgivable sin.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve forgotten a man’s name.”

“I suppose it has to do with Mrs. Van Allen.”

“How clever of you! That job will pay the rent for five years — and I forget the man’s name!”

“If you’ll calm down, I’ll call her up and ask her.”

“Are you mad? You have no business sense. You have no taste. You are just beautiful — and sweet. Listen. She said I want the furniture by Imperatori — some name like that. She had a little clipping about him from the Times last April. I pretended to know all about him. We can’t have her order direct.”

“So? I, having no business judgment and no taste, will run down to the public library and read the New York Times for the month of April last year. I have sharp eyes.”

“That is simple. Wait, it is simpler than that. I cannot remember the name — maybe it was nothing like Imperatori. But the date was April 10.”

“Hah! I can remember that,” Magda said. “That was when Walter sailed for Europe. I will find it, darling, never fear.”

And she did. But not before she had found another item, a strange and disturbing item, also small and hidden in the back pages. It was datelined Baltimore, April 10, and it said in its entirety: “Miss Elsie Snider, of this city, jumped or fell from her room on the fifteenth floor of the Lord Baltimore Hotel sometime during the night. Her body was found this morning lodged on the grating over the hotel dining room and was identified by her mother, Mrs. William Snider, of 1209 Grove Street, West Baltimore.”

Walking back through Forty-Second Street and up Madison Avenue, the two news items carefully copied and in her handbag, she decided that she was being childish. And yet. And yet...

“Did you get it?” Martha Webster asked.

“What, darling? Oh, yes. I got it. Shall I write or cable him?”

“I will do it. You look more out-of-the-worldish than usual.”

Magda went through the rest of the day in a haze. She couldn’t erase it from her mind. Miss Elsie Snider — Elsie — the fifteenth floor of the Lord Baltimore Hotel. Coincidence? Of course it was coincidence! The other Elsie — Elsie Brand — had jumped or fallen years ago. He had said he had been lonely for years. Probably the fifteenth floor was the highest in the hotel. Suicides did that, didn’t they? She didn’t know much about suicides, but the chills kept running up and down her back. She could remember how he looked when he told her, sad and courageous, blaming himself. She could taste the deviled crabmeat she had been eating when he told her. The fifteenth floor of the Lord Baltimore Hotel. Deviled crab was a specialty of Baltimore, wasn’t it? And she remembered the ringed date, April 3, the first day of the week in which she had been transformed and which had ended on the tenth when Walter sailed for Europe — the very same day Elsie Snider had been found. She stood up suddenly. “I am behafing like a Hungarian!” she said aloud.

Martha Webster surveyed her thoughtfully. “Yes, I should say you are.”

“I vill show it to heem now.”

“Do so, darling, by all means, whatever it is.”

She flung on her furs, picked up her handbag, and rang the down elevator-button with a flourish. Afraid of a shadow! Was she a woman or a mouse? Resolutely, she marched into 507 Madison Avenue, bowed curtly to the clerks, and opened her husband’s office door without knocking.

“Valter!” she said — and with the single word her resolution vanished.

“Yes?” he said without rising. His eyes, she thought, are cold as ice.

“A man,” she said. “He iss annoying me. Outside he stands vaiting.”

He was on his feet like a cat and picking up a sword cane. “Where is he? Show him to me!”

“He iss no longer dere. He muss be frighten avay.” How easy it was to lie when one was frightened.

Walter appraised her shrewdly. “What did he do?”

“He spoke and ven I deed not answer, he grabbed my coat, like dis, and try to pull me to heem.”

“Curious,” he said. “You have been badly frightened — but not by a tough at this hour on Madison Avenue. It is the first time you have lied to me.”

It changed their relationship. Walter was suddenly wary and the mask of tenderness was dropped except in public. He was relieved. It had not suited him. He ordered evening gowns for her that were so décolleté that to some they seemed indecent. What he had wanted was possession and the envy of that possession. These things he had, and so was satisfied.

And what of Magda? Magda had been shocked. What wife would not have been? But shock tempers a strong character. She submitted to what had become his cruelty and wore the daring gowns with dignity. No one would have known of her unhappiness but she was determined in one thing. She was going to find out about Elsie. She thought of telephoning Mrs. William Snider. That would be simple but somehow unsatisfactory. In the end she waited until she felt strong enough and then acted directly. It only took her a little over two hours by plane and taxi to reach 1209 Grove Street, West Baltimore. It was a red brick house like so many others in that peaceful city. The door was opened by a little white-haired woman.

