She had looked thoughtful for a moment then replied, “Hey, how about that!” Yet only a few sentences later she made mention of General Clay granting amnesty to all lesser Nazis. Did he only imagine it or had she stressed the last two words?
But enough of this conjecturing. The degree of her naivete was unimportant. What was important was that the statue would be his and soon — and the American lady none the wiser. She would never know that she had discarded something whose value was far greater than all her other acquisitions.
They went into the house where the pantry yielded “the down payment” to his brief case.
“My cousin must get the benzine from the zone. By next week the arrangements I will have made. I will at the same time bring some of the rosebushes.”
She took a box of cookies from the shelf. “Here, take these to your boys.”
“Thank you, Madam — but you spoil them.”
“It’s nothing. And say Hi to Mrs. Honig.”
As he closed the gate he thought of his conversation with the art dealer in Kurfurstendam. The dealer had been dubious. Naturally the charming little animal figures of Renee Sintenis were a rarity and much prized these days. She had done only a few larger pieces, and to have discovered one of them was indeed unbelievable. Few sculptors matched her ability to capture and reproduce instantaneous movement. He recalled the art dealer’s comment, “If it is so, we’ll both be rich — very rich.”
The arrangements for the truck could be made quickly. However, with the Americans it was better to prolong the job. He decided that seven days would be the proper interval of delay.
Early the following week Herr Honig received a message to call Mrs. Mack. When he telephoned, she was vague and mysterious. She said she had a surprise for him. He would be so pleased. He must stop by as soon as possible. Neither the urgency nor the mystery impressed him. She was always in a rush to snatch up some bargain. She had probably discovered “just a wonderful little place” where they made leather goods and wanted him to negotiate and interpret for her. He knew that she delighted in the dark backrooms where so many of the purchases were made. The atmosphere seemed to make her feel that she was playing a part in some minor intrigue and added to the excitement of shopping. He agreed to stop by as soon as he was in the neighborhood.
He had hardly touched the bell at the gate when the buzzer sounded. Mrs. Mack opened the door and came down the steps.
“We’ll go right around to the garden,” she called.
He hurried to catch up with her. When they came to the rear terrace she stopped.
“See anything different?”
It was then that he did see — or rather he didn’t, for it was no longer there to be seen. It was gone. His statue was gone. She kept talking and laughing but he heard nothing. He stared at the spot. Comprehension came slowly. Her words began to filter through to his consciousness. “… and there he was — staring right out from the page — our goat. It was just like seeing an old friend in a crowd on television. I was so excited I just forgot all about those pictures I was looking for. At the store I’d noticed some real pretty pictures in some of those books. I figured maybe I could get several of them framed to hang over that chest in the hall, but I sure didn’t expect to find our Billy prancing around those pages. ‘Boy,’ I said, ‘you must be somebody to have your picture in such a big book.’ Then I started phoning. I called the Education Branch first ’cause they always know everything. They told me the man to call in Cultural Affairs. He was just so nice and interested. He called back this morning to report that the statue had been delivered to the artist’s home yesterday. It seems she’s quite old and her studio was destroyed in the war. She doesn’t have many of her works left. She was delighted to have this one returned to her — and you, Herr Honig, you should be delighted too. You don't have to bother about getting the truck or any of that. Isn’t it a good thing I bought all those red books? I never thanked you enough, Herr Honig, for finding that cute little book shop for me.”
For once Herr Honig had no sly remark.
Nicholas DiMinno
Case of the Night Club Chanteuse
The Lieutenant had never met a more disagreeable little man. A complete and total sourness about life and human motives was in everything the man said, in his expression, even in the way he sat. The man’s name was Allie Parks and he was a night club comedian.
“How well did you know Madeleine?” asked the Lieutenant.
“You mean Sophie,” the little man said dourly.
“Sophie,” said the Lieutenant, thinking the least they could do for Sophie now was to use her professional name. They were in the cubbyhole that passed for Allie Parks’s dressing room. Parks had just described it for the Lieutenant (“Every half hour somebody shoves a broom in”). Some of it had been funny and if the Lieutenant hadn’t been on duty he would have been amused.
“When did you know her as Sophie?”
“Back in Miami. Before she became a chanteuse. Chanteuse,” Parks said acidly. “Someone who’s not French and can’t sing.”
The Lieutenant frowned. “Parks, you don’t seem to understand that this girl is dead.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” sighed Parks, “but I used up all my tears at the track last night.”
The Lieutenant studied him as he picked at a scab on his hand. A real lovable fellow, this Allie Parks. Being sour on everything and everybody was his stock in trade, but you’d think he might suspend that for a couple of minutes when a fellow performer died.
“The last time you spoke to Madeleine, what did you talk about?”
“She was flying. Got this wire from Las Vegas. Stalling next month. Was going to tell the dice players about Paris for a grand a week.”
“Had she ever been to Paris?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Quite a step up for her, wasn’t it? From this?” The Lieutenant indicated the peeling walls and the single unshaded bulb.
“Yah,” said Parks gloomily. “You asked what we talked about. It was a monologue. Las Vegas, Las Vegas, Las Vegas. All I could do was stand there. Real stooge. Like I was working for her.”
“If you knew Madeleine back in Miami you’d be able to tell me something about her family, friends, what she did before she changed her name.”
“She was Sophie Klinger. After I heard that and laughed at it, that was all. Then she shows up here as Madeleine, with an accent you could cut with a knife.”
“Had she changed in other ways? From Miami?”
Parks picked at the scab. “Back there she was a brunette, up here she’s a blonde. But that’s the smallest change. Now she’s high-powered. Asks for a match and makes a big deal of it.”
“And you didn’t like that?”
“Who am I to like?” said Parks. “The customers did. Those dopes like anything.”
“Do they like you?” questioned the Lieutenant.
“If they stop eating their celery long enough,” grumbled Parks.
“I understand the room was quiet when Madeleine sang.”
“Yeah. They were asking themselves, ‘What is it?’”
Parks began to clean his fingers with a tiny penknife. The Lieutenant took out his notebook and eyed the few heiroglyphics there. Madeleine, nee Sophie, a champagne blonde currently masquerading as a chanteuse and doing a good job of it, according to the manager, who’d said that while her French was phony, her humming was sexy and that was the important thing.