Table of ContentsFront CoverContentsIntroduction1 When No Man Pursueth2 Quicker Than the Eye3 The Iron Gem4 The Three Numbers5 Nothing Like Murder6 No Smoking7 Season's Greetings8 The One and Only East9 Earthset and Evening Star10 Friday the Thirteenth11 The Unabridged

12 The Ultimate CrimeBack Cover

Front Cover

The Black Widowers are at it again.

A greeting card collector finds himselfthe target for a mysterious message....A Russian visitor to New York thinks hehas uncovered a sinister murder plot....A mad scientist's locked-up secrets createa desperate race to unlock his safe—butfirst the combination must bedeciphered....A man smokes a cigarette and loses a job—and his company loses a milliondollars....But things aren't always what they seem.Here is your chance to test your detective

skills against the very best—”The BlackWidowers.”

Fawcett Crest and Premier Books byIsaac Asimov:Fiction:THE EARLY ASIMOV, Book OneTHE EARLY ASIMOV, Book TwoPEBBLE IN THE SKYTHE STARS, LIKE DUSTTHE CURRENTS OF SPACETHE CAVES OF STEELTHE END OF ETERNITYTHE MARTIAN WAYTHE NAKED SUNEARTH IS ROOM ENOUGHNINE TOMORROWSNIGHTFALL

THE GODS THEMSELVESTHE BEST OF ISAAC ASIMOVTALES OF THE BLACK WIDOWERSMORE TALES OF THE BLACKWIDOWERSMURDER AT THE ABANon-fiction:EARTH: OUR CROWDED SPACESHIPREALM OF ALGEBRA REALM OFNUMBERSEdited by Isaac Asimov:BEFORE THE GOLDEN AGE, Book 1BEFORE THE GOLDEN AGE, Book 2BEFORE THE GOLDEN AGE, Book 3THE HUGO WINNERS, Volume 1STORIES FROM THE HUGOWINNERS, Volume 2

MORE STORIES FROM THE HUGOWINNERS,Volume 3 WHERE DO WE GO FROMHERE?

More TalesOf The

Black WidowersISAAC ASIMOV

A FAWCETT CREST BOOKFawcett Books, Greenwich, Connecticut

MORE TALES OF THE BLACKWIDOWERSTHIS BOOK CONTAINS THECOMPLETE TEXT OF THE ORIGINALHARDCOVER EDITION.A Fawcett Crest Book reprinted byarrangement with Doubleday andCompany, Inc.Copyright © 1976 by Isaac AsimovAll rights reservedISBN: 0-449-23375-8All the characters in this book arefictitious, and any resemblance to actualpersons living or dead is purelycoincidental.

Selection of the Detective Book ClubAcknowledgments

“when no man pursueth” originallypublished in EQMM. Copyright © 1974by Isaac Asimov“quicker than the eye” originallypublished in EQMM. Copyright © 1974by Isaac Asimov“the iron gem” originally published inEQMM. Copyright © 1974 by IsaacAsimov“the three numbers” originally publishedin EQMM under the title of “all in theway you read it.” Copyright© 1974 byIsaac Asimov“nothing like murder” originallypublished in Fantasy and Science Fiction!

Copyright © 1974 by Mercury Press, Inc.“no smoking” originally published inEQMM under the title of “confessions ofan American cigarette Smoker.”Copyright © 1974 by Isaac Asimov“the one and only east” originallypublished in EQMM. Copyright © 1975by Isaac Asimov“earthset and evening star” originallypublished in Fantasy and Science Fiction.Copyright © 1975 by Mercury Press, Inc.“friday the thirteenth” originallypublished in Fantasy and Science Fiction.Copyright © 1975 by Mercury Press, Inc.Printed in the United States of AmericaScanned and Proofed by eBookManVersion 1.0

To:Donald BensenGilbert CantLin CarterJohn D. ClarkL. Sprague de CampLester del Rey

Contents

Front CoverContentsIntroduction1 When No Man Pursueth2 Quicker Than the Eye3 The Iron Gem4 The Three Numbers5 Nothing Like Murder6 No Smoking7 Season's Greetings8 The One and Only East9 Earthset and Evening Star

10 Friday the Thirteenth11 The Unabridged12 The Ultimate CrimeBack Cover

Introduction

I don't think there's much more to sayabout the Black Widowers than I'vealready said in Tales of the BlackWidowers. That was the first book in thisseries and the one you're now holding isthe second.In that first introduction, I explained thatthe Black Widowers was inspired by areal club, to which I belong, which iscalled the Trap Door Spiders. I won't tellyou any more about that here because ifyou've read Tales of the Black Widowersyou'd just be bored by the repetition, andif you haven't read it I'd rather leave youin the agony of curiosity so that you will

then be driven to buy the first book andrepair the omission.Once the Tales was published, by theway, I handed a copy to each member ofthe Trap Door Spiders. One and allcarefully masked their real feelings underthe pretense of pleasure, and naturally, Iaccepted that pretense at face value.That's all I have to say now, but lest yourejoice too quickly at being rid of me, Imust warn you that I will appear again ina short afterword following each of thestories.

1 When No Man Pursueth

Thomas Trumbull scowled with only hisusual ferocity and said, “How do youjustify your existence, Mr. Stellar?”Mortimer Stellar lifted his eyebrows insurprise and looked about the table at thesix Black Widowers whose guest he wasfor that evening.“Would you repeat that?” he said.But before Trumbull could, Henry, theclub's redoubtable waiter, had moved insilently to offer Stellar his brandy andStellar took it with an absently murmured“Thank you.”“It's a simple question,” said Trumbull.“How do you justify your existence?”

“I didn't know I had to,” said Stellar.“Suppose you did have to,” saidTrumbull. “Suppose you were standingbefore God's great judgment seat.”“You sound like an editor,” said Stellar,unimpressed.And Emmanuel Rubin, host for theevening, and a fellow writer, laughed andsaid, “No, he doesn't, Mort. He's ugly buthe's not ugly enough.”“You stay out of it, Manny,” saidTrumbull, pointing a forefinger.“All right,” said Stellar. “I'll give you ananswer. I hope that, as a result of my stayon Earth, I will have left some people alittle more informed about science thanthey would have been if I had never

lived.”“How have you done that?”“By the books and articles I write onscience for the layman.” Stellar's blueeyes glinted from behind his heavilyblack-rimmed glasses and he added withno perceptible trace of modesty, “Whichare probably the best that have ever beenwritten.”“They're pretty good,” said James Drake,the chemist, stubbing out his fifth cigaretteof the evening and coughing as though tocelebrate the momentary pulmonaryrelease. “I wouldn't put you ahead ofGamow, though.”“Tastes differ,” said Stellar coldly. “Iwould.”

Mario Gonzalo said, “You don't writeonly about science, do you? It seems tome I read an article by you in a televisionweekly magazine and that was justhumor.” He had propped up the caricaturehe had drawn of Stellar in the course ofthe meal. The black-rimmed glasses wereprominent and so was the shoulder-length,fading brown hair, the broad grin, and thehorizontal lines across the forehead.“Good Lord,” said Stellar. “Is that me?”“It's the best Mario can do,” said Rubin.“Don't shoothim.”“Let's have some order,” said Trumbulltestily. “Mr. Stellar, please answer thequestion Mario put to you. Do you write

only about science?”Geoffrey Avalon, who had been sippinggently at his brandy, said in his deepvoice which could, whenever he chose,utterly dominate the table, “Aren't wewasting time? We've all read Mr.Stellar's articles. It's impossible to avoidhim. He's everywhere.”“If you don't mind, Jeff,” said Trumbull,“it's what I'm trying to get at in asystematic way. I've seen his articles andManny says he has written a hundred-and-something books on all sorts of subjectsand the point is why and how?”.The monthly banquet of the BlackWidowers was in its concluding phase—that of the grilling of the guest. It was a

process that was supposed to beconducted along the simple, ordinarylines of a judicial cross-examination butnever was. The fact that it so oftendissolved into chaos was a matter of deepirritation to Trumbull, the club's codeexpert, whose dream it was to conduct thegrilling after the fashion of a drumheadcourt-martial.“Let's get into that, then, Mr. Stellar,” hesaid. “Why the hell do you write so manybooks on so many subjects?”Stellar said, “Because it's good business.It pays to be unspecialized. Most writersare specialists; they've got to be. MannyRubin is a specialist; he writes mysteries—when he bothers to write at all.”

Rubin's sparse beard lifted and his eyeswidened with indignation behind histhick-lensed glasses. “I happen to havepublished over forty books, and they'renot all mysteries. I've published”—hebegan ticking off his fingers—”sportstories, confessions, fantasies—”“Mostly mysteries,” amended Stellarsmoothly. “Me, I try not to specialize. I'llwrite on any subject that strikes my fancy.It makes life more interesting for me sothat I never go through a writer's block.Besides, it makes me independent of theups and downs of fashion. If one kind ofarticle loses popularity, what's thedifference? I write others.”Roger Halsted passed his hand over the

smooth balding forepart of his head andsaid, “But how do you do it? Do you haveset hours to write in?”“No,” said Stellar. “I just write when Ifeel like. But I feel like all the time.”“Actually,” said Rubin, “you're acompulsive writer.”“I've never denied it,” said Stellar.Gonzalo said, “But steady compositiondoesn't seem to be consistent with artisticinspiration. Does it just pour out of you?Do you revise at all?”Stellar's face lowered and for a momenthe seemed to be staring at his brandyglass. He pushed it to one side and said,“Everyone seems to worry aboutinspiration. You're an artist, Mr. Gonzalo.

If you waited for inspiration, you'dstarve.”“Sometimes I starve even when I don't,”said Gonzalo.“I just write,” said Stellar, a bitimpatiently. “It's not so difficult to do thatI have a simple, straightforward,unornamented style, so that I don't have towaste time on clever phrases. I presentmy ideas in a clear and orderly waybecause I have a clear and orderly mind.Most of all, I have security. I know I'mgoing to sell what I write, and so I don'tagonize over every sentence, worryingabout whether the editor will like it.”“You didn't always know you would sellwhat you wrote,” said Rubin. “I assume

there was a time when you were abeginner and got rejection slips likeeveryone else.”“That's right. And in those days writingtook a lot longer and was a lot harder. Butthat was thirty years ago. I've beenliterarily secure for a long time.”Drake twitched his neat gray mustacheand said, “Do you really sell everythingyou write now? Without exception?”Stellar said, “Just about everything, butnot always first crack out of the box.Sometimes I get a request for revisionand, if it's a reasonable request, I revise,and if it's unreasonable, I don't. And oncein a while—at least once a year, I think—I get an outright rejection.” He shrugged.

“It's part of the free-lance game. It can'tbe helped.”“What happens to something that'srejected, or that you won't revise?” askedTrumbull.“I try it somewhere else. One editor mightlike what another editor doesn't. If I can'tsell it anywhere I put it aside; a newmarket might open up; I might get arequest for something that the rejectedarticle can fill.”“Don't you feel that's like selling damagedgoods?” said Avalon.“No, not at all,” said Stellar. “Arejection doesn't necessarily mean anarticle is bad. It just means that oneparticular editor found it unsuitable.

Another editor might find it suitable.”Avalon's lawyer-mind saw an opening.He said, “By that reasoning, it followsthat if an editor likes, buys, and publishesone of your articles, that is no necessaryproof that the article is any good.”“None at all, in any one case,” saidStellar, “but if it happens over and overagain, the evidence in your favor mountsup.”Gonzalo said, “What happens if everyonerejects an article?”Stellar said, 'That hardly ever happens,but if I get tired of submitting a piece,chances are I cannibalize it. Sooner orlater I'll write something on a subjectthat's close to it, and then I incorporate

parts of the rejected article into a newpiece. I don't waste anything”'Then everything you write sees print, oneway or another. Is that right?” AndGonzalo shook his head slightly, inobvious admiration.“That's about right.” But then Stellarfrowned. “Except, of course,” he said,“when you deal with an idiot editor whobuys something and then doesn't publishit.”Rubin said, “Oh, have you run into one ofthose things? The magazine folded?”“No, it's flourishing. Haven't I ever toldyou about this?”“Not as far as I remember.”“I'm talking about Bercovich. Did you

ever sell anything to him?”“Joel Bercovich?”“Are there likely to be two editors withthat last name? Of course, JoelBercovich.”“Well, sure. He used to edit MysteryStory magazine some years ago. I soldhim a few items. I still have lunch withhim occasionally. He's not in mysteriesanymore.”“I know he isn't He's editing Way of Lifemagazine. One of those fancy new slickjobs that appeal to the would-be affluent”“Hold it. Hold ill” cried out Trumbull.“This thing's degenerating. Let's go backto the questioning.”“Now wait,” said Stellar, waving his

hand at Trumbull in clear annoyance.“I've been asked a question as to whethereverything I write sees print and I want toanswer that because it brings upsomething I'm pretty sore about andwould like to get off my chest.”“I think he's within his rights there, Tom,”said Avalon.“Well, go head, then,” said Trumbulldiscontentedly, “but don't take forever.”Stellar nodded with a sort of grievedimpatience and said, “I met Bercovich atsome formal party. I don't even rememberthe occasion for it, or very much who wasinvolved. But I remember Bercovichbecause we did some business as a result.I was there with Gladys, my wife, and

Bercovich was there with his wife andthere were maybe eight other couples. Itwas an elaborate thing.“In fact, it was very elaborate, anddeadly. It was formal. It wasn't black tie;they stopped short of that; but it wasformal. The serving was slow; the foodwas bad; the conversation wasconstipated. I hated it —Listen, Manny,what do you think of Bercovich?”Rubin shrugged. “He's an editor. Thatlimits his good points, but I've knownworse. He's not an idiot.”“He isn't? Well, I must admit that at thetime he seemed all right I had vaguelyheard of him, but he knew me, of course.”“Oh, of course,” said Rubin, twirling his

empty brandy glass.“Well, he did,” said Stellar indignantly.“It's the whole point of the story that heknew me, or he wouldn't have asked mefor an article. He came up to me afterdinner and told me that he read my stuffand that he admired it, and I nodded andsmiled. Then he said, 'What do you thinkof the evening?'“I said cautiously, 'Oh well, sort of slow,'because for all I knew he was the hostess'lover and I didn't want to be needlesslyoffensive.“And he said, I think it's a bomb. It's tooformal and that doesn't fit the Americanscene these days.' Then he went on to say,'Look, I'm editor of a new magazine, Way

of Life, and I wonder if you couldn't writeus an article on formality. If you couldgive us, say, twenty-five hundred to threethousand words, that would be fine. Youcould have a free hand and take anyapproach you want, but be lighthearted.'“Well, it sounded interesting and I saidso, and we discussed price a little, and Isaid I would try and he asked if I couldhave it in his office within three weeks,and I said maybe. He seemed veryanxious.”Rubin said, “When was all this?”“Just about two years ago.”“Uh-huh. That was about when themagazine started. I look at it occasionally.Very pretentious and not worth the money.

I didn't see your article, though.”Stellar snorted. “Naturally you haven't.”“Don't tell me you didn't write it,” saidGonzalo.“Of course I wrote it. I had it inBercovich's office within a week. It wasa very easy article to do and it was good.It was lightly satirical and includedseveral examples of stupid formality atwhich I could fire my shots. In fact, I evendescribed a dinner like the one we had.”“And he rejected it?” asked Gonzalo.Stellar glared at Gonzalo. “He didn'treject it. I had a check in my hands withinanother week.”“Well then,” said Trumbull impatiently,“what's all this about?”

“He never printed it,” shouted Stellar.“That idiot has been sitting on it eversince, for nearly two years. He hasn'tpublished it; he hasn't even scheduled it.”“So what,” said Gonzalo, “as long as he'spaid for it?”Stellar glared again. “You don't supposea one-time sale is all I'm after, do you? Ican usually count on reprints here andthere for additional money. And then Ipublish collections of my articles; and Ican't include that one until it's published.”“Surely,” said Avalon, “the moneyinvolved is not very important.”“No,” admitted Stellar, “but it's notutterly unimportant either. Besides, I don'tunderstand why the delay. He was in a

hurry for it. When I brought it in heslavered. He said, 'Good, good. I'll beable to get an artist on it right away andthere'll be time to do some strongillustrations.' And then nothing happened.You would think he didn't like it; but if hedidn't like it, why did he buy it?”Halsted held up his coffee cup for a refilland Henry took care of it. Halsted said,“Maybe he only bought it to buy yourgood will, so to speak, and make sure youwould write other articles for him, eventhough the one you wrote wasn't quitegood enough.”Stellar said, “Oh no. . . . Oh no. . . .Manny, tell these innocents that editorsdon't do that. They never have the budget

to buy bad articles in order to buy goodwill. Besides, if a writer turns out badarticles you don't want his good will. Andwhat's more, you don't earn good will bybuying an article and burying it”Trumbull said, “All right, Mr. Stellar. Welistened to your story and you'll note Ididn't interrupt you. Now, why did youtell it to us?”“Because I'm tired of brooding over it.Maybe one of you can figure it out Whydoesn't he publish it? —Manny, you saidyou used to sell him. Did he ever hold upanything of yours?”“No,” said Manny, after a judiciouspause. “I can't recall that he did. —Ofcourse, he's had a bad time.”

“What kind of a bad time?”“This dinner took place two years ago,you said, so that was his first wife youmet him with. She was an older woman,wasn't she, Mort?”Stellar said, “I don't remember her. Thatwas the only time we ever met.”“If it was his second wife, you'dremember. She's about thirty and verygood-looking. His first wife died about ayear and a half ago. She'd been ill a longtime, it turned out, though she'd done herbest to hide it and I never knew, forinstance. She had a heart attack and itbroke him up. He went through quite aperiod there.”“Oh! Well, I didn't know about that. But

even so, he's married again, right?”“Sometime last year, yes.”“And she's a good-looking person andhe's consoled. Right?”“The last time I saw him, about a monthago—just in passing—he looked allright.”“Well then,” said Stellar, “why is he stillholding out?”Avalon said thoughtfully, “Have youexplained to Mr. Bercovich theadvantages of having your articlepublished?”Stellar said, “He knows the advantages.He's an editor.”“Well then,” said Avalon, just asthoughtfully, “it may be that on second

reading he found some serious flaw andfeels it is not publishable as it stands.Perhaps he's embarrassed at havingbought it and doesn't know how toapproach you.”Stellar laughed but without humor.“Editors don't get embarrassed andthey're not afraid to approach you. If hefound something wrong on secondreading, he'd have called me and askedfor a revision. I've been asked forrevisions many times.”“Do you revise when they ask for it?”said Gonzalo.“I told you. . . . Sometimes, when itsounds reasonable,” said Stellar.James Drake nodded as though that were

the answer he would have expected andsaid, “And this editor never asked for anyrevision at all?”“No,” said Stellar explosively, and thenalmost at once he added, “Well, once!One time when I called him to ask if itwere scheduled—I was getting prettyedgy about it by then— he asked if itwould be all right if he cut it a little,because it seemed diffuse in spots. Iasked where the hell it was diffuse inspots, because I knew it wasn't, and hewas vague and I was just peeved enoughto say, no, I didn't want a word touched.He could print as it was or he could sendit back to me.”“And he didn't send it back to you, I

suppose,” said Drake.“No, he didn't. Damn it, I offered to buy itback. I said, 'Send it back, Joel, and I'llreturn the money.' And he said, 'Oh, come,Mort, that's not necessary. I'm glad tohave it in my inventory even if I don't useit right away.' Damn fool. What gooddoes it do either him or me to have it inhis inventory?”“Maybe he's lost it,” said Halsted, “anddoesn't want to admit it”“There's no reason not to admit it,” saidStellar. “I've got a carbon; two carbons,in fact Even if I wanted to keep thecarbons—and they come in handy whenit's book time— it's no problem thesedays to get copies made.”

