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

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.

Dearest: I will be gone for a week or ten days. Tell the boys at the shop to carry on. Love, Walter.

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.”