“Mrs. Snider?” Magda asked.

“Yes.”

It was hard to do but she had steeled herself. “I am calling about the accident to your daughter a year ago today.”

“Why bring that up? I remember it well enough.” The woman was very hostile.

“I am Mrs. Walter Brand.”

That did it.

The little white-haired lady softened. “You can come in. You’re not just a nosey-Parker.”

Magda found it hard to breathe. They went into a well-dusted but unused room and Mrs. Snider pulled aside the drapes. “Sit down,” she said. “How long have you been married to him?”

“Over six months. I only recently learned about — about the accident.”

“Well, my girl was pretty once too. Is he thinking of stopping the allowance?”

“No. He doesn’t know that I am here.”

“Money or no money, if you want to know whether she jumped or not, she did, and if you want to know whether he drove her to it, he did that too — just as much as if he pushed her.”

“He was cruel to her?”

“Devilish, fiendish cruel and her always sticking up for him. She blacked his boots with her hose, she was that crazy for him.”

“What did he do?”

“He was bored with her. Told her so straight out. Said she didn’t have the capacity for education. Told her he’d give her an allowance if she’d take her maiden name but he was ashamed of her in front of his fancy friends. I’ll bet he’s not ashamed of you. But I don’t envy you none just the same.”

“Vy didn’t she get a divorce?”

“Because he had the appetite for her and she, the little fool, for him. Every two weeks or so, he’d call her up and off she’d go to New York like a dog after her master, not caring how much she gets kicked. Then after a day or two back she’d come whimpering. I’m hot-tempered, Mrs. Brand, and I wouldn’t stand for it. I blame myself for that. That’s why she was living at the Lord Baltimore in a chambermaid’s room next to the elevator shaft, but I say to myself she’d have done it some other way she was that desperate.”

“Vy vasn’t he called down here ven it happened a year ago?”

“He was on the way to Europe. Oh, they got him to depose and all that. He paid for a decent funeral and the allowance still keeps coming.”

“ ’Sank you, Mrs. Snider. I am sorry I half these old memories recalled to you.”

“I thought you were American. You’re a foreigner, ain’t you?”

“Yes, Hungarian, and you can feel sorry for me too.”

“I do, Mrs. Walter Brand, I do. Goodbye and good luck.”

Now she knew.

But what was she to do?

Slowly she realized that she must get a divorce without his suspecting that she knew. A man who kills his first wife will kill a second.

But on April 15 Walter’s second payment for income tax was due — he paid on a fiscal-year basis. Such dates are increasingly important in human affairs, and this one was the cause of Walter’s writing a letter. It was a very polite, well worded letter, typed by one of his useful and decorative assistants. In it he said that, a full year having elapsed since her daughter’s unfortunate accident, he felt he had more than generously fulfilled his obligations and would no longer be able to mail her a monthly check. “With very best wishes.”

On the eighteenth of April he had his reply. “Walter Brand: I can do without your best wishes. I never had them and you never had mine. And I am not surprised that you stop the money. Every month I was surprised that a skunk would send it. But you can tell your Hungarian wife who you sent to spy on me and who fooled me so much I felt sorry for her I would like to spit in her face. Mrs. William Snider.”

So that was it. Walter smoked his Melachrino slowly. That foolish story of the masher. That was when she had found out. He remembered telling her of Elsie — it had been a dash of braggadocio which he did not regret; but he now recognized her as a foeman worthy of his steel. She did not cringe as Elsie had. Nor would she be easily crushed. Nor did he wish to crush her — she was much too delectable for that. It was a problem, and Walter loved a difficult problem. He decided to spend some time in the Public Library and did so, adding thereby to his erudition.

That evening they were sitting in the Stork Club. It was crowded as usual and about a hundred men had been given a grandstand view of Magda’s magnificent upper bosom and had regretfully wished that they were alone with such a brazen beauty.

“Magda, darling,” he said. “I perceive that you have thought of the idea of divorcing me.” He was again pleased that she did not answer. He detested chatter. “Disabuse your mind. I will not permit it.”

“These are, then, the Dark Ages?”

“No. Relatively enlightened. But in any age, self-preservation is the first law of nature. Do you agree?”

“I agree wholeheartedly.”