There was a silence around the table, andthen Stellar's brow furrowed and he said,“You know, he did ask once if I had acarbon copy. I don't remember when. Itwas one of the more recent times I calledhim. He said, 'By the way, Mort, do youhave a carbon copy?'—just like that, 'Bythe way,' as if it were an afterthought. Iremember thinking he was an idiot; doeshe expect a man of my experience not tohave a carbon copy? I had the notion,then, that he was getting round to sayinghe had mislaid the manuscript, but henever said a word of the kind. I said that Ihad a carbon copy and he let the subjectdrop.”“Seems to me,” said Trumbull, “that all

this isn't worth the trouble you're taking.”“Well, it isn't,” said Stellar, “but the thingbothers me. I keep careful files of myarticles; I've got to; and this one has beenin the 'to be published' file for so long Ican recognize the card by the fact that itsedges are dark from handling. It's a sort ofirritation. —Now why did he ask me if Ihad a carbon copy? If he'd lost themanuscript, why not say so? And if hehadn't lost it, why ask about the carbon?”Henry, who had been standing at thesideboard, as was his custom after thedinner had been served and the dishescleared away, said, “May I make asuggestion, gentlemen?”Trumbull said, “Good Lord, Henry, don't

tell me that this nonsense meanssomething to you?”Henry said, “No, Mr. Trumbull, I'm afraidI no more understand what it's all aboutthan anyone else in the room. It merelystrikes me as a possibility that Mr.Bercovich may have been prepared to tellMr. Stellar that the manuscript wasmislaid—but perhaps only if Mr. Stellarhad said that he had no carbon. It mighthave been the fact that Mr. Stellar didhave a carbon that made it useless to lose,or possibly, destroy the manuscript”“Destroy it?” said Stellar in high-pitchedindignation.“Suppose we consider what wouldhappen if he published the manuscript,

sir,” said Henry.“It would appear in print,” said Stellar,“and people would read it. That's what Iwant to happen.”“And if Mr. Bercovich had rejected it?”“Then I would have sold it somewhereelse, damn it, and it would still haveappeared in print and people would haveread it.”“And if he returned it to you now, eitherbecause you refused revision or becauseyou bought it back, then again you wouldsell it somewhere else and it wouldappear in print and be read.”“Damn right.”“But suppose, Mr. Stellar, the editorbought the article as he did and does not

publish it. Can you sell it elsewhere?”“Of course not. It's not mine to sell. Wayof Life has bought first serial rights,which means they have the full and soleright to publish it before any other use ismade of it. Until they publish it, or untilthey formally relinquish the right to do so,I can't sell it anywhere.”“In that case, Mr. Stellar, does it not seemto you that the only conceivable way inwhich Mr. Bercovich can keep the articlefrom being generally read is to do exactlyas he has done?”“Are you trying to tell me, Henry,” saidStellar, with naked incredulity in hisvoice, “that he doesn't want it read? Thenwhy the hell did he ask me to write it?”

Henry said, “He asked you to write anarticle, sir. He did not know the exactarticle you would write till he saw it. Isn'tit possible that, once he read the articleyou did in actual fact write, he realizedthat he didn't want it read and there-. foretook the only action possible to keep itunpublished, perhaps foreverunpublished? He probably did not expectyou to be the kind of writer who wouldhound an editor over such a matter.”Stellar spread out his hands, palmsupward, and looked about at the faces ofthe Black Widowers in a kind of semi-humorous exasperation. “I never heard ofanything so ridiculous.”Avalon said, “Mr. Stellar, you don't know

Henry as we do. If this is his opinion, Isuggest you take it seriously.”“But why should Joel want to destroy thething or bury it? It's a perfectly harmlessarticle.”Henry said, “I merely advance a possibleexplanation for what has gone on for twoyears.”“But yours is not an explanation thatexplains, Henry. It doesn't explain why hewants the article to be left unread.”“You had said, sir, that he asked forpermission to cut the article a little andyou refused. If you had agreed, he wouldperhaps have changed it so as to render itreally innocuous and then he would havepublished it.”

“But what did he want cut?”“I'm afraid I can't say, Mr. Stellar, but Igather that he wanted to do the cutting.That may have been in order not to callyour attention to the precise passage hewanted altered.”Stellar said, “But if he made the cutshimself, I'd still see what he had doneonce the article appeared.”Henry said, “Would you be likely to readthe article once published and compare itsentence by sentence with the originalmanuscript, sir?”“No,” admitted Stellar reluctantly.“And even if you did, sir, there might be anumber of small changes and you wouldhave no reason to suppose that one change

was more significant than the others.”Stellar said, “You know, this is a morepeculiar mystery than the first, Henry.What could I have said to bother him?”“I cannot say, Mr. Stellar,” said Henry.Avalon cleared his throat in his bestlawyer-like fashion and said, “It is rathera pity, Mr. Stellar, that you didn't bringthe carbon copy of your manuscript withyou. You could have read it to us andperhaps we could then spot the criticalpassage. At the very least, I'm sure wewould have been entertained.”Stellar said, “Who thought this sort ofthing would come up?”Gonzalo said eagerly, “If your wife is athome, Mr. Stellar, we might call her and

have her read the article to Henry on thephone. The club could afford the charge.”Henry seemed to be lost in thought. Nowhe said slowly as though the thinking hadsurfaced but was still a private colloquyhe was holding with himself, “Surely itcouldn't be anything impersonal. If thetenets of good taste had been broken, ifthe policy of the magazine had beenviolated, he would have seen that at onceand asked for specific changes. Even if hehad bought it after a hasty reading andthen discovered these impersonal errorsafterward, there would have been noreason to hesitate to ask for specificchanges, surely. Could it be that somesuperior officer in the publishing firm had

vetoed the article and Mr. Bercovich isembarrassed to tell you that?”“No,” said Stellar. “An editor who isn'tgiven a free hand by the front office isvery likely to quit. And even if Bercovichdidn't have the guts to do that he would beonly too glad to use upstairs interferenceas an excuse to return the manuscript. Hecertainly wouldn't just hold onto it.”“Then,” said Henry, “it must be somethingpersonal; something that has meaning tohim, an embarrassing meaning, ahorrifying meaning.”“There's nothing of the kind in it,”insisted Stellar.“Perhaps there is no significance in thepassage to you or to anyone else; but only

to Mr. Bercovich.”“In that case,” interrupted Drake, “whyshould Bercovich care?”“Perhaps,” said Henry, “because, ifattention were called to it, it would cometo have significance. That is why he darednot even tell Mr. Stellar what passage hewanted cut.”“You keep inventing perhapses,” mutteredStellar. “I just don't believe it.”Gonzalo said abruptly, “/ believe it.Henry has been right before and I don'thear anyone suggesting any other theory toaccount for the fact that the article isn'tbeing published.”Stellar said, “But we're talking aboutnothing. What is the mysterious passage

that is bothering Joel?”Henry said, “Perhaps you can recall somepersonal reference, since that is what wesuspect it would have to be. Did you notsay that included in your article was anaccount of a dinner rather like the one thathad inspired Mr. Bercovich to ask for thearticle in the first place?”“Aha,” said Gonzalo, “got it! Youdescribed the dinner too accurately, oldboy, and the editor was afraid that thehost would recognize it and be offended.Maybe the host is an old and valuedfriend of the publisher and would get theeditor fired if the article appeared.”Stellar said, with no effort to hide hiscontempt, “In the first place, I'm an old

hand at this. I don't write anything eitheractionable or embarrassing. I assure you Imasked that dinner so that no one couldreasonably speak of a resemblance. Ichanged every major characteristic of thedinner and I used no names. —Besides, ifI had slipped and made the damned thingtoo real, why shouldn't he tell me? Thatsort of thing I would change in a shot.”Henry said, “It might be something morepersonal still. He and his wife were at thedinner. What was it you said aboutthem?”“Nothing!” said Stellar. “Do you supposeI would make use of the editor to whom Iwas submitting the article? Give me thatmuch credit. I didn't refer to him under

any name or any guise; didn't refer toanything he said or did at all.”“Or anything about his wife either, sir?”asked Henry.“Or about his wife— Well, wait, she mayhave inspired one small exchange in thearticle, but of course I didn't name her,describe her or anything of the sort. It wasentirely insignificant”Avalon said, “Nevertheless, that may beit. The memory was too poignant. She haddied and he just couldn't publish anarticle that reminded him of—of—”Stellar said, “If you're about to finish thatsentence with the dear departed,' I walkout. That's tripe, Mr. Avalon. With allrespect—no, without too damn much

respect— that's tripe. Why wouldn't heask me to take out a sentence or two if itaroused too keen a memory? I would doit.”Avalon said, “Just because I phrase thematter in sentimental fashion, Mr. Stellar,doesn't mean it can't have significance allthe same. His failure to mention it to youmight be the result of a certain shame. Inour culture, such things as sorrow overlost love are made fun of. You've justmade fun of it. Yet it can be very real.”Stellar said, “Manny Rubin said she diedabout a year and a half ago. That means atleast half a year after I wrote the article.Time enough to have it printed by then,considering his anxiety to have me meet

an instant deadline. And it's been a yearand a half since and he's married abeautiful woman. —Come on, how longdoes one sorrow over a lost love afterone has found another?”“It might help,” said Henry, “if Mr.Stellar could tell us the passage inquestion.”“Yes,” said Gonzalo, “call your wife andhave her read it to Henry.”“I don't have to,” said Stellar, who hadonly with difficulty withdrawn thewounded stare he had been directing atAvalon. “I've read the damn thing again acouple of weeks ago—about the fifth time—and I have it reasonably fresh in mymind. What it amounts to is this: we had

been served the roast at a kind of snail'space and I was waiting for others to beserved before beginning. A few weren'tquite that formal and were eating. FinallyI broke down and salted it and was goingto eat when I noticed that Mrs. Bercovich,who was on my right, had still not beenserved. I looked surprised and she saidshe had a special request and it wasdelayed in getting to her and I offered hermy plate and she said, 'No, thank you, it'sbeen salted.' I told that passage, withoutnames, just so I could get across my funnyline, which I remember exactly. It went,'She was the only one at the table whoobjected to the salt; the rest of us objectedto the meat. In fact, several of us scraped

off the salt, then ate it in a markedmanner.'“No one laughed at the funny line.Trumbull went to the trouble of simulatingnausea.Halsted said, “I certainly don't see anygreat sentimental value in that.”“I should say not,” said Stellar, “andthat's every last mention of her, withoutname or description, and none of Joelhimself.”Henry said, “Yet Mr. Rubin said that thefirst Mrs. Bercovich died of a heartattack, which is rather a catch-allreference to circulatory disorders ingeneral. She may well have had seriouslyhigh blood pressure and have been put on

a low-salt diet.”“Which is why she refused Stellar'ssalted meat,” said Gonzalo. “Right!”“And why she was waiting for a specialdish,” said Henry. “And this is somethingto which Mr. Bercovich desperatelywants no attention drawn. Mr. Rubin saidMrs. Bercovich had done her best to hideher condition. Perhaps few people knewshe was on a low-salt diet.”Stellar said, “Why should Joel care ifthey know?”“I must introduce another perhaps, sir.Perhaps Mr. Bercovich, weary of waitingand, perhaps, already attracted by thewoman who is now his second wife, tookadvantage of the situation. He may have

salted her food surreptitiously, or, if sheused salt substitute, he may have replacedit, at least in part, with ordinary salt—”“And killed her, you mean?” interruptedAvalon.Henry shook his head. “Who can tell? Shemight have died at the same momentanyway. He, however, may feel hecontributed to the death and may now bein panic lest anyone find out. The meremention of a woman refusing salt at thattable may, in his eyes, be a shrieking outof his guilt—”Stellar said, “But I didn't name her,Henry. There's no way of telling who shewas. And even if somehow one were tofind out that it was she, how could anyone

suspect anything out of the way?”“You are perfectly right, Mr. Stellar,”said Henry. “The only reason we havecome to suspect Mr. Bercovich now isbecause of his peculiar behavior withrespect to the article and not to anythingin the article itself. —But, you know, wehave biblical authority to the effect thatthe wicked flee when no man pursueth.”Stellar paused a moment in thought, thensaid, “All this may be, but it's not gettingmy article published.” He pulled out ablack address book, turned to the Bs, thenlooked at his watch. “I've called him athis home before and it isn't ten yet”Avalon raised his hand in an impressivestop sign. “One moment, Mr. Stellar. I

trust you are not going to tell your editorabout what we've said here. It is allstrictly confidential in the first place, andit would be slander in the second. Youwould not be able to support it and youmay get yourself into serious trouble.”Stellar said impatiently, “I wish all of youwould take it for granted that anexperienced writer is aware of what libeland slander are. —Is there a telephonehandy, Henry?”“Yes, sir,” said Henry. “I can bring one tothe table. —May I also suggest caution?”“Don't worry,” said Stellar as he dialed.He waited a moment, then, “Hello, Mrs.Bercovich? This is Mort Stellar, one ofthe writers for your husband's magazine.

May I speak to Joel? —Oh, sure, I'llwait” He did not look up from thetelephone as he waited. “Hello, Joel,sorry to call you at home, but I've beengoing over the piece on formality. Youdon't have it scheduled, do you? —Well,all right, I didn't feel like waiting on thisbecause I didn't want to weaken. You canshorten it if you want. —Oh, sure, that'sall right. —No, Joel, just a minute, no. Idon't want you to do it. I've got somethings I -want cut out and maybe that willsatisfy you. —For instance, that time Ihave about eating the salt, instead of themeat isn't funny, now that I think of it. —Yes, that's right. Suppose I cut out thatpart about the woman refusing the salted

meat. Will you publish it if I cut that out?”There was a pause at this moment andnow Stellar looked up at the others,grinning. Then he said, “All right, Joel.—Sure I can do it. How about 11 A.M.?—Okay, see you then.”Stellar looked complacent. “It hit himright between the eyes. He repeated theline to me. You can't tell me that heremembered that passage, in an article hebought two years ago, right off the top ofhis head, unless it had special meaning tohim. I'll bet you're right after all, Henry.—Well, I'll cut it. The important thing isthat I'll get my article into print.”Avalon frowned and said with heavydignity, “I should say that, from the

standpoint of public morality, the reallyimportant thing is that a man may havetried to kill his wife and may even haveactually done so and will get away withit.”Trumbull said, “Don't get virtuouslyaggrieved, Jeff. If Henry is right, thenthere's no way of proving that he didanything, or that if he did tamper with thesalt it actually contributed to her death, sowhat is there to do? In fact, what do wehave to do? The really important thing isthat Stellar has done it all. He's given theman two years of agony, first by writingthe article and then by being constantlyafter him to publish it.”Henry said, 'The really important thing,

sir, may be that Mr. Bercovich will, as aresult of all this, be discouraged fromattempting similar experiments in thefuture. After all, he has a second wifenow, and he may grow tired of her too.”

1 AfterwordI am sometimes asked whether any of theregular members of the Black Widowersis modeled on me. The answer is, No!Definitely not!Some people have thought that talkativeknow-it-all Manny Rubin is the author indisguise. Not at all! He is actuallyreminiscent of someone else, someonewho is a dearly loved (talkative, know-it-all) friend of mine.

In “When No Man Pursueth” (whichappeared first in the March 1974 issue ofEllery Queen's Mystery Magazine) I tookthe liberty of introducing myself as theguest. Mortimer Stellar is as close as Icould get to myself in appearance,profession, attitude, and so on.I showed the story to my wife, Janet, afterI had written it and asked her how wellshe thought I had caught the real me. Shesaid, “But the character you drew isarrogant, vain, nasty, petty, andcompletely self-centered.”I said, “See how close I got?”She said, “But you're not like MortimerStellar at all. You're—” And she went onto list a string of nice adjectives I won't

bore you with.“Who'd believe that?” I said, and let thestory stand as written.Incidentally, since I introduced myselfinto the story, I had better make sure nounwarranted conclusions are drawn. Ihave lived through some rotten banquetsand, at an editor's suggestion, I havewritten an article entitled “My WorstMeal,” but that editor is a pussycat whopublished the article promptly and who inno way resembles Bercovich in eitherword, thought, or deed.

To Table of Contents

2 Quicker Than the Eye

Thomas Trumbull, who worked for thegovernment as a cryptologist, was clearlyuneasy. His tanned and wrinkled face wasset in a carved attitude of worry. He said,“He's a man from the department; mysuperior, in fact. It's damned important,but T don't want Henry to feel thepressure.”He was whispering and he couldn't resistthe quick look over his shoulder at Henry,the waiter at the Black Widower monthlybanquets. Henry, who was several yearsolder than Trumbull, had a face that wasunwrinkled, and, as he quickly set thetable, he seemed tranquil and utterly

unaware of the fact that five of the BlackWidowers were huddled quietly at theopposite end of the room. Or, if notunaware, then certainly undisturbed.Geoffrey Avalon, the tall patent lawyer,had, under the best of conditions,difficulty in keeping his voice low. Still,stirring his drink with a middle finger onthe ice cube, he managed to impartsufficient hoarseness. “How can weprevent it, Tom? Henry is no fool.”“I'm not sure anyone from the federaladministration qualifies as a guest, Tom,”said Emmanuel Rubin in a swerving nonsequitur. His sparse beard bristledtruculently and his eyes flashed throughthe thick lenses of his glasses. “And I say

that even though you're in the category.Eighty per cent of the tax money I pay toWashington is expended in ways of whichI strongly disapprove.”“You've got the vote, haven't you?” saidTrumbull testily.“And a fat lot of good that does, when themanipulation—” began Rubin, quiteforgetting to keep his voice low.Oddly enough, it was Roger Halsted, themathematics teacher, whose quiet voicehad sufficient difficulty in controlling ajunior high school class, who managed tostop Rubin in mid-roar. He did it byplacing his hand firmly over the smallerman's mouth. He said, “You don't soundvery happy about your boss coming here,

Tom.”“I'm not,” said Trumbull. “It's a difficultthing. The point is that I've gottenconsiderable credit on two differentoccasions over matters that were reallyHenry's insights. I've had to take thecredit, damn it, since what we say here inthis room is confidential. Now somethinghas come up and they're turning to me, andI'm as stuck as the rest of them. I've had toinvite Bob here without really explainingwhy.”James Drake, the organic chemist,coughed over his cigarette and fingeredhis walrus-head bolo-tie. “Have you beentalking too much about our dinners,Tom?”

“I suppose it could be viewed in thatway. What bothers me is Henry, though.He enjoys the game, I know, when it is agame, but if there's real pressure and hewon't—or can't —under that pressure—”“Then you'll look bad, eh, Tom?” saidRubin with just a touch, perhaps, ofmalice.Avalon said frigidly, “I have said beforeand I will say it again that what began asa friendly social get-together is becominga strain on us all. Can't we have onesession with just conversation?”“I'm afraid not this one,” said Trumbull.“All right, here's my boss. —Now let'scarry all the load we can and put as littleas possible on Henry.”

