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

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.