“And, according to our legal code, no wife can testify against her husband.”

“I know.”

“To make myself perfectly clear, I had a letter today from a Mrs. William Snider. She says, crudely, that she would like to spit in your face.”

“How charming.”

Strangely, in this dialogue, Magda’s accent did not show.

Strangely, too, the open declaration of war was a relief. They were both dangerous to each other, yet they ate together, spent their leisure hours together, and even slept together. The situation was sufficiently piquant to appeal strongly to his passion for the rare and exotic, and Magda could see the mordant humor in it. Even some of his tenderness towards her returned. But living dangerously is bound to take its toll. The fine lines around her eyes, that had made her merry when she smiled, tautened so that Martha Webster took note of it. Watching her at work one day she had the amazing thought that Magda, sweet, beautiful Magda, looked hard.

Then came the call about the boat. Walter’s boat had not been in the water the preceding summer and she had never seen it, but he had described it precisely as he described everything, a 52-foot yawl so heavily powered as to be almost a motor sailer. She knew that it was being conditioned and was not surprised when the man from the boatyard called. “Mr. Brand is not here,” she said. “This is Mrs. Brand.”

“I tried his office, Mrs. Brand, and his instructions were that he be notified the moment she was ready.”

“Thank you, I’ll tell him.”

“Tell him, please, that it is at the Miami Yacht Club, fully outfitted and ready to sail, and that the Cuban pilot is highly recommended.”

“Thank you. Goodbye.”

Again the chill, the finding it hard to breathe. This was a move against her. She could feel it in her Hungarian bones. Would he push her overboard? But why Cuba at this time of year? There was reason in it. A dangerous reason. She would refuse, point-blank, to go.

When he came in she gave him the message. “The man at the boatyard, Steven Monroe, called and said the boat was ready.”

He looked at her sharply. “Why did he call here? Did he say anything else?”

“He tried to get you at the office and said you wanted to know the moment she was ready to sail.”

“Yes. I promised those two fellows I would take them out for a few days. I’ll pack now.”

So he wasn’t going to throw her overboard. It was something else. When she awoke in the morning he was gone and there was a note on his pillow.

He had written her many long, interesting, and devoted letters from Europe during those months last year. It was strange now to see those words again on paper. Dearest and Love. Suddenly she felt terribly lonely and not so much afraid as overwhelmingly sad.

When he returned he was tanned, gay, and extremely passionate. He picked up a red blouse lying on her chaise longue.

“Where the devil did you get this horrible thing?” he asked.

“I made it while you were away. I like to sew when I am alone.”

He examined it closely. “It is very well made. You are clever with your hands. But the material, the pattern! Have I not told you? Never choose anything yourself. It is pure Harlem.”

“I can throw it away.”

“Do so.”

Suddenly he stiffened, walked over to the window and stood there staring out. He is making another move against me, she thought; the knot is tightening. It has something to do with my bad taste. Somehow I will have the bad taste to be murdered, and he will be safe and far away...

The next morning she smiled at Martha Webster. “You do not much need me today?”

“Not if you want to take the day off, darling.”

“Vell, I t’ink I do.”

“Very well. Have a good time.” It had not escaped Martha Webster’s keen ear that emotion usually touched off Magda’s accent and she looked after her speculatively.

Magda walked over to the Fifth Avenue Bank and drew out her account — $4220. She took a cab to the apartment on Sixty-Fourth Street and packed two bags. The doorman found her another cab and helped her in. “La Guardia Field,” she said. The doorman looked at the bill in his hand. He hated like hell to do it, she was a nice lady; but when you’re menially employed, twenty buys more than five, so he made his phone call.

At the American Airlines desk she asked what they had for Chicago. There was room on a flight in less than an hour. “That’s fine,” she said, and the clerk began to make out the ticket.

“Name, please?”

“Magda Brand.”

He stopped writing. “Oh, Mrs. Brand. Your husband called and said it was unnecessary for you to make the flight. I am to call him and he will come for you here.”

She turned dead-white and grasped the counter to keep from falling. “You needn’t call heem. I vill go ’ome.”

The clerk watched her walk falteringly towards the door. Something was cooking with that beautiful dame. When next he was conscious of her, her back was towards him and she was at the United counter. Oh, oh. So that was it. Well, it was none of his business. If he had a wife like that he’d want to keep her too.

“Vot iss your nex’ flight?”