But it was only Mario Gonzalo walkingnoisily up the stairs, uncharacteristicallylate, and resplendent in his long hair, acrimson jacket, and subtly matchingstriped shirt, to say nothing of a flowingscarf meticulously arranged to display theeffect of casualness.“Sorry I'm late, Henry—” But the properdrink was in his hand before he could saymore. “Thanks, Henry. Sorry, fellows,trouble with getting a taxi. That put me ina grim mood and when the driver began tolecture me on the crimes andmisdemeanors of the mayor I argued withhim.”“Lord help us,” said Drake.“I always argue every tenth time I hear

that kind of crap. Then he managed to getlost, and I didn't notice and it took us along time to pull out. —I mean, he wasgiving me this business about welfarerecipients being a bunch of lazy, free-loading troublemakers and how no decentperson should expect a handout butinstead they should work for what they getand earn every cent. So I said what aboutsick people and old people and motherswith young children and he started tellingme what a hard life he had led and he hadnever gone to anyone for a handout.“Anyway, I got out and the fare came to$4.80, and it was a good half dollar morethan it should have been because ofgetting lost, so I counted out four singles

and then spent some time getting the exacteighty cents change and I handed it to him.He counted it over, looked surprised, andI said, just as sweetly as I could, That'swhat you earned, driver. You looking fora handout too?'“Gonzalo burst out laughing, but no onejoined him. Drake said, “That's a dirtytrick on the poor guy just because youegged him into arguing.”Avalon stared down austerely from hislean height and said, “You might havegotten beaten up, Mario, and I wouldn'tblame him.”“That's a hell of an attitude you fellowsare taking,” said Gonzalo, aggrieved—and at that point Trumbull's boss did

arrive.Trumbull introduced the newcomer allround, looking uncommonly subdued ashe did so. The guest's name was RobertAlford Bunsen and he was both heavy andlarge. His face was pink and his whitehair was sleeked back from an old-fashioned part down the middle.“What will you have, Mr. Bunsen?” saidAvalon, with a small and courtly bend atthe middle. He was the only one presentwho was taller than the newcomer.Bunsen cleared his throat. “Glad to meetyou all. No—no —I've had my alcoholiccalories for today. Some diet drink.” Hesnapped his fingers at Henry. “A dietcola, waiter. If you don't have that, a diet

anything.”Gonzalo's eyes widened and Drake,whispering philosophically through thecurling smoke of the cigarette stub he heldbetween his tobacco-stained fingers, said,“Oh well, he's government.”“Still,” muttered Gonzalo, “there's such athing as courtesy. You don't snap yourfingers. Henry isn't a peon.”“You're rude to taxi drivers,” said Drake.'This guy's rude to waiters.”“That's a different thing,” said Gonzalovehemently, his voice rising. “That was amatter of principle.”Henry, who had shown no signs ofresentment at being finger-snapped, hadreturned with a bottle of soft drink on a

tray and had presented it solemnly forinspection.“Sure, sure,” said Bunsen, and Henryopened it and poured half its contents intoan ice-filled glass and let the foam settle.Bunsen took it and Henry left the bottle.The dinner was less comfortable thanmany in the past had been. The only onewho seemed unsubdued over the fact thatthe guest was a high, if a not very wellknown, official of the government wasRubin. In fact, he seized the occasion toattack the government in the person of itssurrogate by proclaiming loudly that dietdrinks were one of the great causes ofoverweight in America.“Because you drink a lot of them and the

one calorie per bottle mounts up?” askedHalsted, with as much derision as hecould pack into his colorless voice.“They've got more than one calorie perbottle now that cyclamates have beeneliminated on the basis of fallaciousanimal experiments,” said Rubin hotly,“but that's not the point. Diet anything isbad psychologically. Anyone overweightwho takes a diet drink is overcome withvirtue. He has saved two hundredcalories, so he celebrates by takinganother pat of butter and consuming threehundred calories. The only way to loseweight is to stay hungry. The hunger istelling you that you're getting less caloriesthan you're expending—”

Halsted, who knew very well that therewas a certain softness in his abdominalregion, muttered, “Oh well.”“But he's right, though,” said Bunsen,attacking the veal Marengo with gusto.“The diet drinks don't do me any good,but I like the taste. And I approve oflooking at matters from the psychologicalangle.”Gonzalo, frowning, showed no signs oflistening. When Henry bent over him tofill his coffee cup, he said, “What do youthink, Henry? I mean about the taxi driver.Wasn't I right?”Henry said, “A gratuity is not quite ahandout, Mr. Gonzalo. Personal service iscustomarily rewarded in a small way and

to equate that with welfare is perhaps notquite just.”“You're just saying that because you—”began Gonzalo, and then he stoppedabruptly.Henry said, “Yes, I benefit in the sameway as the taxi driver does, but despitethat I believe my statement to be correct.”Gonzalo threw himself back in his chairand chafed visibly.“Gentlemen,” said Trumbull, tapping hisempty water glass with a fork, as Henrypoured the liqueur, “This is an interestingoccasion. Mr. Bunsen, who is mysuperior at the department, has a smallpuzzle to present to us. Let's see what wecan make of it.” Again, he cast a quick

glance at Henry, who had replaced thebottle on the sideboard and now stoodplacidly in the background.Bunsen, wiping his mouth with his napkinand wheezing slightly, also cast ananxious glance at Henry, and Trumbullleaned over to say, “Henry is one of us,Bob.”Trumbull went on, “Bob Bunsen is goingto present merely the bare bones, to keepfrom distorting your view of the matterwith unnecessary knowledge to beginwith. I will remain out of it myself since Iknow too much about the matter.”Halsted leaned over to whisper to Drake,“I think it won't look good for Tom in thedepartment if this doesn't work.”

Drake shrugged, and mouthed rather thansaid, “He brought it on himself.”Bunsen, having adjusted the position ofthe breadbasket unnecessarily (he hadearlier prevented Henry from removingit), began. “I will give you those barebones of a story. There's a man. Call himSmith. We want him, but not just him.He's of little account. Clever at what hedoes, but of little account. If we get him,we learn nothing of importance and wewarn off men of greater importance. If,however, we can use him to lead us to themen of greater importance—”“We all understand,” interrupted Avalon.Bunsen cleared his throat and made a newstart. “Of course, we weren't sure about

Smith to begin with. It seemed verylikely, but we weren't sure. If he wasindeed a link in the apparatus we weretrying to break up, then we reasoned thathe transferred the information at arestaurant he regularly frequented. Part ofthe reasoning was based on psychology,something I imagine Mr. Rubin wouldapprove. Smith had the appearance andpatina of a well-bred man about townwho always did the correct social thing.On that basis, we—”He paused to think, then he said, “No, I'mgetting off the subject and it's more thanyou need. We laid a trap for him.” For amoment he reddened as though inbashfulness and then he went on firmly, “I

laid the trap and it was damnedcomplicated. We managed to beat downhis caution, never mind how, and weended with Smith having in his handsomething he had to transfer. It was alegitimate item and would be useful tothem, but not too useful. It would be wellworth the loss to us if we had gained whatwe hoped to gain.”Bunsen looked about him, clearing histhroat, but no one made a sound. Henry,standing by the sideboard, seemed a quietstatue. Even the napkin he held did notmove.Bunsen said, “Smith walked into therestaurant with the object on his person.After he left the restaurant he did not have

the object on his person. We knowtherefore that he transferred the object.What we don't know is the exact momentat which he transferred it, how, and towhom. We have not been able to locatethe object anywhere. Now ask yourquestions, gentlemen.”Trumbull said, “Let's try this one at atime. Mario?”Gonzalo thought a moment and thenshrugged. Twiddling his brandy glassbetween thumb and forefinger, he said,“What did this object—as you call it—look like?”“About an inch across and flat,” saidBunsen. “It had a metallic shine so it waseasy to see. It was too large to swallow

easily; heavy enough to make a noise if itwere dropped; too thick to place in acrack; too heavy to stick easily toanything; not iron so there could be notricks with magnets. The object, as I stillcall it, was carefully designed to make thetask of transferring, or hiding, difficult.”“But what did he do in the restaurant? Heate a meal, I suppose?” said Gonzalo.“He ate a meal as he always did.”“Was it a fancy restaurant?”“A fairly elaborate one. He ate thereregularly.”“I mean, there's nothing phony about therestaurant?”“Not as far as we know, although ingeneral that is not enough to allow us to

display a blind trust in it and, believe me,we don't.”“Who was with him at the meal?”“No one.” Bunsen shook his head gravely.“He ate alone. That was his custom. Hesigned the check when he was through, ashe always did. He had an account in therestaurant, you see. Then he left, took ataxi, and after a while he was stopped andtaken into custody. The object was nolonger in his possession.”“Wait, now,” said Gonzalo, his eyesnarrowing. “You say he signed the check.What was it he wrote? Would youknow?”“We know quite well. We have the check.He added a tip —quite the normal amount

and we could find nothing wrong with that—and signed his name. That's all.Nothing more. He used the waiter's penciland returned that pencil. Nor did he passalong anything else, and the waiter did notescape scrutiny, I assure you.”Gonzalo said, “I pass.”Drake, stubbing out his cigarette, lifted agray eyebrow as Trumbull's fingergestured at him. “I suppose Smith waskept under close surveillance while hewas in the restaurant.”“As close as though he were a coat andwe were the lining. We had two men inthat restaurant, each at a table near him.They were trained men and capable onesand their entire task was to note every

movement he made. He could not scratchhimself without being noticed. Hecouldn't fumble at a button, crook a finger,shift a leg, or raise a buttock withoutbeing noted.”“Did he go to the men's room at anytime?”“No, he did not. If he had, we would havemanaged to follow.”“Were you there yourself, Mr. Bunsen?”“I? No, I'm no good for that kind ofsurveillance. I'm too noticeable. What'sneeded to keep a man in view is ashadow with a good, gray face and anoverwhelming lack of distinction in formand feature. I'm too big, too broad; I standout.”

Drake nodded. “Do you suppose Smithknew he was being watched?” .“He may have. People in his line of workdon't last long if they don't assume atevery moment that they might be watched.In fact, to be truthful, at one point I got aclear impression He felt he was beingwatched. I was across the street at awindow, with a pair of binoculars. Icould see him come out from the cornerentrance of the restaurant.“The doorman held the taxi door open forhim and Smith paused for just a minute.He looked about him as though trying toidentify those who might be watching.And he smiled, a tight smile, notamusement, it seemed to me, as much as

bravado. At that moment, I was sure wehad lost And, as it turned out, we had.”“And you really are sure,” said Drake,“that he had it on him when he walkedinto the restaurant and that he didn't haveit on him when he left.”“We really are sure. When he walked in,there was what amounted to apickpocketing, an inspection, and areplacement. He had it; you can take thatas given. When he left and took a taxi, thattaxi driver was one of our men who came,when the doorman hailed him, in acompletely natural manner. Smith got inwith no hint of suspicion. We are positiveabout that. The driver, one of our bestmen, then— But never mind that. The

point is that Smith found himself in a kindof minor trouble that had, apparently,nothing to do with us. He was arrested,taken to the police station, and searched.Later, when it became obvious that wecouldn't find the object anywhere, he wassearched more thoroughly. Eventually weused X rays.”Drake said, “He might have left the objectin the taxi.”“I doubt he could have done that with ourman driving, and in any case, the taxi wassearched. See here,” said Bunsen heavily,“there's no point in thinking we areincompetent in our business. When I saywe watched, I mean that we watched withprofessional attention. When I say we

searched, I mean we searched withprofessional thoroughness. You won'tcatch us on details.”“All right,” said Drake, nodding, “but youmissed, didn't you? The object was thereand then it wasn't there, so either we callupon the supernatural or we must admitthat somewhere you failed. Somewhereyou blinked when you were watching orskipped when you were searching.Right?”Bunsen looked rather as though he hadbitten into a lemon. “There's no way ofavoiding that conclusion, I suppose.”Then, belligerently, “But show mewhere.”Drake shook his head, but Halsted

intervened rapidly, his high forehead pinkwith excitement. “Now wait, the hand isquicker than the eye. The thing you'relooking for was shiny and heavy, but didit have to stay that way? Smith might havepushed it into a lump of clay. Then he hadsomething dull and shapeless which hecould push against the bottom of the tableor drop on the floor. It might still bethere.”Bunsen said, “The hand is quicker thanthe eye when you have an audience thatdoesn't know what to watch for. We knowall the tricks and we know what to expect.Smith couldn't have put the object intoclay without our men knowing he wasdoing something. He couldn't have placed

it under the table or on the floor withoutour men knowing he was doingsomething.”“Yes,” said Halsted, “but in thesequicker-than-the-eye things, a diversion isusually created. Your men were lookingsomewhere else.”'There was no diversion, and in any casethe restaurant was searched quitethoroughly as soon as he left.”“You couldn't have searched itthoroughly,” protested Halsted. “Therewere still people eating there. Did youmake them all leave?”“We searched his table, his area, andeventually all the restaurant. We are quitecertain that he did not leave the object

behind anywhere. He did not leaveanything behind anywhere.”Avalon had been sitting stiffly in hischair, his arms folded, his foreheadcreased in a portentous frown. His voiceboomed out now. “Mr. Bunsen,” he said,“I am not at all comfortable with thisaccount of yours. I recognize the fact thatyou have told us very little and thatneither places, names, occasions, noridentifications have been given.“Nevertheless, you are telling me morethan I want to know. Have you permissionfrom your superiors to tell us this? Areyou quite certain in your mind that eachone of us is to be trusted? You might getinto trouble as a result and that would be

regrettable, but I must admit that that isnot the point I am most concerned with atthe moment. What is important is that I donot wish to become the object ofquestioning and investigation because youhave seen fit to honor me withconfidences I have not asked for.”Trumbull had vainly tried to break in andmanaged to say finally, “Come on, Jeff.Don't act like the rear end of a horse.”Bunsen raised a massive and pudgy hand.“That's all right, Tom. I see Mr. Avalon'spoint and, in a way, he's right. I amexceeding my authority and things will besticky for me if some people decide theyneed a scapegoat. This little exercise ofmine tonight, however, may get me off the

hook if it works. To my way of thinking,it's worth the gamble. Tom assured me itwould be.”“What you're saying,” said Trumbull,forcing a smile, “is that if the departmentjumps on you, you'll jump on me.”“Yes,” said Bunsen, “and I weigh a lot.”He picked up a breadstick and munchedon it. “One more point. Mr. Avalon askedif I were sure you could each be trusted.Aside from the fact that Tom assured meyou could be—not that I consider it safeto trust to personal assurances from closefriends—there has been a little bit ofinvestigation. Nothing like a full-scaleaffair, you understand, but enough to giveme some confidence.”

It was at this point that Henry cleared histhroat gently, and at once every face butthat of Bunsen turned toward him. Bunsenturned only after he was aware of the shiftof attention.Trumbull said, “Have you got something,Henry?”Bunsen turned a clearly astonished lookin Trumbull's direction, but Trumbull saidurgently, “Have you, Henry?”“I only want to know,” said Henry softly,“if I have been cleared also. I suspect Ihave not and that I should retire.”But Trumbull said, “For God's sake,nothing critical is being said.”Bunsen said, “Besides, the damage isdone. Let him stay.”

“It seems to me,” said Henry, “that thedamage is indeed done. Surely there is nolonger any purpose to the investigation.The man you call Smith must know he isbeing watched. By the time you began touse X rays on him, he must have guessedthat he had been set up for a kill. —Is hestill in custody, by the way?”“No, we had no grounds to keep him. He'sreleased.”“Then the organization of which he is apart must undoubtedly know what hashappened, and they will change theirmodus operandi. He will not be usedfurther, perhaps; others involved willdisappear. Things will be entirelyrearranged.”

Bunsen said impatiently, “Yes, yes.Nevertheless, knowledge is important initself. If we find out exactly how hetransferred the object, we will knowsomething about a mode of operation wedidn't know before. We will, at the least,get an insight into a system of thought —Itis always important to know.”Henry said, “I see.”Trumbull said, “Is that all you see,Henry? Do you have any ideas?”Henry shook his head. “It may be, Mr.Trumbull, that what has happened iscomplex and subtle. That would not befor me.”“Bull, Henry,” said Trumbull.“But it might be for Mr. Rubin,” said

Henry gravely. “I believe he is anxious tospeak.”“Darn right,” said Rubin loudly, “becauseI'm annoyed. Now, Mr. Bunsen, you talkabout watching carefully and searchingthoroughly, but I think you'll agree withme when I say that it is very easy tooverlook something which becomesobvious only after the fact I can describea way in which Smith could havetransferred the object without any troubleand no matter how many people werewatching him.”“I would love to hear that description,”said Bunsen.“Okay, then, I will describe exactly whatmight have happened. I don't say it did

happen, but it could have happened. Letme begin by asking a question—” Rubinpushed his chair away from the table and,though he was short and small-boned, heseemed to tower.“Mr. Bunsen,” he said, “since your menwatched everything, I presume they tooknote of the details of the meal he ordered.Was it lunch or dinner, by the way?”“It was lunch and you are right. We didnotice the details.”“Then isn't it a fact that he ordered a thicksoup?”Bunsen's eyebrows raised. “A-score foryou, Mr. Rubin. It was cream ofmushroom soup. If you want the rest of themenu, it consisted of a roast beef

sandwich with a side order of Frenchfried potatoes, a piece of apple pie with aslice of .cheese, and coffee.”“Well,” muttered Drake, “we can't all begourmets.”Rubin said, “Next, I would suggest that hefinished only about half his soup.”Bunsen thought for a while, then smiled. Itwas the first time he had smiled thatevening and he revealed white and eventeeth that gave a clear indication that therewas a handsome man beneath the layersof fat.“You know,” he said, “I wouldn't havethought you could ask me a singlequestion of fact concerning that episodethat I could not instantly have answered,

but you've managed. I don't know,offhand, if he finished his soup or not, butI'm sure that detail is on record. But let'spretend you are right and he only finishedhalf his soup. Go on.”“All right,” said Rubin, “we begin. Smithwalks into the restaurant with the object.Where does he have it, by the way?”“Left pants pocket, when he walked in.We saw no signs whatever of hischanging its position.”“Good,” said Rubin. “He walks in, sitsdown at the table, orders his meal, readshis newspaper—was he reading anewspaper, Mr. Bunsen?”“No,” said Bunsen, “he wasn't readinganything; not even the menu. He knows the

place and what it has to offer.”“Then once the first course was placedbefore him, he sneezed. A sneeze, afterall is a diversion. Roger mentioned adiversion, but I guess he thought ofsomeone rushing in with a gun, or a firestarting in the kitchen. But a sneeze is adiversion, too, and is natural enough to gounnoticed.”“It would not have gone unnoticed,” saidBunsen calmly. “He didn't sneeze.”“Or coughed, or hiccupped, what's thedifference?” said Rubin. “The point isthat something happened that made itnatural for him to pull out a handkerchief—from the left pants pocket, I'm sure—and put it to his mouth.”

“He did no such thing,” said Bunsen.“When he took away his hand,” saidRubin, overriding the other's remark, “theobject that had been in the left pantspocket was in the mouth.”Bunsen said, “I don't think it would havebeen possible for him to place the objectin his mouth without our seeing him do so,or keep it there without distorting hisface-noticeably, but go ahead— Whatnext?”“The soup is before him and he eats it.You certainly won't tell me he pushed itaway un-tasted.”“No, I'm quite certain he didn't do that”“Or that he drank it from the bowl.”Bunsen smiled. “No, I'm quite sure he

didn't do that”“Then there was only one thing he coulddo. He placed a tablespoon in the soup,brought it to his mouth, brought it back tothe soup, brought it to his mouth, and soon. Correct?”“I must agree with that.”“And on one of the occasions duringwhich the tablespoon passed from mouthto bowl, the object was in it. It wasplaced in the soup and, since cream ofmushroom soup is not transparent, itwould not be seen there. He then drank nomore of the soup and someone in thekitchen picked up the object.” Rubinlooked about at the others triumphantly.There was a short silence. Bunsen said,

“That is all you have to say, sir?”“Don't you agree that's a possible modusoperandi?”“No, I don't.” Bunsen sighed heavily.“Quite impossible. The hand is notquicker than the trained eye— and theobject is large enough to be anuncomfortable fit in the tablespoon bowl.—Furthermore, you again underestimateour experience and our thoroughness. Wehad a man in the kitchen and no item cameback from our man's table without beingthoroughly examined. If the soup bowlcame back with soup in it, you can besure it was carefully emptied by a mostcareful man.”“How about the waiter?” interposed

Avalon, forced into interest clearlyagainst his will.Bunsen said, “The waiter was not one ofus. He was an old employee, and besides,he was watched too.”Rubin snorted and said, “You might havetold us you had a man in the kitchen.”“I might have,” said Bunsen, “but Tomtold me it would be best to tell you aslittle as possible and let you think fromscratch.”Avalon said, “If you had incorporated atiny radio transmitter in the object—”“Then we would have been characters ina James Bond movie. Unfortunately, wemust allow for expertise on the other sideas well. If we had tried any such thing,

they would have tumbled to it. No, thetrap had to be absolutely clean.” Bunsenlooked depressed. “I put a hell of a lot oftime and effort into it.” He looked aboutand the depression on his face deepened.“Well, Tom, are we through here?”Trumbull said unhappily, “Wait a minute,Bob. Damn it, Henry—”Bunsen said, “What do you want thewaiter to do?”Trumbull said, “Come on, Henry. Doesn'tanything occur to you?”Henry sighed gently. “Something did,quite a while back, but I was hoping itwould be eliminated.”“Something quite plain and simple,Henry?” said Avalon.

“I'm afraid so, sir.”Avalon said, turning to Bunsen, “Henry isan honest man and lacks all trace of thedevious mind. When we are throughmaking fools of ourselves overcomplexities, he picks up the one straightthread we have overlooked.”Henry said thoughtfully, “Are you sureyou wish me to speak, Mr. Bunsen?”“Yes. Go on.”“Well then, when your Mr. Smith left therestaurant, I assume that your men insidedid not follow him out.”“No, of course not. They had their ownwork inside. They had to make sure hehad left nothing behind that wassignificant.”

