Madame’s prophecy was fulfilled the night before I was due to go home. At lunch-time Cynthia asked how I’d like to spend my last afternoon with them — how about a drive? I said I thought I’d walk down to the village and buy a few souvenirs for the people at home, and then pack quietly.
“You come out with me, Cynnie,” Raymond suggested.
“No, no,” cried my heart, but Cynthia agreed placidly. I wished I had the courage to say I’d changed my mind, but I hadn’t. As I left the house Raymond brought the car round to the front and went in to tell Cynthia he’d be ready in five minutes. Cynthia came down to the gate and waved me off.
“Ask Mrs. Rose for tea if we’re not back,” she said.
Not back! Well I knew the two of them would never come back — I knew it as certainly as I knew my own name.
I did my shopping and lingered over tea in the village; I wanted to put off my return as long as I could, but sooner or later I had to go back. The instant Mrs. Rose opened the door for me I knew it had happened.
“Oh, Mrs. Frost,” she whispered, “there’s been a terrible accident.”
I felt my heart freeze. “The car?” But I knew the answer.
“Yes, madam. That dreadful hill. Cars shouldn’t be allowed to go down there. I always knew there’d be a crash sooner or later.”
“Dead?” I whispered.
She nodded. “Oh, yes, madam. No one would have a chance. The car’s smashed to pieces, that lovely car. There was a witness, a gentleman; he said it seemed to go out of control.”
“So much for Broadbents being foolproof,” I said bitterly.
“He said something about a nut working loose, they didn’t know how,” she amplified.
I could tell you, I thought. In my mind’s eye I saw a murderous finger and thumb deliberately turning the nut, insuring catastrophe.
Mrs. Rose was speaking again. “Thank goodness, she wasn’t in it,” she said.
“She — wasn’t—?” I didn’t think I’d heard right.
“No, Mrs. Frost. At the last minute Madam had a headache and decided to stay at home. I daresay if she’d gone with him it wouldn’t have happened. Mrs. Martin would never go with her husband on that hill.”
Her voice said it was a judgment on him.
Cynthia came down later, very pale, very remote.
“Oh, Cynnie,” I whispered, “Mrs. Rose told me.” But that’s all I could say; the words stuck in my throat.
Cynthia came over to the mantelpiece. “It had to happen some time,” she said calmly. “I suppose this is what Madame Clementine foresaw.” And then, unbelievably, she laughed. That laughter rang through the house. “It’s all right, Anne,” she said between gasps, “I’m not hysterical. I’m just thinking how funny it is to realize we all took it for granted the violent death would be mine! And yet, there are two parties to every marriage.”
I couldn’t meet her eyes. I longed only to leave the house and never see her again. Because I knew now with shattering certainty whose finger and thumb had turned that nut so that, on the hill, the car would go out of control.
“Cynthia’s a mechanic,” Agatha had said.
And — “I drive by guess and by God,” confessed Raymond.
I remembered again what Agatha had said. The wife’s always the last to know.
The last? I wonder!
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.