“Where to, Madam?”

“Anyvare. From here. Out of here.”

“There’s a flight loading now for Detroit.”

“Giff me, please.”

“What is the name?”

“Helen Jones.” She fumbled with the money and the ticket.

“Don’t hurry, Miss Jones. I’ll phone them to hold the flight.”

“ ’Sank you,” she said.

As she stumbled down the steps to the lower level, he was there to meet her.

“Hello, darling,” he said. “Let me help you with your bags.” The scream that rose in her throat would not come and, limply, docilely, she followed him out to the street.

In a cab, he looked at her with amused but narrowed eyes. “That was a mistake, my dear. I never threatened you and never will. Threats are sordid. But as long as you commit no overt act — and I consider flight an overt act — you are safe. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Valter.”

He took up her purse. “Four thousand odd. We had better put that in my account. You have no need for it.”

Back in the apartment, she fell on the bed totally exhausted.

She slept for 20 hours, rose, and found herself alone. She bathed and felt herself refreshed and strong again. Martha Webster saw the change.

“Whatever you did yesterday it did you good. You have been looking rather knocked out. Today you’re the old Magda with, I detect, a sort of reckless glint in your left eye.”

Magda laughed. “I am a little reckless and I’m drawing out fifty bucks ahead from the office safe and leaving instead a sealed envelope with my name on it. This is for you alone, Martha darling, in case of death or accident.”

“Ah, ha! Well, don’t be too reckless. I need you, darling, in the business. And love you, too, by the way.” She kissed her. It was the first time Magda had ever known Martha to kiss anyone.

“I vant you to send me on errands today. Errands that will take me to Long Island. Errands vich I do not half to do.”

“I see. Walter did call yesterday and sounded annoyed. Well, I am not the impertinent type and won’t ask you who the man is, but I will admit I am curious.”

“You needn’t be. There is no other man.”

“Too bad. I am very moral myself, but I love to see immorality in others.”

Magda hired a Drive-it-Yourself car, a thing that Walter would not have thought her capable of doing. She drove up the East Side highway and over the Triboro Bridge, then east to the little town of Huntington. There she inquired for the Hunting-ton Yacht Club and parked her car. It was a lovely day but not so lovely as the grizzled steward thought her.

“Good morning,” she said. “Captain Wood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.

“I am Mrs. Brand. Have you a key for the Lazy Q?”

“Yes, ma’am, I have. You want to board her?”

“Yes, please. I want to see what stores we need.”

“I guess most everything. When these hired crews come up the inland waterway all the way from Miami they strip your galley pretty clean. They was a good crew though. They left her in right smart shape.”

As they rode out in the launch she asked him, “Has Mr. Brand seen her since she got back?”

“No, ma’am. He sent me the inventory and told me to check it so he could pay the men, but I haven’t seen him since year before last.”

“Don’t tell him that I came out, please. I want to surprise him with something.”

“I won’t say a word, Mrs. Brand. Will you be long?”

“I can’t tell.”

“Just toot your horn.”

The boat was larger than she had expected, a great deal of room below. She opened the hatches to let the early June air and sunshine in, took off her hat and coat, and sat down on a berth. So far, everything had gone well. She had not been sure the boat would be here, or if Captain Wood would have a key. She had come on a hunch. For some reason Walter had gone to Cuba, and she was sure it had to do with her. Somewhere on the boat there might be a clue.

Everything was shining. The boat seemed almost like new. But the refrigerator and larder were empty, and there were only heavy-weather clothes, life preservers, lights, tools, and line in the lockers. But where to look for a clue? Wait. Here in the drawer were the papers. Yes. Harbor clearance in and out of Havana, and charts. The Lazy Q had been to Cuba all right, but that was all. No hint of why. Nothing else in the drawers but other charts and implements. A wasted trip — defeat, despair.

But she had had a hunch, and she had it still. An Hungarian hunch. And as she had previously known, without a word having been spoken, that, as he stood looking out of the window, he was plotting her murder, so she now knew that this boat could tell her something.

She looked at the row of books on the shelf — tide and current tables, the Atlantic Coast Pilot, a stack of Yachting — and then suddenly she had a wholly unreasonable but unmistakable thrill. American Practical Navigator, Bowditch, 1943, United States Navy Department, Hydrographic Office. Miraculously, but surely, she knew that Bowditch, whoever he was, had spoken to her.