“And the man in the kitchen stayedthere?”“Yes.”“Well then, outside the restaurant, the taxidriver was your man; but it would seemfair to suppose that he had to keep his eyeon the traffic so as to be able to be in aposition where he could maneuverhimself to the curb just in time to pick upSmith; no sooner, no later.”“And a very good job he did. In fact,when the doorman hailed him, he neatlycut out another cab.” Bunsen chuckledsoftly.“Was the doorman one of your men?”asked Henry.“No, he was a regular employee of the

restaurant.”“Did you have a man on the street at all?”“If you mean actually standing on thestreet, no.”“Then surely there was a moment or twoafter Smith had left the restaurant, andbefore he had entered the taxi, when hewas not being watched—if I may call itso—professionally.”Bunsen said with a trace of contempt,“You forget that I was across the street, ata window, with a pair of binoculars. Isaw him quite well. I saw the taxi manpick him up. From the door of therestaurant to the door of the taxi took, Ishould say, not more than fifteen seconds,and I had him in view at every moment.”

Rubin suddenly interrupted. “Even whenyou were distracted watching the taxi manmaneuver to the curb?” He wasuniversally shushed, but Bunsen said,“Even then.” Henry said, “I don’t forgetthat you were watching, Mr. Bunsen, butyou have said you do not have the properappearance for that kind of work. You donot watch, professionally.”“I have eyes,” said Bunsen, and there wasmore than merely a trace of contemptnow. “Or will you tell me the hand isquicker than the eye?”“Sometimes even when the hand is quiteslow, I think.—Mr. Bunsen, you arrivedlate and did not hear Mr. Gonzalo's tale.He had paid a taxi driver exactly the fare

recorded on the meter, and so customaryis it to pay more than that, that every oneof us was shocked. Even I expresseddisapproval. It is only when thecompletely customary is violated that theevent is noticed. When it takes place, it isapt to be totally ignored.”Bunsen said, “Are you trying to tell methat something was wrong with the taxidriver? I tell you there wasn't.”“I am sure of that,” said Henry earnestly.“Still, didn't you miss something that youtook so entirely for granted that, evenlooking at it, you didn't see it?”“I don't see what it could have been. Ihave an excellent memory, I assure you,and in the fifteen seconds that Smith went

from restaurant to taxi he did nothing I didnot note and nothing I do not remember.”Henry thought for a moment or two. “Youknow, Mr. Bunsen, it must havehappened, and if you had seen it happen,you would surely have taken action. Butyou did not take action; you are stillmystified.”'Then whatever it was,” said Bunsen, “itdid not happen.” “You mean, sir, that thedoorman, a regular employee of therestaurant, hailed a cab for Smith, whowas a regular patron for whom he musthave performed the same service manytimes, and that Smith, whom youdescribed as a well-mannered man whoalways did the correct social thing, did

not tip the doorman?”“Of course lie—” began Bunsen, and thencame to a dead halt. And in the silencethat followed, Henry said, “And if hetipped him, then surely it was with anobject taken from the left pants pocket, anobject that, from your description,happened to look something like a coin.—Then he smiled, and that you saw.”2 Afterword“Quicker Than the Eye” first appeared inthe May 1974 issue of Ellery Queen'sMystery Magazine.I have to make a confession here. Inwriting the Black Widower stories I havealways been under the impression that I

was doing my best to catch the spirit ofAgatha Christie, who is my idol as far asmysteries are concerned. When Ipresented a copy of Tales of the BlackWidowers to Martin Gardner (who writesthe “Mathematical Recreations” columnin Scientific American and who is arecently elected member of the Trap DoorSpiders) I told him this and he read itwith that in mind.When he finished, however, he sent me anote to tell me that in his opinion I hadmissed the mark. What I had really done,he said, was to catch some of the flavorof G. K. Chesterton's “Father Brown”stories.You know, he's right. I was an ardent fan

of those stories even though I foundChesterton's philosophy a little irritating,and in writing “Quicker Than the Eye,” Iwas strongly influenced by the greatChestertonian classic, The Invisible Man.

To Table of Contents

3 The Iron Gem

Geoffrey Avalon stirred his drink andsmiled wolfishly. His hairy, still darkeyebrows slanted upward and his neatgraying beard seemed to twitch. Helooked like Satan in an amiable mood.He said to the Black Widowers,assembled at their monthly dinner, “Letme present my guest to you—LatimerReed, jeweler. And let me say at oncethat he brings us no crime to solve, nomystery to unravel. Nothing has beenstolen from him; he has witnessed nomurder; involved himself in no spy ring.He is here, purely and simply, to tell usabout jewelry, answer our questions, and

help us have a good, sociable time.”And, indeed, under Avalon's firm eye, theatmosphere at dinner was quiet andrelaxed and even Emmanuel Rubin, theever quarrelsome polymath of the club,managed to avoid raising his voice. Quitesatisfied, Avalon said, over the brandy,“Gentlemen, the postprandial grilling isupon us, and with no problem over whichto rack our brains. —Henry, you mayrelax.”Henry, who was clearing the table withthe usual quiet efficiency that would havemade him the nonpareil of waiters even ifhe had not proved himself, over and overagain, to be peerlessly aware of theobvious, said, “Thank you, Mr. Avalon. I

trust I will not be excluded from theproceedings, however.”Rubin fixed Henry with an owlish starethrough his thick glasses and said loudly,“Henry, this blatantly false modesty doesnot become you. You know you're amember of our little band, with all theprivileges thereto appertaining.”“If that is so,” said Roger Halsted, thesoft-voiced math teacher, sipping at hisbrandy and openly inviting a quarrel,“why is he waiting on table?”“Personal choice, sir,” said Henryquickly, and Rubin's opening mouth shutagain.Avalon said, “Let's get on with it. TomTrumbull isn't with us this time so, as

host, I appoint you, Mario, as griller inchief.”Mario Gonzalo, a not inconsiderableartist, was placing the final touches on thecaricature he was making of Reed, onethat was intended to be added to thealready long line that decorated theprivate room of the Fifth Avenuerestaurant at which the dinners of theBlack Widowers were held.Gonzalo had, perhaps, overdrawn thebald dome of Reed's head and the solemnlength of his bare upper lip, and madeover-apparent the slight tendency to jowl.There was indeed something more than atrace of the bloodhound about thecaricature, but Reed smiled when he saw

the result, and did not seem offended.Gonzalo smoothed the perfect Windsorknot of his pink and white tie and let hisblue jacket fall open with carefulnegligence as he leaned back and said,“How do you justify your existence, Mr.Reed?”“Sir?” said Reed in a slightly metallicvoice.Gonzalo said, without varying pitch orstress, “How do you justify yourexistence, Mr. Reed?”Reed looked about the table at the fivegrave faces and smiled—a smile that didnot, somehow, seriously diminish theessential sadness of his own expression.“Jeff warned me,” he said, “that I would

be questioned after the dinner, but he didnot tell me I would be challenged tojustify myself.”“Always best,” said Avalonsententiously, “to catch a man bysurprise.”Reed said, “What can serve to justify anyof us? But if I must say something, Iwould say that I help bring beauty intolives.”“What kind of beauty?” asked Gonzalo.“Artistic beauty?” And he held up thecaricature.Reed laughed. “Less controversial formsof beauty, I should hope.” He pulled ahandkerchief out of his inner jacketpocket and, carefully unfolding it on the

table, exposed a dozen or so gleaming,deeply colored bits of mineral.“All men agree on the beauty of gems,” hesaid. “That is independent of subjectivetaste.” He held up a small deep red stoneand the lights glanced off it.James Drake cleared his throat and saidwith his usual mild hoarseness just thesame, “Do you always carry those thingsaround with you?”“No, of course not,” said Reed. “Onlywhen I wish to entertain or demonstrate.”“In a handkerchief?” said Drake.Rubin burst in at once. “Sure, what's thedifference? If he's held up, keeping themin a locked casket won't do him any good.He'd just be out the price of a casket as

well.”“Have you ever been held up?” askedGonzalo.“No,” said Reed. “My best defense is thatI am known never to carry much of valuewith me. I strive to make that as widelyknown as possible, and to live up to it,too.”“That doesn't look it,” said Drake.“I am demonstrating beauty, not value,”said Reed. “Would you care to pass thesearound among yourselves, gentlemen?”There was no immediate move and thenDrake said, “Henry, would you be in aposition to lock the door?”“Certainly, sir,” said Henry, and did so.Reed looked surprised. “Why lock the

door?”Drake cleared his throat again andstubbed out the pitiful remnant of hiscigarette with a stained thumb andforefinger. “I'm afraid that, with the kindof record we now have at our monthlydinners, those things will be passedaround and one will disappear.”“That's a tasteless remark, Jim,” saidAvalon, frowning.Reed said, “Gentlemen, there is no needto worry. These stones may all disappearwith little loss to me or gain to anyoneelse. I said I was demonstrating beautyand not value. This one I am holding is aruby—quite so—but synthetic. There area few other synthetics and here we have

an irreparably cracked opal. Others areriddled with flaws. These will do no oneany good and I'm sure Henry can open thedoor.”Halsted said, stuttering very slightly incontrolled excitement, “No, I'm with Jim.Something is just fated to come up. I'll betthat Mr. Reed has included one veryvaluable item—quite by accident,perhaps—and that one will turn upmissing. I just don't believe we can gothrough an evening without some puzzlefacing us.”Reed said, “Not that one. I know everyone of these stones and, if you like, I'lllook at each again.” He did so and thenpushed them out into the center of the

table. “Merely trinkets that serve tosatisfy the innate craving of human beingsfor beauty.”Rubin grumbled, “Which, however, onlythe rich can afford.”“Quite wrong, Mr. Rubin. Quite wrong.These stones are not terribly expensive.And even jewelry that is costly is often ondisplay for all eyes—and even the ownercan do no more than look at what heowns, though more frequently than others.Primitive tribes might make ornaments assatisfying to themselves as jewelry is tous out of shark's teeth, walrus tusks, seashells, or birch bark. Beauty isindependent of material, or of fixed rulesof aesthetics, and in my way I am its

servant.”Gonzalo said, “But you would rather sellthe most expensive forms of beauty,wouldn't you?”“Quite true,” said Reed. “I am subject toeconomic law, but that bends myappreciation of beauty as little as I canmanage.”Rubin shook his head. His sparse beardbristled and his voice, surprisingly full-bodied for one with so small a frame,rose in passion. “No, Mr. Reed, if youconsider yourself a purveyor of beautyonly, you are being hypocritical. It's rarityyou're selling. A synthetic ruby is asbeautiful as a natural one andindistinguishable chemically. But the

natural ruby is rarer, more difficult to get,and therefore more expensive and moreeagerly bought by those who can afford it.Beauty it may be, but it is beauty meant toserve personal vanity.“A copy of the 'Mona Lisa,' correct toevery crack in the paint, is just a copy,worth no more than any daub, and if therewere a thousand copies, the real onewould still remain priceless because italone would be the unique original andwould reflect uniqueness on itspossessor. But that, you see, has nothingto do with beauty.”Reed said, “It is easy to rail againsthumanity. Rareness does enhance value inthe eyes of the vain, and I suppose that

something that is sufficiently rare and, atthe same time, notable would fetch a hugeprice even if there were no beauty aboutit—”“A rare autograph,” muttered Halsted.“Yet,” said Reed firmly, “beauty isalways an enhancing factor, and I sellonly beauty. Some of my wares are rareas well, but nothing I sell, or would careto sell, is rare without being beautiful.”Drake said, “What else do you sellbesides beauty and rarity?”“Utility, sir,” said Reed at once. “Jewelsare a way of storing wealth compactlyand permanently in a way independent ofthe fluctuations of the market place.”“But they can be stolen,” said Gonzalo

accusingly.“Certainly,” said Reed. “Their veryvalues—beauty, compactness,permanence—make them more useful to athief than anything else can be. Theequivalent in gold would be muchheavier; the equivalent in anything elsefar more bulky.”Avalon said, with a clear sense ofreflected glory in his guest's profession,“Latimer deals in eternal value.”“Not always,” said Rubin ratherwrathfully. “Some of the jeweler's waresare of only temporary value, for raritymay vanish. There was a time when goldgoblets might be used on moderatelyimportant occasions but, for the real top

of vanity, the Venetian cut glass wastrotted out—until glass-manufacturingprocesses were improved to the pointwhere such things were brought down tothe five-and-ten level.“In the 1880s, the Washington Monumentwas capped with nothing less good thanaluminum and, in a few years, the Hallprocess made aluminum cheap and themonument cap completely ordinary. Then,too, value can change with changinglegend. As long as the alicorn—the hornof a unicorn—was thought to haveaphrodisiac properties, the horns ofnarwhals and rhinoceroses werevaluable. A handkerchief of a stiffishweave which could be cleaned by being

thrown into the fire would be pricelessfor its magical refusal to burn—till theproperties of asbestos became wellknown. “Anything that becomes rarethrough accident—the first edition of acompletely worthless book, rare becauseit was worthless—becomes priceless tocollectors. And synthetic jewelry of allsorts may yet make your wares valueless,Mr. Reed.”Reed said, “Perhaps individual items ofbeauty might lose some of their value, butjewelry is only the raw material of what Isell. There is still the beauty ofcombination, of setting, the individual andcreative work of the craftsman. As forthose things which are valuable for rarity

alone, I do not deal with them; I will notdeal with them; I have no sympathy withthem, no interest in them. I myself ownsome things that are both rare andbeautiful—own them, I mean, with nointention of ever selling them—andnothing, I hope, that is ugly and is valuedby me only because it is rare. Or almostnothing, anyway.”He seemed to notice for the first time thatthe gems he had earlier distributed werelying before him. “Ah, you're all throughwith them, gentlemen?” He scooped themtoward himself with his left hand. “Allhere,” he said, “each one. No omissions.No substitutions. All accounted for.” Helooked at each individually. “I have

showed you these, gentlemen, becausethere is an interesting point to be madeabout each of them—”Halsted said, “Wait. What did you meanby saying 'almost nothing'?”“Almost nothing?” said Reed, puzzled.“You said you owned nothing ugly justbecause it was rare. Then you said'almost nothing.'“Reed's face cleared. “Ah, my lucky piece.I have it here somewhere.” He rummagedin his pocket. “Here it is. —You arewelcome to look at it, gentlemen. It isugly enough, but actually I would be moredistressed at losing it than any of the gemsI brought with me.” He passed his luckypiece to Drake, who sat on his left.

Drake turned it over in his hands. It wasabout an inch wide, ovoid in shape, blackand finely pitted. He said, “It's metal.Looks like meteoric iron.”“That's exactly what it is as far as Iknow,” said Reed.The object passed from hand to hand andcame back to him. “It's my iron gem,”said Reed. “I've turned down fivehundred dollars for it.”“Who the devil would offer five hundreddollars for it?” asked Gonzalo, visiblyastonished.Avalon cleared his throat. “A collector ofmeteorites might, I suppose, if for anyreason this one had special scientificvalue. The question really is, Latimer,

why on Earth you turned it down.”“Oh,” and Reed looked thoughtful for awhile. “I don't really know. To be nasty,perhaps. I didn't like the fellow.”“The guy who offered the money?” askedGonzalo.“Yes.”Drake reached out for the bit of blackmetal and, when Reed gave it to him asecond time, studied it more closely,turning it over and over. “Does this havescientific value as far as you know?”“Only by virtue of its being meteoric,”said Reed. “I've brought it to the Museumof Natural History and they wereinterested in having it for their collectionif I were interested in donating it without

charge. I wasn't —And I don't know theprofession of the man who wanted to-buyit. I don't recall the incident very well—itwas ten years ago—but I'm certain hedidn't impress me as a scientist of anytype.”“You've never seen him since?” askedDrake.“No, though at the time I was sure Iwould. In fact, for a time I had the mostdramatic imaginings. But I never saw himagain. It was after that, though, that Ibegan to carry it about as a luck charm.”He put it in his pocket again. “After all,there aren't many objects thisunprepossessing I would refuse fivehundred for.”

Rubin, frowning, said, “I scent a mysteryhere—”Avalon exploded. “Good God, let's haveno mystery! This is a social evening.Latimer, you assured me that there was nopuzzle you were planning to bring up.”Reed looked honestly confused. “I'm notbringing up any puzzle. As far as I'mconcerned, there's nothing to the story. Iwas offered five hundred dollars; Irefused; and there's an end to it.”Rubin's voice rose in indignation. “Themystery consists in the reason for theoffer of the five hundred. It is a legitimateoutgrowth of the grilling and I demand theright to prove the matter.”Reed said, “But what's the use of

probing? I don't know why he offered fivehundred dollars unless he believed theridiculous story my great-grandfathertold.”'There's the value of probing. We nowknow there is a ridiculous story attachedto the object. Go on, then. What was theridiculous story your great-grandfathertold?”“It's the story of how the meteorite—assuming that's what it is—came into thepossession of my family—”“You mean it's an heirloom?” askedHalsted.“If something totally without value can bean heirloom, this is one. In any case, mygreat-grandfather sent it home from the

Far East in 1856 with a letter explainingthe circumstances. I've seen the lettermyself. I can't quote it to you, word forword, but I can give you the sense of it.”“Go ahead,” said Rubin.“Well—to begin with, the 1850s were theage of the clipper ship, the YankeeClipper, you know, and the Americanseamen roamed the world till first theCivil War and then the continuingdevelopment of the steamship put an endto sailing vessels. However, I'm notplanning to spin a sea yarn. I couldn't. Iknow nothing about ships and couldn't tella bowsprit from a binnacle, if eitherexists at all. However, I mention it all byway of explaining that my great-

grandfather—who bore my name; orrather, I bear his —managed to see theworld. To that extent his story isconceivable. Between that and the factthat his name, too, was Latimer Reed, Ihad a tendency, when young, to want tobelieve him.“In those days, you see, the Moslemworld was still largely closed to the menof the Christian West. The OttomanEmpire still had large territories in theBalkans and the dim memory of the dayswhen it threatened all Europe still lent itan echo of far-off might. And the ArabianPeninsula itself was, to the West, a mysticmixture of desert sheiks and camels.“Of course, the old city of Mecca was

closed to non-Moslems and one of thedaring feats a European or Americanmight perform would be to learn Arabic,dress like an Arab, develop a knowledgeof Moslem culture and religion, andsomehow participate in the ritual of thepilgrimage to Mecca and return to tell thestory. —My great-grandfather claimed tohave accomplished this.”Drake interrupted. “Claimed? Was helying?” “I don't know,” said Reed. “Ihave no evidence beyond this letter hesent from Hong Kong. There was noapparent reason to lie since he hadnothing to gain from it. Of course, he maymerely have wanted to amuse my great-grandmother and shine in her eyes. He

had been away from home for three yearsand had only been married three yearsprior to his sailing, and family legend hasit that it was a great love match.”Gonzalo began, “But after he returned—”“He never returned,” said Reed. “About amonth after he wrote the letter he diedunder unknown circumstances and wasburied somewhere overseas. The familydidn't learn of that till considerably laterof course. My grandfather was only aboutfour at. the time of his father's death andwas brought up by my great-grandmother.My grandfather had five sons and threedaughters and I'm the second son of hisfourth son and there's my family history inbrief.”

