Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 19, No. 99, February 1952

“So many radios?” The Princess raised what little eyebrows she had left. She shuddered. “I detest the radio. Noisy, stupid boxes!”

“I own flats, tenements, Your Highness. Sometimes a tenant is unable to pay his rent. So?” He shrugged his meaty shoulders. “I accept a piece of furniture that strikes my fancy. A radio, perhaps. Such is my business. I find it convenient in this manner to collect replacements for my furnished places.”

The Princess moved in. The stairs were no problem to Hillman. The prestige of having a royal personage for a tenant more than compensated for the necessity of climbing them. Hillman’s round tubby body burst with pride. He basked in the envy of his neighbors, his friends, his relatives.

True, there were certain adjustments that had to be made for the sake of the Princess. They must walk quietly, speak softly. They must not slam a door. Their radios must whisper. After 9 o’clock at night — for that was when their illustrious tenant retired — their bedroom radio must remain silent. Her bedroom was below theirs. Ah, but these were only slight inconveniences for the Poolks. Hillman’s bubble of ecstasy refused to be punctured.

Meanwhile, Hitler’s hordes were advancing. The world was in turmoil. Terror prevailed. Unknown to Hillman, the Princess wrote to her niece in Sofia to escape while there was yet time, to come and live with her. The arrival of the niece and her two children caught Hillman unawares.

He had not been consulted. His permission had not been requested. Here was a slap in the face he never expected. He was, after all, the landlord. Toward a landlord a tenant was expected to display a proper respect. Besides, Hillman did not approve of tenants with children.

That was when the great honor began to lose its glow. That was when Hillman became conscious of that long flight of stairs. Resentment needled and festered. But there was nothing he could do. Greater happenings were taking place which overshadowed one’s personal problems. In June 1940 a heart-breaking event took place. France, capitulating, signed an armistice with her ancient enemy. The Germans swarmed into Paris.

Time seemed to stand still then. One day was like another. An apathy settled over Paris, but underneath her inertia sparks of rebellion flickered.

Those were dark days for Hillman. He lost weight. The rich foods to which he was accustomed were no longer available. Many of his flats stood empty. The few tenants who remained were unable to pay their rent. With one exception. The Princess continued to pay hers.

The long flight of stairs sneered at him. Hillman bowed his head and endured. He had no strength, no heart for retaliation.

Then a miracle happened. The Germans were in retreat. It was incredible — but it was so. The war clouds lifted. Suddenly, as though it had never happened, the war was over.

To the Princess’s menage arrived a new addition on substitute legs. This was Gormel, husband to Namka, the niece. He had lost his legs on some battlefield.

By this time Hillman had recovered, more or less, his former self. He shook the moths out of his self-esteem. He became once more a man of importance. True, the value of the franc had depreciated. He had to spend more to buy less. Nevertheless, he was better off than most people.

Returning soldiers sought a place to live. Hillman’s flats were renting again. His belly returned to its status quo ante. Through the black market he was able to buy the rich foods he enjoyed. But the stairs were reminding him now of his weight. They mocked his straining muscles. They laughed at his puffing breath.

He began to mutter as he climbed them. He cursed them. He cursed the day he invited the Princess to live here. Gormel he did not mind. Gormel had a good reason for not climbing stairs. But Gormel’s children Hillman resented bitterly. They ran in and out of the house. What humiliation! What irony! The children, who were able to fly effortlessly up and down stairs, were not required to do so.

His wife Gertie was also complaining. She was putting on weight. Her legs were swollen. Pilket, their maid, came in every day to clean, to launder, but it was Gertie who had to do the shopping, the cooking.

The glamor was gone, forgotten. When they spoke of the Princess, she was no longer Her Highness. They referred to her as “the old lady.”

“Only once!” Hillman raged. “Only once would I like to see that old lady climb the stairs.”

“It would kill her,” Gertie pointed out.

“Would we weep? Is it not time she died? She is over ninety. She has lived out her life. Must she go on living to spoil our lives?”

“If she died, that would be nice,” Gertie agreed. “Then we could tell the others to go. We would move downstairs. No more steps to climb.” She sighed deeply.

Finally the time came when Hillman reached the breaking-point. Coming home from rent collecting one day, he puffed his way up the stairs. He neared the top. All at once something stabbed him in the side. A most excruciating pain. It squeezed his windpipe. He could not breathe. Dizzily he clung to the bannister. Perspiration oozed from every pore. Ah, he was dying, dying.