She took the book off the shelf, opened it, and riffled through the pages. Nothing. She turned the book back up and shook it fiercely. A printed sheet of paper fluttered out. It was page 713 and 714 of a medical handbook. It had been cut cleanly from its binding and the type was set in beautiful German Gothic.

She sat down at the chart table and copied it, translating as she wrote, leaving the proper names in German or in Latin as the case might be. Her hand shook a little but she forced herself not to hurry, to be precise and careful. The margin of one paragraph had been marked but she copied every word on both sides of the page, returned it to her dear friend, Bowditch, and returned him to his place on the shelf. She closed the forward hatch and latched it, blew the horn three times, closed the after hatch and locked it. As the launch approached she lit a cigarette, drew hard, and blew out a deep breath.

“I wasn’t long, was I, Captain Wood?” and she gave him a dazzling smile that warmed his old bones to the marrow. As he helped her onto the dock and took the key, he wished that this lovely vision would linger; but she ran up the ramp and through the Clubhouse to her car. He was a nice old man, but she couldn’t get away fast enough.

She parked again on a quiet country road, took out her paper and read it carefully. She had not needed to copy it all. The marked paragraph was it. Marking passages was a habit of Walter’s. It was efficient if one needed the passage again. “Digitonin is a harmless though expensive drug, almost identical with saponin which, at far less cost, performs the same function as a heart depressant or sleeping draught. Digitonin, like its antithesis, digitalis, is extracted from the leaves of the foxglove. As far as has been determined, the only difference in the action of digitonin and saponin is in the former’s use together with pseudaconitine, the most lethal of poisons. Pseudaconitine is extracted from the root of aconitum ferox, native to Nepal and Cuba. It is so violent in its action that anything larger than the most minute dose attacks the whole system, involving vomiting and pain so great that the injection of the poison is immediately apparent and the victim may be, but rarely is, saved. However, in conjunction with digitonin, an extremely minute dose of pseudaconitine, a thirty-second of a grain, introduced into the blood stream, will have no effect whatever upon other vital parts. But when it reaches the heart, the heart will cease to beat, from syncope.”

Well, she thought, this explained Cuba. She could imagine that it would be difficult for even Walter to purchase pseudaconitine at a drug store in New York. But where did her bad taste fit in? She would have to watch herself.

When she returned to the office at 3 she found Martha Webster unaccustomedly agitated. “What is the matter with that husband of yours? He has been here twice and telephoned at least a dozen times. He is like a wild man. He seems to think you have a secret lover.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you had gone out on errands.”

“Well, so I did. And accomplished one.”

The telephone rang and Martha answered it. “Walter,” she said, “I think you are behaving abnormally. When I hear your voice I should hang up. But your little wife is here, not in the least the worse for wear, very calm, very composed, and very beautiful. No. She thinks you are disgraceful too. She doesn’t want to speak to you. Goodbye.”

In the war of nerves, Walter knew he had sustained a defeat. A victory yesterday, a defeat today. He decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said as she came in the door. “After yesterday, I was upset. I irritated Martha needlessly. And was very much relieved when she told me you had returned.”

“It does not matter, Walter.”

“Where had you been?”

“As she told you. Errands. I half bad taste, remember Valter? I make drawings and do errands. Zat iss all.”

She was the picture of innocence.

“I was wrong yesterday about your money. I will deposit it in your name in the morning.”

“It iss my money.”

“What would you like to do tonight?”

“I vould like to go to the house of friends. But ve haff no friends.”

“You know I am not the gregarious type. Most of the human race is too stupid to live.”

“And I am too stupid to liff, eh, Valter?”

“I don’t know what’s got into you. I don’t know what gave you the idea of running away. You have everything and you know how I need you.”

“Yes. You have use for me.”

“We will go to the Copacabana. Jimmy Durante is there.”

“Fine, Walter. It will be good to laugh.”

She decided, while she was laughing, to attack. She drank less than usual and, in the ladies’ room, asked the attendant if she had benzedrine.

“Of course, Madame.”

It was the first time she had tried it, and she found that it did invigorate her. And knowing the weapons to be used against her, she could make him fight on her own ground.

At 3 o’clock in the morning she got out of bed and turned on the bathroom light. He was awake instantly. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t sleep,” she answered. “Haff we no sleeping pills in the house?”