“Died under unknown circumstances,”said Halsted. “There are all sorts ofpossibilities there.”“As a matter of fact,” said Reed, “familylegend has it that his impersonation of anArab was detected, that he had beentracked to Hong Kong and beyond, andhad been murdered. But you know there isno evidence for that whatever. The onlyinformation we have about his death wasfrom seamen who brought a letter fromsomeone who announced the death.”“Does that letter exist?” asked Avalon,interested despite himself.“No. But where and how he died doesn'tmatter—or even if he died, for thatmatter. The fact is he never returned

home. Of course,” Reed went on, “thefamily has always tended to believe thestory, because it is dramatic andglamorous and it has been distorted out ofall recognition. I have an aunt who oncetold me that he was torn to pieces by ahowling mob of dervishes who detectedhis imposture in a mosque. She said itwas because he had blue eyes. All madeup, of course; probably out of a novel.”Rubin said, “Did he have blue eyes?”“I doubt it,” said Reed. “We all havebrown eyes in my family. But I don'treally know.”Halsted said, “But what about your irongem, your lucky piece?”“Oh, that came with the letter,” said

Reed. “It was a small package actually.And my lucky piece was the whole pointof the letter. He was sending it as amemento of his feat. Perhaps you knowthat the central ceremony involved in thepilgrimage to Mecca is the rites at theKaaba, the most holy object in theMoslem world.”Rubin said, “It's actually a relic of thepre-Moslem world. Mohammed was ashrewd and practical politician, though,and he took it over. If you can't lick them,join them.”“I dare say,” said Reed coolly. “TheKaaba is a large, irregular cube—theword 'cube' comes from 'Kaaba' in fact —and in its southeast corner about five feet

from the ground is what is called theBlack Stone, which is broken and heldtogether in metal bands. Most peopleseem to think the Black Stone is ameteorite.”“Probably,” said Rubin. “A stone fromheaven, sent by the gods. Naturally itwould be worshiped. The same can besaid of the original statue of Artemis atEphesus—the so-called Diana of theEphesians—”Avalon said, “Since Tom Trumbull isabsent, I suppose it's my job to shut youup, Manny. Shut up, Manny. Let our guestspeak.”Reed said, “Anyway, that's about it. Myiron gem arrived in the package with the

letter, and my great-grandfather said inhis letter that it was a piece of the BlackStone which he had managed to chip off.”“Good Lord,” muttered Avalon. “If he didthat, I wouldn't blame the Arabs forkilling him.”Drake said, “If it's a piece of the BlackStone, I dare say it would be worth quitea bit to a collector.”“Priceless to a pious Moslem, I shouldimagine,” said Halsted.“Yes, yes,” said Reed impatiently, “if itis a piece of the Black Stone. But how areyou going to demonstrate such a thing?Can we take it back to Mecca and see if itwill fit into some chipped place, or makea very sophisticated chemical comparison

of my lucky piece and the rest of theBlack Stone?”“Neither of which, I'm sure,” saidAvalon, “the government of Saudi, Arabiawould allow.”“Nor am I interested in asking,” saidReed. “Of course, it's an article of faith inmy family that the object is a chip of theBlack Stone and the story wasoccasionally told to. visitors and thepackage was produced complete withletter and stone. It always made asensation.“Then sometime before World War Ithere was some sort of scare. My fatherwas a boy then and he told me the storywhen I was a boy, so it's all pretty

garbled. I was impressed with it when Iwas young, but when I considered it afterreaching man's estate, I realized that itlacked substance.”“What was the story?” asked Gonzalo.“A matter of turbaned strangers slinkingabout the house, mysterious shadows byday and strange sounds by night,” saidReed. “It was the sort of thing peoplewould imagine after reading sensationalfiction.”Rubin, who, as a writer, would ordinarilyhave resented the last adjective, was toohot on the spoor on this occasion to do so.He said, “The implication is that theywere Arabs who were after the chip ofthe Black Stone. Did anything happen?”

Avalon broke in. “If you tell us aboutmysterious deaths, Latimer, I'll knowyou're making up the whole thing.”Reed said, “I'm speaking nothing but thetruth. There were no mysterious deaths.Everyone in my family since Great-grandfather died of old age, disease, orunimpeachable accident. No breath offoul play has ever risen. And inconnection with the tale of the turbanedstrangers, nothing at all happened.Nothing! Which is one reason I dismissthe whole thing.”Gonzalo said, “Did anyone ever attemptto steal the chip?”“Never. The original package with thechip and the letter stayed in an unlocked

drawer for half a century. No one paidany particular heed to it and it remainedperfectly safe. I still have the chip as yousaw,” and he slapped his pocket“Actually,” he went on, “the thing wouldhave been forgotten altogether but for me.About 1950, I felt a stirring of interest. Idon't have a clear memory why. Thenation of Israel had just been establishedand the Middle East was much in thenews. Perhaps that was the reason. In anycase, I got to thinking of the old familystory and I dredged the thing out of itsdrawer.”Reed took out his iron gem absently andheld it in the palm of his hand. “It didlook meteoritic to me but, of course, in

my great-grandfather's time meteoritesweren't as well known to the generalpublic as they are now. So, as I saidearlier, I took it to the Museum of NaturalHistory. Someone said it was meteoriticand would I care to donate it. I said itwas a family heirloom and I couldn't dothat, but—and this was the key point forme—I asked him if there were any signsthat it had been chipped off a largermeteorite.“He looked at it carefully, first by eye,then with- a magnifying glass, and finallysaid he could see no sign of it. He said itmust have been found in exactly thecondition I had it. He said meteoritic ironis particularly hard and tough because it

has nickel in it. It's more like alloy steelthan iron and it couldn't be chipped off, hesaid, without clear signs of manhandling.“Well, that settled it, didn't it? I wentback and got the letter and read it through.I even studied the original package. Therewas some blurred Chinese scrawl on itand my grandmother's name and addressin a faded angular English. There wasnothing to be made of it. I couldn't makeout the postmark but there was no reasonto suppose it wasn't from Hong Kong.Anyway, I decided the whole thing wasan amiable fraud. Great-grandfatherLatimer had picked up the meteoritesomewhere, and probably had beenspending time in the Arab world, and

couldn't resist spinning a yarn.”Halsted said, “And then a month later hewas dead under mysteriouscircumstances.”“Just dead,” said Reed. “No reason tothink the death was mysterious. In the1850s, life was relatively brief. Any of anumber of infectious diseases could kill.—Anyway, that's the end of the story. Noglamour. No mystery.”Gonzalo objected vociferously at once.“That's not the end of the story. It's noteven the beginning. What's the bit aboutthe offer of five hundred dollars?”“Oh, that!” said Reed. “That happened in1962 or 1963. It was a dinner party andthere were some hot arguments on the

Middle East and I was taking up a pro-Arab stance as a kind of devil's advocate—it was well before the Six-Day War, ofcourse—and that put me in mind of themeteorite. It was still moldering away inthe drawer and I brought it out.“I remember we were all sitting about thetable and I passed the package around andthey all looked at it. Some tried to readthe letter, but that wasn't so easy becausethe handwriting is rather old-fashionedand crabbed. Some asked me what theChinese writing was on the package andof course I didn't know. Just to bedramatic, I told them about the mysteriousturbaned strangers in my father's time andstressed Great-granddad's mysterious

death, and didn't mention my reasons forbeing certain it was all a hoax. It was justentertainment.“Only one person seemed to take itseriously. He was a stranger, a friend of afriend. We had invited a friend, you see,and when he said he had an engagement,we said, well, bring your friend along.That sort of thing, you know. I don'tremember his name any more. All I doremember about him personally is that hehad thinning red hair and didn't contributemuch to the conversation.“When everybody was getting ready togo, he came to me hesitantly and asked ifhe could see the thing once more Therewas no reason not to allow it, of course.

He took the meteorite out of the package—it was the only thing that seemed tointerest him—and walked to the light withit. He studied it for a long time; Iremember growing a little impatient; andthen he said, 'See here, I collect oddobjects. I wonder if you'd let me have thisthing. I'd pay you, of course. What wouldyou say it was worth?'“I laughed and said I didn't think I'd sell itand he stammered out an offer of fivedollars. I found that rather offensive. Imean, if I were going to sell a familyheirloom it surely wouldn't be for fivedollars. I gave him a decidedly brusquenegative and held out my hand for theobject. I took such a dislike to him that I

remember feeling he might steal it“He handed it back reluctantly enough andI remember looking at the object again tosee what might make it attractive to him,but it still seemed what it was, an uglylump of iron. You see, even though I knewits point of interest lay in its possiblehistory and not in its appearance, I wassimply unable to attach value to anythingbut beauty.“When I looked up, he was reading theletter again. I held out my hand and hegave me that too. He said, Ten dollars?'and I just said, 'No!'“Reed took a sip of the coffee that Henryhad just served him. He said, “Everyoneelse had left This man's friend was

waiting for him, the man who was myfriend originally, Jansen. He and his wifewere killed in an auto accident the nextyear, driving the very car at whose doorhe stood then, wailing for the man he hadbrought to my house. What a frighteningthing the future is if you stop to think of it.Luckily, we rarely do.“Anyway, the man who wanted the objectstopped at the door and said to mehurriedly, 'Listen, I'd really like that littlepiece of metal. It's no good to you and I'llgive you five hundred dollars for it.How's that? Five hundred dollars. Don'tbe hoggish about this.'“I can make allowances for his apparentanxiety, but he was damned offensive. He

did say 'hoggish'; I remember the word.After that, I wouldn't have let him have itfor a million. Very coldly I told him itwasn't for sale at any price, and I put themeteorite, which was still in my hand,into my pocket with ostentatious finality.“His face darkened and he growled that Iwould regret that and there would bethose who wouldn't be so kind as to offermoney, and then off he went— Themeteorite has stayed in my pocket eversince. It is my ugly luck piece that I haverefused five hundred dollars for.” Hechuckled in a muted way and said, “Andthat's the whole story.”Drake said, “And you never found outwhy he offered you five hundred dollars

for that thing?”“Unless he believed it was a piece of theBlack Stone, I can't see any reason whyhe should,” said Reed.“He never renewed his offer?”“Never. It was over ten years ago and Ihave never heard from him at all. Andnow that Jansen and his wife are dead, Idon't even know where he is or how hecould be located if I decided I wanted tosell.”Gonzalo said, “What did he mean by histhreat about others who wouldn't be sokind as to offer money?”“I don't know,” said Reed. “I suppose hemeant mysterious turbaned strangers ofthe kind I had told him about. I think he

was just trying to frighten me intoselling.”Avalon said, “Since a mystery hasdeveloped despite everything, I supposewe ought to consider the possibilitieshere. The obvious motive for his offer is,as you say, that he believed the object tobe a piece of the Black Stone.”“If so,” said Reed, “he was the only onethere who did. I don't think anyone elsetook the story seriously for a moment.Besides, even if it were a chip of theBlack Stone and the guy were a collector,what good would it be to him withoutdefinite proof? He could take any piece ofscrap iron and label it 'piece of the BlackStone' and it would do him no less good

than mine.”Avalon said, “Do you suppose he mighthave been an Arab who knew that a chipthe size of your object had been stolenfrom the Black Stone a century before andwanted it out of piety?”“He didn't seem Arab to me,” said Reed.“And if he were, why was the offer notrenewed? Or why wasn't there 'an attemptat taking it from me by violence?”Drake said, “He studied the objectcarefully. Do you suppose he sawsomething there that convinced him of itsvalue—whatever that value might be?”Reed said, “How can I dispute that?Except that, whatever he might have seen,I certainly never have. Have you?”

“No,” admitted Drake.Rubin said, 'This doesn't sound likeanything we can possibly work out. Wejust don't have enough information. —What do you say, Henry?”Henry, who had been listening with hisusual quiet attention, said, “I waswondering about a few points.”“Well then, go on, Henry,” said Avalon.“Why not continue the grilling of theguest?”Henry said, “Mr. Reed, when you showedthe object to your guests on that occasionin 1962 or 1963, you say you passed thepackage around. You mean the originalpackage in which the letter and themeteorite had come, with its contents as

they had always been?”“Yes. Oh yes. It was a family treasure.”“But since 1963, sir, you have carried themeteorite in your pocket?”“Yes, always,” said Reed.“Does that mean, sir, that you no longerhave the letter?”“Of course it doesn't mean that,” saidReed indignantly. “We certainly do havethe letter. I'll admit that after that fellow'sthreat I was a little concerned so I put itin a safer place. It's a glamorousdocument from the family standpoint,hoax or not.”“Where do you keep it now?” askedHenry.“In a small wall safe I use for documents

and occasional jewels.”“Have you seen it recently, sir?”Reed smiled broadly. “I use the wall safefrequently, and I see it every time. Takemy word for it, Henry, the letter is safe;as safe as the luck piece in my pocket.”Henry said, “Then you don't keep theletter in the original package anymore.”“No,” said Reed. “The package was moreuseful as a container for the meteorite.Now that I carry that object in my pocket,there was no point in keeping the letteralone in the package.”Henry nodded. “And what did you dowith the package, then, sir?”Reed looked puzzled. “Why, nothing.”“You didn't throw it out?”

“No, of course not.”“Do you know where it is?”Slowly, Reed frowned. He said at last,“No, I don't think so.”“When did you last see it?”The pause was just as long this time. “Idon't know that either.”Henry seemed lost in thought.Avalon said, “Well, Henry, what do youhave in mind?”Henry said, “I'm just wondering”—quietly he circled the table removing thebrandy glasses—”whether that manwanted the meteorite at all.”“He certainly offered me money for it,”said Reed.“Yes,” said Henry, “but first such small

sums as would offer you no temptation torelease it, and which he could well affordto pay if you called his bluff. Then alarger sum couched in such offensivelanguage as to make it certain you wouldrefuse. And after that, a mysterious threatwhich was never implemented.”“But why should he do all that,” saidReed, “unless he wanted my iron gem?”Henry said, “To achieve, perhaps,precisely what he did, in fact, achieve—to convince you he wanted the meteoriteand to keep your attention firmly fixed onthat. He gave you back the meteorite whenyou held out your hand for it; he gave youback the letter—but did he give you backthe original package?”

Reed said, “I don't remember him takingit.”Henry said, “It was ten years ago. He keptyour attention fixed on the meteorite. Youeven spent some time examining ityourself and during that time you didn'tlook at him, I'm sure. —Can you sayyou've seen the package since that time,sir?”Slowly, Reed shook his head. “I can't sayI have. You mean he fastened my attentionso tightly on the meteorite that he couldwalk off with the package and I wouldn'tnotice?”I’m afraid you didn't. You put themeteorite in your pocket, the letter in yoursafe, and apparently never gave another

thought to the package. This man, whosename you don't know and whom you canno longer identify thanks to your friends'death, has had the package for ten yearswith no interference. And by now youcould not possibly identify what it was hetook.”“I certainly could,” said Reed stoutly, “ifI could see it. It has my great-grandmother's name and address on it.”“He might not have saved the packageitself,” said Henry.“I've got it,” cried out Gonzalo suddenly.“It was that Chinese writing. He couldmake it out somehow and he took it to getit deciphered with certainty. The messagewas important.”

Henry's smile was the barest flicker.“That is a romantic notion that had notoccurred to me, Mr. Gonzalo, and I don'tknow that it is very probable. I wasthinking of something else. —Mr. Reed,you had a package from Hong Kong in1856 and at that time Hong Kong wasalready a British possession.”'Taken over in 1848,” said Rubin briefly.“And I think the British had alreadyinstituted the modern system ofdistributing mail.”“Rowland Hill,” said Rubin at once, “in1840.”“Well then,” said Henry, “could therehave been a stamp on the originalpackage?”

Reed looked startled. “Now that youmention it, there was something thatlooked like a black stamp, I seem torecall. A woman's profile?”“The young Victoria,” said Rubin.Henry said, “And might it possibly havebeen a rare stamp?”Gonzalo threw up his arms. “Bingo!”Reed sat with his mouth distinctly open.Then he said, “Of course, you must beright —I wonder how much I lost.”“Nothing but money, sir,” murmuredHenry. “The early British stamps werenot beautiful.”3 Afterword“The Iron Gem” appeared in the July

1974 issue of Ellery Queen's MysteryMagazine under the title “A Chip of theBlack Stone.” Ordinarily, all things beingequal, I go for the shorter title, so I'mchanging it back to my original title in thiscase. (I don't always refuse to acceptchanges. The first story in this collectionwas called “No Man Pursueth” when Iwrote it. The magazine changed it to“When No Man Pursueth” and I accept theextra word as an improvement.)I wrote this story on board the Canberra,which took me over the ocean to the coastof Africa and back in the summer of 1973,to view a total solar eclipse—the firsttotal solar eclipse I had ever seen.Heaven knows, they filled my time, for I

was on board as a lecturer, and I gaveeight lectures on the history of astronomy,to say nothing of the time it took to becharming and suave to all twelve hundredwomen on board. (You should see mebeing charming and suave. Some of themhave trouble getting away.)Just the same, I did find time to hide outin my cabin now and then to write “TheIron Gem” in longhand. What puzzles menow that I look back on it, however, iswhy the story didn't have anything to dowith a solar eclipse when that (and thetwelve hundred women) was all I wasthinking of on the cruise.

To Table of Contents

4 The Three Numbers

When Tom Trumbull arrived—late, ofcourse—to the Black Widowers' banquet,and called for his scotch and soda, hewas met by James Drake, who waswearing a rather hangdog expression onhis face.Drake's head made a gentle gesture to oneside.Trumbull followed him, unpeeling hiscoat as he went, his tanned and furrowedface asking the question before his voicedid. “What's up?” he said.Drake held his cigarette to one side andlet the smoke curl bluely upward. 'Tom,I've brought a physicist as my guest”

“So?”“Well, he has a problem and I think it's upyour alley.”“A code?”“Something like that Numbers, anyway. Idon't have all the details. I suppose we'llget those after the dinner. But that's not thepoint Will you help me if it becomesnecessary to hold down Jeff Avalon?”Trumbull looked across the room towhere Avalon was standing in staidconversation with the man who wasclearly the guest of the evening since hewas the only stranger present.“What's wrong with Jeff?” said Trumbull.There didn't seem anything wrong withAvalon, who was standing straight and

tall as always, looking as though he mightsplinter if he relaxed. His grayingmustache and small beard were as neatand trim as ever and he wore that carefulsmile on his face that he insisted on usingfor strangers. “He looks all right.”Drake said, “You weren't here last time.Jeff has the idea that the Black Widowersis becoming too nearly a puzzle sessioneach month.”“What's wrong with that?” askedTrumbull as he passed his hands over histightly waved off-white hair to pressdown the slight disarray produced by thewind outside.“Jeff thinks we ought to be a purely socialorganization. Convivial conversation and

all that.”“We have that anyway.”“So when the puzzle comes up, help mesit on him if he gets grouchy. You have aloud voice and I don't.”“No problem. Have you talked toManny?”“Hell, no. He'd take up the other side tobe contrary.”“You may be right —Henry!” Trumbullwaved his arm. “Henry, do me a favor.This scotch and soda won't be enough. It'scold outside and it took me a long time toget a taxi so—”Henry smiled discreetly, his unlined facelooking twenty years younger than hisactual sixtyishness. “I had assumed that

might be so, Mr. Trumbull. Your secondis ready.”“Henry, you're a diamond of the firstwater” —which, to be sure, was ajudgment concurred in by all the BlackWidowers.“I’ll give you a demonstration,” saidEmmanuel Rubin. He had quarreled withthe soup which, he maintained, had hadjust a shade too much leek to make it fitfor human consumption, and the fact thathe was in a clear minority of onerendered him all the more emphatic in hisremaining views. “I'll show you that anylanguage is really a complex oflanguages. —I'll write a word on each ofthese two pieces of paper. The same

word. I'll give one to you, Mario— andone to you, sir.”The second went to Dr. Samuel Puntsch,who had, as was usually the case withguests of the Black Widowers, maintaineda discreet silence during thepreliminaries.Puntsch was a small, slim man, dressed ina funereal color scheme that would havedone credit to Avalon. He looked at thepaper and lifted his unobtrusiveeyebrows.Rubin said, “Now neither of you sayanything. Just write down the number ofthe syllable that carries the stress. It's afour-syllable word, so write down eitherone, two, three, or four.”