“I never needed a sleeping pill in my life.”

“I need one now. There was too much noise all night and my head goes round and round.”

He was fully awake now and there was a timbre in his voice that both chilled and thrilled her. “Take a couple of aspirins,” he said, “and come to bed. Tomorrow I will get you sleeping pills.”

The next evening he did bring her the drug — not pills but a whitish liquid in a green bottle.

“It was highly recommended,” he said, “as being nonhabit forming and they said it induced a restful sleep in minutes rather than an hour. This little half-gram top is the dose and you drink it just before you want to sleep.”

That night she put on her loveliest white satin nightgown and sat at the mirror brushing her hair. Would the nightgown be her shroud? Perhaps. A thirty-second of a grain of pseudaconitine — surely hardly a drop — and she would die in her sleep. She was resigned to it. One does not win a battle without incurring risks. With half-closed eyes he watched her take up the bottle, fill the cap with a steady hand, and then swallow the drug.

“Good night, Valter,” she said, turning out the lamp and lying back. In five minutes he could tell that she was fast asleep.

She was not surprised to wake up and find the sun streaming through the windows. A sudden unexplained heart attack would have seemed strange to Mrs. Webster who knew how healthy and strong she was.

“Your sleeping medicine was wonderful, Walter. I have never had a better night’s rest. It is all right to take it every night?”

“Perfectly safe, they assured me.”

“Good! Then I will do that.”

“It’s just as well, because you will be alone for a week or so. I must go to the west coast to look at a rosewood secretary and a few other things.”

“Oh?”

“That one of ours in the living room is too small and unimportant.”

“I thought you liked it.”

“It’s a good piece. I have nothing but good pieces. But the one being offered at private sale in San Francisco is reported to be fabulous. I will pick out something for you to sew while I am away.”

The pieces were falling into place. The picture on the puzzle was emerging. Magda, darling, she said to herself, watch your step.

He came to her office that afternoon before the Twentieth Century was due to pull out.

“Here is the picture and here is the pattern. You can follow the pattern, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, I can follow a pattern.”

“And here,” he said with a flourish, “is the material.”

It was cloth of gold and there was a box of cultured pearls with it.

“It is a formidable undertaking,” he laughed. “Each pearl has to be sewn on just so but, if you can accomplish it, it will be worth the effort. You will be wearing a blouse such as has not been seen since the time of the Byzantine Empire. What do you think, Martha?”

“I agree on both counts. Formidable indeed and, if accomplished, worth it.”

“So. Now I must run. Goodbye, Martha. Goodbye, my love.” And he kissed her...

Both women looked down at the box.

“I don’t blame you, darling, for looking afraid of it,” Martha said. “That’s six months of hard labor. But Walter is such a perfectionist. If a thing isn’t perfect of its kind he has no interest in it.”

“Yes, I know. Would you mind wrapping it up for me?”

“No. But I wouldn’t be that much afraid of it.”

“Don’t vorry. Somehow I vill make the blouse.”

But she did not touch the package that night or the following one. And in the meantime she went to a chemist.

“Do you analyze drugs?”

“Of course, Madam.”

“This sleeping medicine.”

“Very fast in its action?”

“Very.”

“Saponin, I suppose. Let me smell it. No, not saponin, but we can identify it in a few hours.”

When she went back, the chemist asked, “Where did you buy this medicine, Mrs. Brand?”

“My husband bought it. It does not say on the bottle.”

“Well, whoever sold it to him was a dishonest druggist. This is digitonin, very effective in inducing sleep but very rare because it costs twelve times the cost of saponin and is no better — no better in any way.”

“But this is not harmful?”

“Not in the least. Go right ahead using it, a half gram a night if you wish. But when you want it refilled I suggest that you get saponin. Shall I write that down?”

“Please.”

So now she was not quite vulnerable. The half gram of digitonin went down the drain each night and she slept very well indeed. It had not said on the paper what happened with a very small injection of pseudaconitine alone but it had called it the most lethal of poisons. She put on kid gloves and smoothed out the cloth of gold. Could it be impregnated? It seemed harmless enough. Certainly there was nothing dangerous in the box of pearls.

She pinned and cut out the pattern. The pearls were to be sewn on first and she traced the lines where they were to go. When the pearls were on, the various parts were to be assembled. It was simple after all and not too laborious a chore. Where was the hidden danger? It must be in the fabric. She decided never to touch it without her gloves on.