Mario Gonzalo, the Black Widowers'tame artist, had just completed the sketchof Dr. Puntsch, and he laid it to one side.He looked at the word on the paperbefore him, wrote a figure withouthesitation, and passed it to Rubin. Puntschdid the same.Rubin said, with indescribablesatisfaction, “I'll spell the word. It's u-n-i-o-n-i-z-e-d, and Mario says it'saccented on the first syllable.”“Yoo-nionized,” said Mario. “Referringto an industry whose working force hasbeen organized into a labor union.”Puntsch laughed. “Yes, I see. I called itun-eye-onized; referring to a substancethat did not break down into ions in

solution. I accent the second syllable.”“Exactly. The same word to the eye, butdifferent to men in different fields. Rogerand Jim would agree with Dr. Puntsch, Iknow, and Tom, Jeff, and Henry wouldprobably agree with Mario. It's like thatin a million different places. Fugue meansdifferent things to a psychiatrist and amusician. The phrase 'to press a suit'means one thing to a nineteenth-centurylover and another to a twentieth-centurytailor. No two people have exactly thesame language.”Roger Halsted, the mathematics teacher,said with the slight hesitation that wasalmost a stammer but never quite,“There's enough overlap so that it doesn't

really matter, does it?”“Most of us can understand each other,yes,” said Rubin querulously, “but there'sless overlap than there ought to be. Everysmall segment of the culture develops itsown vocabulary for the sake of formingan in-group. There are a million verbalwalls behind which fools cower, and itdoes more to create ill feeling—”“That was Shaw's thesis in Pygmalion,”growled Trumbull.“No! You're quite wrong, Tom. Shawthought it was the result of faultyeducation. I say it's deliberate and thatthis does more to create the properatmosphere for world collapse than wardoes.” And he tackled his roast beef with

a fierce cut of his knife.“Only Manny could go from unionized tothe destruction of civilization in a dozensentences,” said Gonzalo philosophically,and passed his sketch to Henry fordelivery to Puntsch.Puntsch smiled a little shakily at it, for itemphasized his ears more than a puristmight have thought consistent with goodlooks. Henry put it on the wall with theothers.It was perhaps inevitable that thediscussion veer from the iniquities ofprivate language to word puzzles andHalsted achieved a certain degree ofsilence over the dessert by demanding toknow the English word whose

pronunciation changed when it wascapitalized. Then, when all had given up,Halsted said slowly, “I would say that'polish' becomes 'Polish,' right?”Avalon frowned portentously, hisluxuriant eyebrows hunching over hiseyes. “At least that isn't as offensive asthe usual Polish jokes I can't avoidhearing sometimes.”Drake said, his small gray mustachetwitching, “We'll try something a littlemore complicated after the coffee.”. Avalon darted a suspicious glance in thedirection of Puntsch and, with a look ofmelancholy on his face, watched Henrypour the coffee.Henry said, “Brandy, sir?”

Puntsch looked up and said, “Why, yes,thank you. That was a very good meal,waiter.”“I am glad you think so,” said Henry.“The Black Widowers are a specialconcern to this establishment.”Drake was striking his water glass with aspoon.He said, trying to elevate his alwaysfuzzily hoarse voice, “I've got SamPuntsch here partly because he workedfor the same firm I work for out in NewJersey, though not in the same division.He doesn't know a damn thing aboutorganic chemistry; I know that because Iheard him discuss the subject once. Onthe other hand, he's a pretty fair-to-

middling physicist, I'm told. I've also gothim here partly because he's got aproblem and I told him to come down andentertain us with it, and I hope, Jeff, thatyou have no objections.”Geoffrey Avalon twirled his brandy glassgently between two fingers and saidgrimly, “There are no bylaws to thisorganization, Jim, so I'll go along withyou and try to enjoy myself. But I must sayI would like to relax on these evenings;though perhaps it's just the old braincalcifying.”“Well, don't worry, we'll let Tom begriller in chief.”Puntsch said, “If Mr. Avalon—”Drake said at once, “Pay no attention to

Mr. Avalon.”And Avalon himself said, “Oh, it's allright, Dr. Puntsch. The group is kindenough to let me pout on occasion.”Trumbull scowled and said, “Will you alllet me get on with it? Dr. Puntsch— howdo you justify your existence?”“Justify it? I suppose you could say thattrying to have our civilization last forlonger than a generation is a sort ofjustification.”“What does this trying consist of?”“An attempt to find a permanent, safe, andnon-polluting energy source.”“What kind?”“Fusion energy. —Are you going to askme the details?”

Trumbull shook his head. “No, unlessthey're germane to the problem that'sdisturbing you.”“Only very tangentially; which is good.”Puntsch's voice was reedy, and his wordswere meticulously pronounced as thoughhe had at one time had ambitions tobecome a radio announcer. He said,“Actually, Mr. Rubin's point was a rathergood one earlier in the evening. We all dohave our private language, sometimesmore so than is necessary, and I wouldnot welcome the chance to have to go intogreat detail on the matter of fusion.”Gonzalo, who was wearing a costume invarious complementing tones of red, andwho dominated the table visually more

than was usually true, muttered, “I wishpeople would stop saying that Rubin isright.”“You want them to lie?” demandedRubin, head thrown up at once and hissparse beard bristling.“Shut up, you two,” shouted Trumbull.“Dr. Puntsch, let me tell you what I knowabout fusion energy and you stop me if I'mtoo far off base. —It's a kind of nuclearenergy produced when you force smallatoms to combine into larger ones. Youuse heavy hydrogen out of the ocean, fuseit to helium, and produce energy that willlast us for many millions of years,”“Yes, it's roughly as you say.”“But we don't have it yet, do we?”

“No, as of today, we don't have it.”“Why not, Doctor?”“Ah, Mr. Trumbull, I take it you don'twant a two-hour lecture.”“No, sir, how about a two-minutelecture?”Puntsch laughed. “About two minutes isall anyone will sit still for.-The trouble iswe have to heat up our fuel to a minimumtemperature of forty-five million degreesCentigrade, which is about eighty millionFahrenheit. Then we have to keep thefusion fuel—heavy hydrogen, as you say,plus tritium, which is a particularly heavyvariety—at that temperature long enoughfor it to catch fire, so to speak, and wemust keep it all in place with strong

magnetic fields while this is happening.“So far, we can't get the necessarytemperature produced quickly enough, orhold the magnetic field in being longenough, for the fusion fuel to ignite.Delivering energy by laser may beanother bet, but we need stronger lasersthan we have so far, or stronger andbetter-designed magnetic fields than wenow have. Once we manage it and doignite the fuel, that will be an importantbreakthrough, but God knows there willremain plenty of engineering problems tosolve before we can actually begin to runthe Earth by fusion energy.”Trumbull said, “When do you think we'llget to that first breakthrough; when do you

think we'll have ignition?”“It's hard to say. American and Sovietphysicists have been inching forwardtoward it for a quarter of a century. I thinkthey've almost reached it. Five yearsmore maybe. But there areimponderables. A lucky intuition mightbring it this year. Unforeseen difficultiesmay carry us into the twenty-firstcentury.”Halsted broke in. “Can we wait till thetwenty-first century?”“Wait?” said Puntsch.“You say you are trying to havecivilization last more than a generation.That sounds as though you don't think wecan wait for the twenty-first century.”

“I see. I wish I could be optimistic on thispoint, sir,” said Puntsch gravely, “but Ican't. At the rate we're going, ourpetroleum will be pretty much used up by2000, Going back to coal will present uswith a lot of problems and leaning onbreeder fission reactors will involve thegetting rid of enormous quantities ofradioactive wastes. I would certainly feeluncomfortable if we don't end up withworking fusion reactors by, say, 2010.”“Apres moi, le deluge,” said Avalon.Puntsch said with a trace of acerbity,“The deluge may well come after yourtime, Mr. Avalon. Do you have anychildren?”Avalon, who had two children and

several grandchildren, lookeduncomfortable and said, “But fusionenergy may stave off the deluge and I takeit your feelings about the arrival of fusionare optimistic.”“Yes, there I tend to be optimistic.”Trumbull said, “Well, let's get on with it.You're working at Jim Drake's firm. Ialways thought of that as one of these drugsupply houses.”“It's a hell of a lot more than that,” saidDrake, looking, dolefully at what was leftof a cigarette package as thoughwondering whether he ought to set fire toanother one or rest for ten minutes.Puntsch said, “Jim works in the organicchemistry section. I work on plasma

physics.”Rubin said, “I was down there once,visiting Jim, and took a tour of the plant. Ididn't see any Tokamaks.”“What's a Tokamak?” asked Gonzalo atonce.Puntsch said, “It's a device within whichstable magnetic fields—pretty stableanyway—can be set up to confine thesuper-hot gas. No, we don't have any.We're not doing anything of the sort.We're more or less at the theoretical endof it. When we think up something thatlooks hopeful, we have arrangements withsome of the large installations that willallow it to be tried out.”Gonzalo said, “What's in it for the firm?”

“We're allowed to do some basicresearch. There's always use for it Thefirm produces fluorescent tubes ofvarious sorts and anything we find aboutthe behavior of hot gases— plasma, it'scalled—and magnetic fields may alwayshelp in the production of cheaper andbetter fluorescents. That's the practicaljustification of our work.”Trumbull said, “And have you come upwith anything that looks hopeful? —Infusion, I mean, not in fluorescents.”Puntsch began a smile and let it wipe offslowly. “That's exactly it. I don't know.”Halsted placed his hand on the pink areaof baldness in the forepart of his skull andsaid, “Is that the problem you've brought

us?”“Yes,” said Puntsch.“Well, then, Doctor, suppose you tell usabout it.”Puntsch cleared his throat and pursed hislips for a moment, looking about at themen at the banquet table and leaning toone side in order to allow Henry to refillhis coffee cup.“Jim Drake,” he said, “has explained thateverything said in this room isconfidential; that everyone”—his eyerested briefly on Henry—”is to betrusted. I'll speak freely, then. I have acolleague working at the firm. His nameis Matthew Revsof and Drake knowshim.”

Drake nodded. “Met him at your houseonce.”Puntsch said, “Revsof is halfway betweenbrilliance and madness, which issometimes a good thing for a theoreticalphysicist. It means, though, that he'serratic and difficult to deal with at times.We've been good friends, mostly becauseour wives have gotten along togetherparticularly well. It became one of thosefamily things where the children on bothsides use us almost interchangeably asparents, since we have houses in the samestreet.“Revsof is now in the hospital. He's beenthere two months. I'll have to explain thatit's a mental hospital and that he had a

violent episode which put him into it andthere's no point in going into the details ofthat. However, the hospital is in no hurryto let him go and that creates a problem.“I went to visit him about a week after hehad been hospitalized. He seemedperfectly normal, perfectly cheerful; Ibrought him up to date on some of thework going on in the department and hehad no trouble following me. But then hewanted to speak to me privately. Heinsisted the nurse leave and that the doorbe closed.“He swore me to secrecy and told me heknew exactly how to design a Tokamak insuch a way as to produce a totally stablemagnetic field that would contain a

plasma of moderate densities indefinitely.He said something like this, 'I worked itout last month. That's why I've been puthere. Naturally, the Soviets arranged it.The material is in my home safe; thediagrams, the theoretical analysis,everything.' “Rubin, who had been listening with anindignant frown, interrupted. “Is thatpossible? Is he the kind of man who coulddo that? Was the work at the stage wheresuch an advance—”Puntsch smiled wearily. “How can Ianswer that? The history of science is fullof revolutionary advances that requiredsmall insights that anyone might have had,but that, in fact, only one person did. I'll

tell you this, though. When someone in amental hospital tells you that he hassomething that has been eluding thecleverest physicists in the world fornearly thirty years, and that the Russiansare after him, you don't have a very greattendency to believe it. All I tried to dowas soothe him.“But my efforts to do that just excited him.He told me he planned to have the creditfor it; he wasn't going to have anyonestealing priority while he was in thehospital. I was to stand guard over thehome safe and make sure that no onebroke in. He was sure that Russian spieswould try to arrange a break-in and hekept saying over and over again that I was

the only one he could trust and as soon ashe got out of the hospital he wouldannounce the discovery and prepare apaper so that he could safeguard hispriority. He said he would allow me co-authorship. Naturally, I agreed toeverything just to keep him quiet and gotthe nurse back in as soon as I could.”Halsted said, “American and Sovietscientists are co-operating in fusionresearch, aren't they?”“Yes, of course,” said Puntsch. “TheTokamak itself is of Soviet origin. Thebusiness of Russian spies is just Revsof’soverheated fantasy.”Rubin said, “Have you visited himsince?”

“Quite a few times. He sticks to his story.—It bothers me. I don't believe him. Ithink he's mad. And yet something insideme says: What if he isn't? What if there'ssomething in his home safe that the wholeworld would give its collective eyeteethfor?”Halsted said, “When he gets out—”Puntsch said, “It's not that easy. Any delayis risky. This is a field in which manyminds are eagerly busy. On any particularday, someone else may make Revsof'sdiscovery —assuming that Revsof hasreally made one—and he will then losepriority and credit, and a Nobel Prize forall I know. And, to take the broader view,the firm will lose a considerable amount

of reflected credit and the chance at asubstantial increase in its prosperity.Every employee of the firm will lose thechance of benefiting from what generalprosperity increase the firm might haveexperienced. So you see, gentlemen, Ihave a personal stake in this, and so hasJim Drake, for that matter.“But even beyond that— The world is ina race that it may not win. Even if we doget the answer to a stable magnetic field,there will be a great deal of engineeringto work through, as I said before, and, atthe very best, it will be years beforefusion energy is really available to theworld— years we might not be able toafford. In that case, it isn't safe to lose any

time at all waiting for Revsof to get out.”Gonzalo said, “If he's getting out soon—”“But he isn't. That's the worst of it,” saidPuntsch. “He may never come out. He'sdeteriorating.”Avalon said in his deep, solemn voice, “Itake it, sir, that you have explained theadvantages of prompt action to yourfriend.”“That I have,” said Puntsch. “I'veexplained it as carefully as I could. I saidwe would open the safe before legalwitnesses, and bring everything to him forhis personal signature. We would leavethe originals and take copies. I explainedwhat he himself might possibly lose bydelay. —All that happened was that he—

well, in the end he attacked me. I've beenasked not to visit him again till furthernotice.”Gonzalo said, “What about his wife?Does she know anything about this? Yousaid she was a good friend of yourwife's.”“So she is. She's a wonderful girl and sheunderstands perfectly the difficulty of thesituation. She agrees that the safe shouldbe opened.”“Has she talked to her husband?” askedGonzalo.Puntsch hesitated. “Well, no. She hasn'tbeen allowed to see him. He—he— Thisis ridiculous but I can't help it. He claimsBarbara, his wife, is in the pay of the

Soviet Union. Frankly, it was Barbarawhom he—when he was put in thehospital—”“All right,” said Trumbull gruffly, “butcan't you get Revsof declared incompetentand have the control of the safetransferred to his wife?”“First, that's a complicated thing. Barbarawould have to testify to a number ofthings she doesn't want to testify to. She—she loves the man.”Gonzalo said, “I don't want to soundghoulish, but you said that Revsof wasdeteriorating. If he dies—”“Deteriorating mentally, not physically.He's thirty-eight years old and could liveforty more years and be mad every day of

it.”“Eventually, won't his wife be forced torequest he be declared incompetent?”Puntsch said, “But when will that be? —And all this still isn't the problem I wantto present. I had explained to Barbaraexactly how I would go about it to protectMart's priority. I would open the safe andBarbara would initial and date everypiece of paper in it. I would photocopy itall and give her a notarized statement tothe effect that I had done this and that Iacknowledged all that I removed to beRevsof’s work. The originals and thenotarized statement would be returned tothe safe and I would work with thecopies.

“You see, she had told me at the very startthat she had the combination. It was amatter of first overcoming my own feelingthat I was betraying a trust, and secondly,overcoming her scruples. I didn't like itbut I felt I was serving a higher cause andin the end Barbara agreed. We decidedthat if Revsof was ever sane enough tocome home, he would agree we had donethe right thing. And his priority would beprotected.”Trumbull said, “I take it you opened thesafe, then.”“No,” said Puntsch, “I didn't. I tried thecombination Barbara gave me and itdidn't work. The safe is still closed.”Halsted said, “You could blow it open.”

Puntsch said, “I can't bring myself to dothat. It's one thing to be given thecombination by the man's wife. It'sanother to—”Halsted shook his head. “I mean, can'tMrs. Revsof ask that it be blown open?”Puntsch said, “I don't think she would askthat It would mean bringing in outsiders.It would be an act of violence againstRevsof, in a way, and— Why doesn't thecombination work? That's the problem.”Trumbull put his hands on the table andleaned forward. “Dr. Puntsch, are youasking us to answer that question? To tellyou how to use the combination youhave?”“More or less.”

“Do you have the combination with you?”“You mean the actual slip of paper thathas the combination written upon it? No.Barbara keeps that and I see her point.However, if you want it written down,that's no problem. I remember it wellenough.” He brought out a little notebookfrom his inner jacket pocket, tore off asheet of paper, and wrote rapidly. “Thereit is!”

12R 27 15Trumbull glanced at it solemnly, thenpassed the paper to Halsted on his left. Itmade the rounds and came back to him.Trumbull folded his hands and staredsolemnly at the bit of paper. He said,

“How do you know this is thecombination to the safe?”“Barbara says it is.”“Doesn't it seem unlikely to you, Dr.Puntsch, that the man you describedwould leave the combination lying about?With the combination available, he mightas well have an unlocked safe. —Thisrow of symbols may have nothing to dowith the safe.”Puntsch sighed. “That's not the way of it.It isn't as though the safe ever hadanything of intrinsic value in it. There'snothing of great intrinsic value inRevsof's house altogether, or in mine, forthat matter. We're not rich and we're notvery subject to burglary. Revsof got the

safe about five years ago and had itinstalled because he thought he mightkeep papers there. He had this fetishabout losing priority even then, but itwasn't till recently that it reached thepoint of paranoia. He did make a note ofthe combination for his own use so hewouldn't lock himself out.“Barbara came across it one day andasked what it was and he said that it wasthe combination to his safe. She said,'Well, don't leave it lying around,' and sheput it in a little envelope in one of herown drawers, feeling he might need itsomeday. He never did, apparently, andI'm sure he must have forgotten all aboutit. But she didn't forget, and she says she

is certain it has never been disturbed.”Rubin said, “He might have had thecombination changed.”“That would have meant a locksmith inthe house. Barbara says she is certain itnever happened.”Trumbull said, “Is that all there waswritten on the page? Just six numbers anda letter of the alphabet?”“That's all.”“What about the back of the sheet?”“Nothing.”Trumbull said, “You understand, Dr.Puntsch, this isn't a code, and I'm notexpert on combination locks. What doesthe lock look like?”“Very ordinary. I'm sure Revsof could not

afford a really fancy safe. There's a circlewith numbers around it from 1 to 30 and aknob with a little pointer in the middle.Barbara has seen Matt at the safe andthere's no great shakes to it He turns theknob and pulls it open.”“She's never done that herself?”“No. She says she hasn't.”“She can't tell you why the safe doesn'topen when you use the combination?”“No, she can't. —And yet it seemsstraightforward enough. Most of thecombination locks I've dealt with—all ofthem, in fact—have knobs that you turnfirst in one direction, then in the other,then back in the first direction again. Itseems clear to me that, according to the

combination, I should turn the knob to theright till the pointer is at twelve, then leftto twenty-seven, then right again tofifteen.”Trumbull said thoughtfully, “I can't seethat it could mean anything else either.”“.But it doesn't work,” said Puntsch. “Iturned twelve, twenty-seven, fifteen adozen times. I did it carefully, makingsure that the little pointer was centered oneach line. I tried making extra turns; youknow, right to twelve, then left one fullturn and then to twenty-seven, then rightone full turn and then to fifteen. I triedmaking one full turn in one direction andnot in the other. I tried other tricks,jiggling the knob, pressing it. I tried

everything.”Gonzalo said, grinning, “Did you say'Open sesame'?”“It didn't occur to me to do so,” saidPuntsch, not grinning, “but if it had, Iwould have tried it. Barbara says shenever noticed him do anything special, butof course, it could have been somethingunnoticeable and for that matter she didn'twatch him closely. It wouldn't occur toher that she'd have to know someday.”Halsted said, “Let me look at that again.”He stared at the combination solemnly.“This is only a copy. Dr. Puntsch. Thiscan't be exactly the way it looked. Itseems clear here but you might becopying it just as you thought it was. Isn't

it possible that some of the numbers in theoriginal might be equivocal so that youmight mistake a seven for a one, forinstance?”“No, no,” said Puntsch, shaking his headvigorously. “There's no chance of amistake there, I assure you.” '“What about the spaces?” said Halsted.“Was it spaced exactly like that?”Puntsch reached for the paper and lookedat it again. “Oh, I see what you mean. No,as a matter of fact, there were no spaces. Iput them in because that was how Ithought of it. Actually the original is asolid line of symbols with no particularspacing. It doesn't matter, though, does it?You can't divide it any other way. I'll

write it down for you without spaces.” Hewrote a second time under the first andshoved it across the table to Halsted.

I2R27I5He said, “You can't divide it any otherway. You can't have a 271 or a 715. Thenumbers don't go higher than thirty.”“Well now,” muttered Halsted, “nevermind the numbers. What about the letterR?” He licked his lips, obviouslyenjoying the clear atmosphere of suspensethat had now centered upon him.“Suppose we divide the combination thisway”:

12 R27 15He held it up for Puntsch to see, and. then

for the others. “In this division, it's thetwenty-seven which would have the signfor 'right' so it's the other two numbersthat turn left. In other words, the numbersare twelve, twenty-seven, and fifteen allright, but you turn left, right, left, insteadof right, left, right.”Gonzalo protested. “Why put the Rthere?”Halsted said, “All he needs is theminimum reminder. He knows what thecombination is. If he reminds himself themiddle number is right, he knows theother two are left.”Gonzalo said, “But that's no big deal. Ifhe just puts down the three numbers, it'seither left, right, left, or else it's right, left,

right. If one doesn't work, he tries theother. Maybe the R stands for somethingelse.”“I can't think what,” said Puntschgloomily.Halsted said, “The symbol couldn't besomething other than an R, could it, Dr.Puntsch?”“Absolutely not,” said Puntsch. “I'll admitI didn't think of associating the R with thesecond number, but that doesn't matteranyway. When the combination wouldn'twork right, left, right, I was desperateenough not only to try it left, right, left; butright, right, right and left, left, left. Inevery case I tried it with and withoutcomplete turns in between. Nothing

worked.”Gonzalo said, “Why not try all thecombinations? There can only be somany.”Rubin said, “Figure out how many,Mario. The first number can be anythingfrom one to thirty in either direction; socan the second; so can the third. The totalnumber of possible combinations, if anydirection is allowed for any number, issixty times sixty times sixty, or over twohundred thousand.”“I think I'll blow it open before it comesto trying them all,” said Puntsch in cleardisgust.Trumbull turned to Henry, who had beenstanding at the sideboard, an intent

expression on his face. “Have you beenfollowing all this, Henry?”Henry said, “Yes, sir, but I haven'tactually seen the figures.”Trumbull said, “Do you mind, Dr.Puntsch? He's the best man here,actually.” He handed over the slip withthe three numbers written in threedifferent ways.Henry studied them gravely and shook hishead. “I'm sorry. I had had a thought, but Isee I'm wrong.”“What was the thought?” asked Trumbull.“It had occurred to me that the letter Rmight have been in the small form. I seeit's a capital.”Puntsch looked astonished. “Wait, wait.

Henry, does it matter?”“It might, sir. We don't often think it does,but Mr. Halsted explained earlier in theevening that 'polish' becomes 'Polish,'changing pronunciation simply because ofa capitalization.”Puntsch said slowly, “But, you know, it isa small letter in the original. It neveroccurred to me to produce it that way. Ialways use capitals when I print. Howodd.”There was a faint smile on Henry's face.He said, “Would you write thecombination with a small letter, sir.” Puntsch, flushing slightly, wrote:

12 r 2715

Henry looked at it and said, “As long as itis a small r after all, I can ask a furtherquestion. Are there any other differencesbetween this and the original?”“No,” said Puntsch. Then, defensively,“No significant differences of any kind.The matter of the spacing and thecapitalization hasn't changed anything, hasit? Of course, the original isn't in myhandwriting.”Henry said quietly, “Is it in anyone'shandwriting, sir?”“What?”“I mean, is the original typewritten, Dr.Puntsch?”Dr. Puntsch's flush deepened. “Yes, nowthat you ask, it was typewritten. That

doesn't mean anything either. If there werea typewriter here I would typewrite it foryou, though, of course, it might not be thesame typewriter that typed out theoriginal.”Henry said, “There is a typewriter in theoffice on this floor. Would you care totype it, Dr. Puntsch?”“Certainly,” said Puntsch defiantly. Hewas back in two minutes, during whichtime not one word was said by anyone atthe table. He presented the paper toHenry, with the typewritten series ofnumbers under the four lines ofhandwritten ones:

l2r27l5

Henry said, “Is this the way it lookednow? The typewriter that did the originaldid not have a particularly unusualtypeface?”“No, it didn't. What I have typed looksjust like the original.”Henry passed the paper to Trumbull, wholooked at it and passed it on.Henry said, “If you open the safe, you arevery likely to find nothing of importance,I suppose.”“I suppose it too,” snapped Puntsch. “I'malmost sure of it. It will be disappointingbut much better than standing herewondering.”“In that case, sir,” said Henry, “I wouldlike to say that Mr. Rubin spoke of

private languages early in the evening.The typewriter has a private language too.The standard typewriter uses the samesymbol for the numeral one and the smallform of the twelfth letter of the alphabet.“If you had wanted to abbreviate 'left' and'right' by the initial letters in handwriting,there would have been no problem, sinceneither form of the handwritten letter isconfusing. If you had used a typewriterand abbreviated it in capitals it wouldhave been clear. Using small letters, it ispossible to read the combination as 12right, 27, 15; or possibly 12, right 27, 15;or as left 2, right 27, left 5. The 1 in 12and 15 is not the numeral 1 but the smallversion of the letter L and stands for left.

Revsof knew what he was typing and itdidn't confuse him. It could confuseothers.”Puntsch looked at the symbolsopenmouthed. “How did I miss that?”Henry said, “You spoke, earlier, ofinsights that anyone might make, but thatonly one actually does. It was Mr.Gonzalo who had the key.”“I?” said Gonzalo strenuously.“Mr. Gonzalo wondered why there shouldbe one letter,” said Henry, “and it seemedto me he was right. Dr. Revsof wouldsurely indicate the directions for all, orfor none. Since one letter was indubitablypresent, I wondered if the other two mightnot be also.”

4 AfterwordThis appeared in the September 1974issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazineunder the title “All in the Way You ReadIt” Again I prefer the shorter title, so Ireturn it to my own “The ThreeNumbers.”I am sometimes asked where I get myideas; in fact, I am frequently asked that.There's no big secret. I get them fromeverything I experience, and you can doit, too, if you're willing to work at it.For instance, I know I've got a possibleBlack Widower story if I can think ofsomething that can be looked at two ormore ways, with only Henry looking at it

the right way.So once, when I was sitting at mytypewriter, wishing I had an idea for aBlack Widower story (because I felt likewriting one of them that day rather thanworking at whatever task was then facingme), I decided to look at the typewriterand see if there was some usefulambiguity I could extract from thekeyboard. After some thought, I extractedone and had my story.To Table of Contents

5 Nothing Like Murder

Emmanuel Rubin looked definitelyhaggard when he arrived at the monthlybanquet of the Black Widowers. Whereasordinarily he gave the clear impression ofbeing a foot taller than the five feet fivewhich literal minds would consider hisheight to be, he seemed shrunken this timeinto his natural limits. His thick glassesseemed to magnify less, and even hisbeard, sparse enough at best, straggledlimply.“You look your age,” said the resplendentMario Gonzalo. “What's wrong?”“And you look like an overdressedD'Artagnan,” said Rubin with marked

lack of snap.“All we Latins are handsome,” saidGonzalo. “But, really, what's wrong?”“I'm short about six hours' sleep,” saidRubin aggrievedly. “A deadline trappedme when I wasn't looking. In fact, thedeadline was two days ago.”“Did you finish?”“Just about. I'll have it in tomorrow.”“Who done it this time, Manny?”“You'll just damn well have to buy thebook and find out.” He sank down in achair and said, “Henry!” making a longgesture with thumb and forefinger.Henry, the perennial waiter of the BlackWidowers banquets, obliged at once andRubin said nothing until about a quarter of

the contents had been transferred into hisesophagus. Then he said, “Where'severybody?” It was as though he hadnoticed for the first time that he andGonzalo were the only two present.“We're early,” said Gonzalo, shrugging.“I swear I didn't think I'd make it. Youartists don't have deadlines, do you?”“I wish the demand were great enough tomake deadlines necessary,” said Gonzalogrimly. “Sometimes we're driven, but wecan be more independent than you word-people. They recognize the demands ofcreativity in art. It's not something you canhack out at the typewriter.”“Listen,” began Rubin, then thought betterof it and said, “I'll get you next time.

Remind me to describe your cockamamiecrayon scribbles to you.”Gonzalo laughed. “Manny, why don't youwrite a best seller and be done with it? Ifyou're just going to write mystery novelsto a limited audience you'll never getrich.”Rubin's chin lifted. “Think I can't write abest seller? I can do it any time I .want to.I've analyzed it. In order to write a bestseller you have to hit one of the only twomarkets big enough to support one. It'seither the housewife or the college kids.Sex and scandal get the housewife;pseudo-intellect gets the college kids. Icould do either if I wanted to but I am notinterested in sex and scandal and I don't

want to take the effort to lower myintellect so far as to make it pseudo.”“Try, Manny, try. You underestimate thefull measure of the incapacity of yourintellect. Besides,” Gonzalo added hastilyto stave off a retort, “don't tell me that it'sonly the pseudo-intellect that gets throughto the college students.”“Sure!” said Rubin indignantly. “Do youknow what goes big with the collegecrowd? Chariots of the Gods?, which issheer nonsense. I'd call it science fictionexcept that it's not that good. Or TheGreening of America, which was a fadbook—one month they were all reading itbecause it's the 'in' thing to do, the nextmonth it's out”

“What about Vonnegut's books? Whatabout Future Shock, Manny? I heard yousay you liked Future Shock”“So-so,” said Rubin. He closed his eyesand took another sip.Gonzalo said, “Even Henry doesn't takeyou seriously. Look at him grinning.”Henry was setting the table. “Merely asmile of pleasure, Mr. Gonzalo,” he said,and indeed his smooth and sixtyish faceradiated exactly that emotion. “Mr. Rubinhas recommended a number of books thathave been college favorites and I haveread them with pleasure usually. I suspecthe likes more books than he will admit.”Rubin ignored Henry's remark andbrought his weary eyes to bear on

Gonzalo. “Besides, what do you mean,‘even Henry'? He reads a hell of a lotmore books than you do.”“Maybe, but he doesn't read your books.”“Henry!” cried Rubin.Henry said, “I have bought and readseveral of Mr. Rubin's mysteries.”Gonzalo said, “And what do you think ofthem? Tell the truth. I'll protect you.”“I enjoy them. They are very good of theirkind. Of course, I lack a sense of thedramatic and, once the dramatic isdiscounted, it is possible to see thesolution—where the author allows it.”At that moment the others began to arriveand Henry was busied with the drinks.It had been a very long time since the

Black Widowers had had a foreigner asguest and Drake, who was host, basked inthe glory of it and smiled quietly throughthe wreathed smoke from his eternalcigarette. Moreover, the guest was aRussian, a real Russian from the SovietUnion, and Geoffrey Avalon, who hadstudied Russian during World War II, hadthe chance to use what he couldremember.Avalon, standing tall and speaking with asevere and steady syllable-by-syllablestress, sounded as lawyer-like as thoughhe were addressing a Russian jury. TheRussian, whose name was GrigoriDeryashkin, seemed pleased andanswered in slow, distinct phrases until

Avalon ran down.Deryashkin was a stocky man in a loose-fitting gray suit, a white shirt, and darktie. He had blunt features, large teeth, aneasy smile, and English that consisted ofan adequate vocabulary, an uncertaingrammar, and a marked but by no meansunpleasant accent.“Where'd you get him?” asked ThomasTrumbull of Drake in a low voice asDeryashkin turned away momentarilyfrom Avalon to take a large vodka on therocks from Henry.“He's a science writer,” said Drake. “Hecame to visit the laboratory to get somedetails on our work on hormonalinsecticides. We got to talking and it

occurred to me that he might enjoyhobnobbing with some filthy capitalists.”That Deryashkin enjoyed the meal wascertain. He ate with huge gusto, andHenry, having caught the spirit of handsacross the sea—or perhaps to show offAmerica at its most munificent—casually,and with the smooth unnoticeability thatwas his professional characteristic,brought him seconds of everything.Roger Halsted watched that processwistfully but said nothing. Ordinarily,second helpings were frowned upon at theBlack Widowers' banquets on the theorythat a swinishly crammed stomachdetracted from the brilliance of thepostprandial conversation and Halsted,

who taught mathematics at a junior highschool and who often felt the need ofcaloric support in consequence, mostdefinitely disagreed with that.“From what part of the Soviet Union doyou come, Mr. Deryashkin?” askedTrumbull.“From Tula, hundred-ninety kilometerssouth of Moscow. You have heard ofTula?”There was a moment of silence and thenAvalon said magisterially, “It played arole, I believe, in the Hitlerian War.”“Yes, yes.” Deryashkin seemed gratified.“In the late fall of 1941 the drive forMoscow reached out claws to the northand to the south. The advanced German

forces reached Tula. In the cold and thesnow we held them; they did not takeTula. They never took Tula. We calledout the home guard then: boys, old men. Iwas sixteen years old and carried a riflemade in our own factory. We make bestsamovars in Russia, too; Tula is notablein war and peace. Later in the war, I waswith artillery. I reached Leipzig, but notBerlin. —We were friends then, SovietUnion and America. May we stayfriends.” He lifted his glass.There was a murmur of agreement andDeryashkin's good humor was furtherstrengthened by the dessert. “What isthis?” he asked, pointing with his fork,after his first mouthful.

“Pecan pie,” said Drake.“Very good. Very rich.”Henry had a second piece of pie on thetable for Deryashkin almost as soon as thefirst had been devoured, and then, havingnoted Halsted's eyes following theprogress of that piece, quietly placed asimilar second helping before him aswell. Halsted looked in either direction,found himself studiously ignored, and fellto cheerfully.Trumbull leaned toward Drake andwhispered, “Does your guest know thesystem of grilling?”Drake whispered, “I tried to explain butI'm not sure he really got it. Anyway, let'snot ask him the usual opener about how he

justifies his existence. He may considerthat an anti-Soviet remark.”Trumbull's tanned face crinkled into asilent snarl. Then he said, “Well, it's yourbaby. Get it started.”Henry was quietly filling the small brandyglasses when Drake coughed, stubbed outhis cigarette, and tapped his water glasswith his fork. “It's time,” he said, “to dealwith our guest from abroad, and I suggestthat Manny, who has been suspiciouslysilent throughout the meal, undertake the—”Deryashkin was leaning back in his chair,his jacket unbuttoned, his tie loosened. Hesaid, “We come to the conversation now,and I suggest, with the permission of the

company, that we talk about your greatcity of New York. I have been here fortwo weeks now, and I will say it is a cityof the damned.”He smiled into the vacuum the remark hadcreated and nodded his head jovially. “Acity of the damned,” he said again.Trumbull said, “You're talking aboutWall Street, I suppose—that nest ofimperialist bloodsuckers?” (Drake kickedhis shin.)But Deryashkin shook his head andshrugged. “Wall Street? I haven't beenthere and it is of no interest. Consideringcondition of your dollar, I doubt WallStreet has much power these days.Besides, we are friends and I have no

wish to speak phrases such as imperialistbloodsuckers. That is part of thenewspaper cliché like 'dirty Commie rat.'Is that not so?”“All right,” said Rubin. “Let's not useugly words. Let's just use nice words likecity of the damned. Why is New York acity of the damned?”“It is a city of terror! You have crimeeverywhere. You live in fear. You do notwalk the streets. Your parks are powervacuums in which only hoodlums andhooligans can stroll. You cower behindlocked doors.”Avalon said, “I suppose that New Yorkshares the problems that beset all largeand crowded cities these days, including,

I am sure, the large cities of the SovietUnion. Still, these problems are not asbad as painted.”Deryashkin lifted both arms. “Do notmisunderstand. You are my excellenthosts and I have no wish to offend. Irecognize the conditions to bewidespread, but in a city like New York,gorgeous in many ways, very advancedand wealthy in many places, it seemswrong, ironic, that there should be somuch fear. Murders openly planned in thestreets! Actual war of one segment of thepopulation with another!”Rubin broke in with his beard bristlingcombatively for the first time thatevening. “I don't want to offend any more

than you do, Comrade, but I think you'vegot a badcase of believing your own propaganda.There's crime, yes, but for the most partthe city is peaceful and well off. Haveyou been mugged, sir? Have you beenmolested in any way?”Deryashkin shook his head. “So far, not. Iwill be honest,So far I have been treated with allpossible courtesy; not least, here. I thankyou. For the most part, though, I havebeen in affluent sections. I have not beenwhere your troubles are.”Rubin said, “Then how do you know thereare troubles except for what you read andhear in unfriendly media?”

“Ah,” said Deryashkin, “but I did ventureinto park— near the river. There I hear amurder planned. This is not what I read inany newspaper or what I am told by anyenemy or ill-wisher of your country. It isthe truth. I hear it.”Rubin, his glasses seeming to concentratethe fury in his eyes into an incandescentglare, pointed a somewhat tremblingfinger and said, “Look-—”But Avalon was on his feet and, from hisbetter than six feet, he easily dominatedthe table. “Gentlemen,” he said in hiscommanding baritone, “let's stop righthere. I have a suggestion to make. Ourguest, Tovarisch Deryashkin, seems tothink he has heard murder planned openly

in the streets. I confess I don't understandwhat he means by that, but I wouldsuggest we invite him to tell us in detailwhat he heard and under whatcircumstances. After all, he could be rightand it could be an interesting story.”Drake nodded his head vigorously. “I takehost's privilege and direct that Mr.Deryashkin tell us the story of the plannedmurder from the beginning and, Manny,you let him tell it.”Deryashkin said, “I will be glad to tell thestory as accurately as I can, for what it is.There are not many details, but that itinvolves murder there can be no doubt. —Perhaps before I start, more brandy. —Thank you, my friend,” he said amiably to

Henry.Deryashkin sipped at his brandy and said,“It happened late this morning. Zelykovand I—Zelykov is colleague, brilliantman in biology and genetics, held down abit in day of Lysenko, but excellent. Hedoes not speak English well and I act tointerpret for him. Zelykov and I were atthe Biology Department at ColumbiaUniversity for a couple of hours thismorning.“When we left, we were not certain howto follow up the leads we had received.We were not entirely sure aboutsignificance of what we have heard orwhat we should next do. We went downtoward the river—Hudson River, which

is very polluted, I understand—and welooked across to other shore, which ispretty from distance, but commercialized,I am told, and at highway, which is inbetween, and not so pretty.“It was a nice day. Quite cold, but colddays do not frighten a Russian from Tula.We sit and talk in Russian and it is apleasure to do so. Zelykov has only a fewwords of English and even for me it is astrain to talk English constantly. It is agreat language; I would not be offensive;the language of Shakespeare and yourown Mark Twain and Jack London, and Ienjoy it. But”—he cocked his head to oneside and thrust out his lips—”it is astrain, and it is pleasant to speak one's

native language and be fluent.“But I mention that we are speakingRussian only because it plays a part in thestory. You see, two young men, who don'tlook like hooligans, approach. They haveshort hair, they are shaved, they look wellto do. I am not really paying attention atfirst. I am aware they are coming but I aminterested in what I am saying and I amnot really clear that they are going tospeak to us till they do. I don't rememberexactly what they say, but it was like, 'Doyou mind if we sit?'“Naturally, I don't mind. There is twohalves to the bench, with a metal dividingin the middle. On each half is more thanenough for two people. Zelykov and I, we

are in one half; these two young men canbe in the other half. I say, 'Be our guests.You are welcome. Sit down and relax.'Something like that.“But—and this is the important thing—Ihave just been speaking Russian toZelykov, so when the young men askedthe question I answered, without thinking,still in Russian. I would have correctedthis, but they sat down at once and did notpay more attention to us, so I thought,Well, it is done and what more isnecessary to say?“You see, however”—and here hepaused, and tapped his nose with hisforefinger—”the significance of this?”Rubin said at once, “No. I don't”

“They thought we were foreigners.”“And so you are,” said Rubin.“Ah,” said Deryashkin, “but foreignerswho could not speak English.”Trumbull interposed, “And how does thatmatter, Mr. Deryashkin?”Deryashkin transferred his forefinger tothe palm of his left hand, marking eachemphasis. “// they think we speak English,they take another bench; but since they sayto themselves, 'Aha, we have hereforeigners who will not understand us,'they sit right down next to us and talkfreely, and of course I listen. I talk toZelykov, but I listen, too.”Halsted, staring at his empty brandy glass,said, “Why did you listen? Did they seem

suspicious?”“To me, yes,” said Deryashkin. “They arestudents, since we are near ColumbiaUniversity and they carry books. I know,of course, that the American student bodyis very activist and, in some cases,destructive.”Rubin interrupted hotly, “Three years ago.Not now.”“Of course,” said Deryashkin genially,“you defend. I do not criticize. Iunderstand that many students weremotivated by hostility to war, and this Iunderstand. Any humane idealist wouldbe in favor of peace. Yet it is undeniablethat under cover of idealism there areundesirable elements too. Besides, we

are sitting in a park. It is empty and thereis not someone we can count on for helpif the students are armed and hostile.Also, it is well known that in New Yorkbystanders do not interfere when acriminal action is taking place.“I do not actually think we are inimmediate danger, but it would befoolhardy to let attention wander. I keepaware of the hooligans and, withoutlooking at them, I listen a bit.”Rubin said, “Why do you call themhooligans? They haven't done anything sofar except to take a seat; and they askedpermission politely before they did thatmuch.”“The politeness,” said Deryashkin,

“cannot be given too much credit. Thatwas only to check what it was we were.And I call them hooligans because that iswhat they were. What they were talkingabout was a plan for murder.”There was a distinct air of incredulityabout the table as Deryashkin paused atthis point for effect. Finally Avalonasked, “Are you sure of that, Mr.Deryashkin?”“Quite sure. They used the word 'murder.'They used it several times. I did not hearall that they said clearly. They weretalking in low voices—a naturalprecaution. I was also talking, as wasZelykov.”Rubin leaned back in his chair. “So you

caught only scraps of conversation. Youcan't be sure there was anything wrongwith it.”“I heard the word 'murder,' Mr. Rubin,”said Deryashkin seriously. “I heard itseveral times. You know English betterthan I do, I'm sure, but you tell me if thereis any word in the English language that islike 'murder.' If they say 'mother' I canhear the difference. I can pronounce theEnglish th and I can hear it, so I do notput a d where it does not belong. I hearthe initial letter m clearly, so it is not —uh—girder, let us say, which I think isword for steel beams in buildingconstruction. I hear 'murder.' What elsedoes one talk about but killing if one

speaks of murder?”Gonzalo said, 'They could be using theword in a colloquial expression. If theywere discussing an upcoming footballgame with another college, they couldsay, 'We'll murder the bums!'“Deryashkin said, “They are talking tooseriously for that, my dear sir. It is not afootball game they discuss. It is lowtones, serious, very serious, and there isalso to be taken into account what elsethey said.”“Well, what else did they say?” askedTrumbull.“There was something about 'lying in theshadows,' which is something you don'tdo for football games. They would lie in

the shadows waiting to trap someone,catch them by surprise, murder them.”“Did they say all that?” demanded Rubin.“No, no. This is my interpretation.”Deryashkin frowned. *They also saidsomething about tying them up. 'Tie themup in the dark.' That they did say. Iremember distinctly. There was also talkabout a signal.”“What signal?” asked Avalon.“A ring of a bell. That I heard too. It is, Ithink, a well-organized conspiracy. Theywill lie in wait at night; there will be asignal when the right person is there orwhen the coast is clear; one ring of somekind; then they tie up the victim or victimsand murder them.