She got out her pink brocaded kit that held her needles and thread, and then, because she had been very frightened for a very long time and perhaps because she was Hungarian, she began to laugh. Aloud, uncontrollably, until the tears ran down her cheeks. Walter, dear murderous Walter, the perfectionist. Her sewing kit had places for six needles, graduated in size. But, doing the red blouse, she had broken one and had not touched them since. Now all six needles were there. She knew him well. He could not stand a gap in an orderly row, a row of anything. She looked at them closely, saw a faint yellow stain on the point of each. Sewing the round slippery pearls onto cloth of gold? Could anyone help but prick her finger eventually? She laughed again, happily. For the moment she was safe. You’ll have to thinly of something else, my darling, she thought.

In a week he called from San Francisco. Could she detect surprise when he heard her answer? The rosewood secretary was every bit as good as he had heard and it had been shipped already. If it arrived before he did, and he might have to stay longer than he had expected, she was to instruct the doorman not to allow the truckers to touch it until one of the boys from the shop was called in to supervise its handling. The old secretary was to be taken to the shop and a price of $3000 put upon it.

“Very well, Walter.”

“Are you lonely?”

“No. I have some good books.”

“Well, goodbye,” he said rather harshly, and hung up.

A week later he called again and this time was quite brusque. Had the secretary arrived? No. But they had called and it was due tomorrow. Everything was arranged.

“How are you doing with the blouse?”

“Oh, fair. It goes slowly. Such careful work, you know.”

“I would like it if you had it finished and wore it the night I get home.”

“If doubt if that can be done. I get bored with it sometimes.”

“Damn it! I spent a great deal of money. Those are real pearls, Magda.”

“I know, Walter. That’s why I wouldn’t want to rush it.”

He hung up without a word, and Magda smiled.

The secretary was very heavy. Four men carried it with effort while the assistant from the shop sweated blood and died a thousand deaths for fear it would be scratched. Even so, when they set it down it rested on one leg for a moment and there was a sharp crack. “My God,” said the assistant from the shop, turning pale. “It was my responsibility. He will never forgive me. It is an absolute masterpiece and you know how he feels about repairs.”

“There, there,” Magda comforted him. “It seems solid enough. And it won’t be moved again for a long time. If it is a masterpiece Walter will want to keep it for himself.”

“Yes, I suppose so. It only shows if you inspect it closely. If I tried to touch it up he would know it was my fault. Those clumsy brutes. Will you tell him it happened in transit?”

“Of course. It could have, three thousand miles. Don’t worry.”

It has been said that Magda, though she had no taste, was clever with her hands. And so, although she was no carpenter, she conceived it her duty to her husband to fix that leg. Using only a thin-bladed knife meant for cutting cardboard, she did manage to repair the leg; then with shellac and wax she fixed it so that unless you inspected it very carefully you could not see the crack.

Then she turned diligently to making the blouse, needles being cheap and easily obtained, and it was finished when Walter came home.

“Ah, there you are,” she said, holding her face up to be kissed. “See, the blouse is finished. Do you like it?”

“Yes.” He seemed indifferent to everything but the secretary. “Isn’t that magnificent? They called it a museum piece, the fools. That is the most exquisite piece of furniture in the world. Absolute perfection!”

Unless you inspected it closely... but trust Walter to do just that. He was down on his hands and knees. “What the devil have they done with this leg? It was perfect.”

“Dere vas a leetle accident.”

“And those idiots tried to fix it!”

He reached out and the leg came away in his hand. He was so completely surprised that his reflexes failed him, and the great piece loomed over him until he leaped back; but it was too late and suddenly he was pinned on his back with a great weight of shattered glass and splintered mahogany.

He was gasping. He could hardly breathe. “Get somebody!”

“Are you in pain, Valter?”

“Get — get somebody,” he croaked.

“Here iss some of my sleeping medicine. Eet acts fairy queekly. A beeg swallow, Valter.”

“Ge’ somebody.”

“I vill, Valter. Zey are at ze door now. But firs’ I sink ze needle iss besser for you.”

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Brand,” the doctor said. “He is dead. It is not from his injuries. They would have been painful — broken ribs, some deep cuts — but they were comparatively superficial. He died from a heart attack induced by shock. You have my deepest sympathy.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I did not know, although sometimes I suspected, that my husband’s heart was bad.”