“There is no question about this in mymind,” Deryashkin continued. “Onehooligan is doing all the talking at first—as though he is reciting the plan—andwhen he is finished the other one says,'Right! You have it perfect! We'll go oversome of the other things, but you'll makeit.' And he warned him against talking.”“Against talking?” said Rubin.“Several times it was mentioned. Abouttalking. By both of them. Very seriously.”Rubin said, “You mean they sat downnext to two strangers, talked their headsoff, and warned each other againsttalking?”Deryashkin said rather tightly, “I saidseveral times they assumed we could not

speak English.”Trumbull said, “Look, Manny, let's notmake a fight out of this. Maybe Mr.Deryashkin has something here. There areradical splinter groups among the studentbodies of America. There have beenbuildings blown up.”“There have been no cold-bloodedmurders planned and carried out,” saidRubin.“Always a first time for everything,” saidAvalon, frowning, and clearly concerned.Trumbull said, “Well, Mr. Deryashkin,did you do anything?”“Do anything?” Deryashkin lookedpuzzled. “To hold them, you mean? It wasnot so easy. I am listening, trying to

understand, learn as much as possible,without showing that I am listening. Ifthey see I am listening, they will see weunderstand and will stop talking. Wemight even be in danger. So I don't look atthem while I am listening and suddenly itis silent and they are walking away.”“You didn't go after them?” asked Drake.Deryashkin shook his head emphatically.“If they are hooligans, they are armed. Itis well known that handguns are soldfreely in America and that it is verycommon for young people to carry arms.They are young and look strong, and I ammyself nearly fifty and am a man of peace.A war veteran, but a man of peace. As forZelykov, he has a bad chest and on him I

cannot count. If the hooligans leave, letthem leave.”“Did you report anything to the police?”asked Halsted.“I? Of what use? What evidence have I?What can I say? I see right now that youare all skeptical and you are intelligentmen who know my position and see that Iam a man of responsibility, a scientificman. Yet you are skeptical. What wouldthe policeman know but that I have heardthese scattered things? And I am a Sovietcitizen. Is it possible a policeman wouldaccept the word of a Russian foreigneragainst American young men? And Iwould not wish to be involved in whatcould become a large scandal that would

affect my career and perhaps embarrassmy country. So I say nothing. I do nothing.Can you suggest anything to say or do?”“Well, no,” said Avalon deliberately,“but if we wake up one of these morningsand discover that murder has been doneand that some group of college studentsare responsible, we would not exactlyfeel well. / would not.”“Nor I,” said Trumbull, “but I see Mr.Deryashkin's position. On the basis ofwhat he's told us, he would certainly havea hard time interesting a hard-boiledpolice sergeant. —Unless we had somehard evidence. Have you any idea whatthe students looked like, Mr.Deryashkin?”

“Not at all. I saw them for a moment asthey approached. After that I did not lookat them, merely listened. When they left, itwas only their backs I saw. I noticednothing unusual.”“You could not possibly identify them,then?”“Under no conditions. I have thoughtabout it. I said to myself, if the schoolauthorities were to show me pictures ofevery young man who attended ColumbiaUniversity, I could not tell which werethe two who had sat on the bench.”“Did you notice their clothes?” askedGonzalo.“It was cold, so they wear coats,” saidDeryashkin. “Gray coats, I think. I did not

really notice.”“Gray coats,” muttered Rubin.“Did they wear anything unusual?” saidGonzalo. “Funny hats, mittens, checkedscarves?”“Are you going to identify them thatway?” said Rubin. “*You mean you'rethinking of going to the police and they'llsay, 'That must be Mittens Garfinkel,well-known hooligan. Always wearsmittens.' “Gonzalo said patiently, “Any information—”But Deryashkin interposed. “Please,gentlemen, I noticed nothing of that kind. Icannot give any help in clothing.”Halsted said, “How about your

companion, Mr.—uh—”“Zelykov.”“How about Mr. Zelykov?” Halsted's softvoice seemed thoughtful. “If he noticedanything—”“No, he never looked at them. He wasdiscussing genes and DNA He didn't evenknow they were there.”Halsted placed his palm delicately on hishigh forehead and brushed back at non-existent hair. He said, “You can't be sure,can you? Is there any way you can callhim up right now and ask?”“It would be useless,” protestedDeryashkin. “I know. Believe me. Whenthey left, I said to him in Russian, 'Canyou imagine the criminality of those

hooligans?' and he said, 'What hooligans?'I said, 'Those that are leaving.' And heshrugged and did not look but kept ontalking. It was getting cold even for usand we left He knows nothing.”That's very frustrating,” said Halsted.“Hell,” said Rubin. “There's nothing tothis at all. I don't believe it.”“You mean I am lying?” said Deryashkin,frowning.“No,” said Rubin. “I mean it's amisinterpretation. What you heard can'tinvolve murder.”Deryashkin, still frowning, said, “Do allyou gentlemen believe that what I heardcan't involve murder?”Avalon, keeping his eyes on the tablecloth

in some embarrassment, said, “I can'treally say I am certain that a murder isbeing planned, but I think we ought to actas though a murder is being planned. Ifwe are wrong we have done nothingworse than make fools of ourselves. If weare right we might save one or morelives. Do the rest of you agree with that?”There was an uncertain murmur thatseemed to be agreement, but Rubinclenched a hostile fist and said, “What thedevil do you mean by acting, Jeff? Whatare we supposed to do?”Avalon said, “We might go to the police.It might be difficult for Mr. Deryashkin toget a hearing; but if one of us—or more—back him—”

“How would that help?” said Rubinsardonically. “If there were fifty millionof us introducing our friend here, theevidence would still boil down to theuncertain memory of one man who recallsa few scraps of conversation and whocannot identify the speakers.”“In that,” said Deryashkin, “Mr. Rubin isright. Besides, I will not take part. It isyour city, your country, and I will notinterfere. Nothing could be done in anycase, and when the murder takes place itwill be too bad, but it cannot be helped.”“Nothing will happen,” said Rubin.“No?” said Deryashkin. “How then canyou explain what I heard? If all else isignored, there is yet the word 'murder.' I

heard it clearly more than once and it is aword that cannot be mistaken. In theEnglish language there is nothing like'murder' that I could have taken for thatword. And surely if people speak ofmurder there must be murder in the wind.You are, I think, the only one here, Mr.Rubin, who doubts it.”There was a soft cough from one end ofthe table. Henry, who had cleared awaythe coffee cups, said apologetically, “Notthe only one, Mr. Deryashkin. I doubt ittoo. In fact, I am quite certain that whatthe young men said was harmless.”Deryashkin turned in his seat. He lookedsurprised. He said, “Comrade Waiter, ifyou—”

Trumbull said hastily, “Henry is amember of the Black Widowers. Henry,how can you be certain?”Henry said, “If Mr. Deryashkin willkindly consent to answer a few questions,I think we will all be certain.”Deryashkin nodded his head vigorouslyand spread out his arms. “Ask! I willanswer.”Henry said, “Mr. Deryashkin, I believeyou said that the park was empty and thatno one was in sight to help if the youngmen proved violent. Did I understandcorrectly? Were the other benches in thepark area unoccupied?”“Those we could see were empty,” saidDeryashkin readily. “Today was not a

pleasant day for park-sitting.”“Then why do you suppose the young mencame to your bench, the only one whichwas occupied?”Deryashkin laughed briefly and said, “Nomystery, my friend. The day was cold andour bench was the only one in the sun. Itwas why we picked it ourselves.”“But if they were going to discuss murder,surely they would prefer a bench tothemselves even if it meant being a littleon the cold side.”“You forget. They thought we wereforeigners who could not speak orunderstand English. The bench was emptyin a way.”Henry shook his head. “That does not

make sense. They approached you andasked to sit down before you spokeRussian. They had no reason to think youcouldn't understand English at the timethey approached.”Deryashkin said testily, “They might haveheard us talking Russian from a distanceand checked it out.”“And sat down almost at once, as soon asyou spoke Russian? They didn't test youany further? They didn't ask if youunderstood English? With murder in thewind, they were satisfied with a smallRussian comment from you, guessed theywould be safe, and sat down to discussopenly a hideous crime? Surely if theywere conspirators they would have stayed

as far away from you as possible in thefirst place, and even if they wereirresistibly attracted to the sun, theywould have put you through a much morecautious testing process. The logicalinterpretation of the events, at least to me,would seem to be that whatever they hadto discuss was quite harmless, that theywanted a bench in the sun, and that theydid not at all care whether they wereoverheard or not.”“And the word 'murder'?” saidDeryashkin with heavy sarcasm. “That,too, then, must be quite, quite harmless.”“It is the use of the word 'murder,'“ saidHenry, “that convinces me that the entireconversation was harmless, sir. It seems

to me, surely, that no one would use theword 'murder' in connection with theirown activities; only with those of others.If you yourself are going to murder, youspeak of it as 'rubbing him out,' 'takinghim for a ride,' 'getting rid of him,' or ifyou'll excuse the expression, sir,'liquidating him.' You might even say'killing him' but surely no one wouldcasually speak of murdering someone. Itis too ugly a word; it demandseuphemism.”“Yet they said it, Mr. Waiter,” saidDeryashkin. “Talk as you will, you won'targue me out of having heard that wordclearly more than once.”“They did not say what you heard,

perhaps.”“And how is that possible, my friend?Eh?”Henry said, “Even with the best will inthe world and with the most rigid honesty,Mr. Deryashkin, one can make mistakes ininterpreting what one hears, especially—please excuse me—if the language is notnative to you. For instance, you say theexpression 'tie them up' was used. Mightit not be said that you heard them say'bind them' and that you interpreted that as'tie them up'?”Deryashkin seemed taken aback. Hethought about it for a while. He said, “Icannot swear I did not hear them say 'bindthem.' Since you mention it, I begin to

imagine perhaps I heard it But does itmatter? 'Bind them' means 'tie them up.'““The meaning is approximately the same,but the words are different. And if it is'bind them' I know what it is you musthave heard if all the scraps you report areput together. Mr. Rubin knows too—better than I do, I believe—though he maynot quite realize it at the moment. I think itis his sub-realization that has made himso resistant to the notion of Mr.Deryashkin having overheard an actualconspiracy.”Rubin sat up in his seat, blinking. “Whatdo I know, Henry?”Deryashkin said, “You have to explain'murder.' Nothing counts if you do not

explain 'murder.' “Henry said, “I am not a linguist myself,Mr. Deryashkin, but I once heard it saidthat it is the vowels of a foreign languagethat are hardest to learn and that what iscalled a 'foreign accent' is mostly amispronunciation of vowels. You mighttherefore not be able to distinguish adifference in vowels and, even with allthe consonants unchanged, what you heardas 'murder' might really have been'Mordor.'“And at that Rubin threw up both handsand said, “Oh, my God.”“Exactly, sir,” said Henry. “Early in theevening, I recall a discussion betweenyourself and Mr. Gonzalo concerning

books that are popular with collegestudents. One of them, surely, was TheLord of the Rings trilogy by J. R. R.Tolkien.”“Tolkien” said Deryashkin, mystified, andstumbling over the word.Henry said, “He was an English writer offantasy who died very recently. I am quitesure that college students form Tolkiensocieties. That would account for thereferences to 'talking' that you mentioned,Dr. Deryashkin, as part of theconversation of the young men. They werenot exhorting each other to keep quiet butwere speaking of the Tolkien Society thatI imagine one of them wished to join.“In order to join, it might be that the

candidate must first memorize the shortpoem that is the theme of the entiretrilogy. If the young man were indeedreciting the poem, which twice mentions'the Land of Mordor,' then I believe everyscrap of conversation you heard could beaccounted for. Mr. Rubin recommendedthe trilogy to me once and I enjoyed itimmensely. I cannot remember the poemword for word, but I suspect Mr. Rubindoes.”“Do I!” said Rubin explosively. He roseto his feet, placed one hand on his chest,threw the other up to the ceiling, anddeclaimed grandiloquently:“Three Rings for the Elven-kings underthe sky, Seven for the Dwarf-lords in

their halls of stone,Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,One for the Dark Lord on his dark throneIn the Land of Mordor where theShadows lie.One Ring to rule them all, One Ring tofind them,One Ring to bring them all and in thedarkness bind themIn the Land of Mordor where theShadows lie.”Henry nodded, “You see that it includesnot only the word Mr. Deryashkininterpreted as 'murder' but also referenceto the 'one ring,' to 'lying in the shadows,'to 'tying them up in the dark.' “There was silence for a while.

Then Deryashkin said, “You are right.Now that I hear the poem, I must admitthat this is what I heard this morning.Quite right. —But how could you know,waiter?”Henry smiled. “I lack a sense of thedramatic, Mr. Deryashkin. You felt NewYork to be a jungle, so you heard junglesounds. For myself, I prefer to supposecollege students would sound like collegestudents.”5 AfterwordJ. R. R. Tolkien died on September 2,1973. I was in Toronto at the timeattending the 31st World Science FictionConvention and was deeply moved at the

news. —And yet on the very day I learnedof his death, I won the Hugo for myscience fiction novel The GodsThemselves and I couldn't help beinghappy.Having read Tolkien's The Lord of theRings three times at the time of his death(and I've read it a fourth time since) andhaving enjoyed it more each time, I feltthat the only way I could make up forhaving been happy on that sad day was towrite a story in memory of him. So Iwrote “Nothing Like Murder.”Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazinedecided, however, not to use it. Thefeeling was that the readers would not bewell enough acquainted with Tolkien to

be able to appreciate the story. So, aftersome hesitation, I sent it to the Magazineof Fantasy and Science Fiction, for whichI write a monthly science column.Rather to my surprise (for the story isneither fantasy nor science fiction), EdFerman, the editor of F & SF, accepted it,and it appeared in the October 1974 issueof the magazine. I then waited for angryletters from science fiction fans, but all Igot was a number of very pleasedcomments from readers who weredelighted that I was an admirer ofTolkien. So it all worked out well.To Table of Contents

6 No Smoking

James Drake was by no means the onlysmoker among the small membership ofthe Black Widowers, but he certainlymade the greatest single contribution tothe pall that commonly hovered over themonthly banquets of that august body.It was perhaps for that reason that thedour-faced Thomas Trumbull, arrivingtoward the end of the cocktail hour, as heusually did, and having un-parchedhimself with a scotch and soda that hadbeen handed him deftly and without delayby the invaluable Henry, hunched hislapel ostentatiously in Drake's direction.“What's that?” asked Drake, squinting

through the smoke of his cigarette.“Why the hell don't you read it and findout?” said Trumbull with somewhat morethan his usual savagery. “If the nicotinehas left you any eyesight with which toread, that is.”Trumbull's lapel bore a button whichread: “Thank you for not smoking.”Drake, having peered at it thoughtfully,puffed a mouthful of smoke in itsdirection and said, “You're welcome.Always glad to oblige.”Trumbull said, “By God, I'm a member ofthe most oppressed minority in the world.The non-smoker has no rights any smokerfeels bound to observe. Good Lord, don'tI have any claim to a measure of

reasonably clean and unpolluted air?”Emmanuel Rubin drifted toward them.His sparse and straggly beard liftedupward—a sure sign that he was about topontificate—and his eyes blinkedowlishly behind the magnifying thicknessof his glasses.“If you live in New York,” he said, “youinhale, in automobile exhaust, theequivalent of two packs of cigarettes aday, so what's the difference?” And heostentatiously lit a cigarette.“All the more reason why I don't want anymore on top of the exhaust I breathe,” saidTrumbull, scowling.“Don't tell me,” said Drake in his softlyhoarse voice, “that you believe this

hogwash that—”“Yes, I believe it,” snapped Trumbull, “ifyou want to risk heart attacks,emphysema, and lung cancer, that's yourbusiness, and I wish you joy of any or allof them. I wouldn't interfere with yourpleasure for the world if you want to do itoff in a closed room somewhere. But whythe hell should / breathe your foul smokeand run the risk of disease so that youmight have your perverse pleasure—”He broke off since Drake, who wasvisibly attempting not to, had one of hisnot too infrequent coughing spells.Trumbull looked pleased. “Happycoughing,” he said. “When's the last timeyou could breathe freely?”

Roger Halsted, who occasionally smokedbut was not doing so at the moment, said,with the mild stutter with which he wassometimes afflicted, “Why are you soupset, Tom? What makes this meetingdifferent from any other?”“Nothing at all, but I've had enough. I'veoverflowed. Every time I come homeafter an evening with you smolderinggarbage piles, my clothes smell and Ihave to burn them.”“What I think,” said Drake, “is that hefound that button when he was reachinginto a subway trash can for a newspaper,and it's made a missionary out of him.”“I feel like a missionary,” said Trumbull.“I would like to push a law through

Congress that would place tobacco in thesame category with marijuana andhashish. By God, the evidence for thephysiological damage caused by tobaccois infinitely stronger than for any damagecaused by marijuana.”Geoffrey Avalon, always sensitive to anyreference to his own profession of law,stared down austerely from his seventy-four inches and said, “I would not adviseanother law legislating morality. Some ofthe finest men in history have tried toreform the world by passing laws againstbad habits, and there is no record of anyof them working. I'm old enough toremember Prohibition in this country.”Trumbull said, “You smoke a pipe.

You're an interested party. Am I the onlynon-smoker here?”“I don't smoke,” said Mario Gonzalo,raising his voice. He was in anothercorner, talking to the guest.“All right then,” said Trumbull. “Comehere, Mario. You're host for the evening.Set up a no-smoking rule.”“Out of order. Out of order,” said Rubinheatedly. “The host can only legislate onBlack Widower procedures, not onprivate morality. He can't order themembers to take off their clothes, or tostand on their heads and whistle 'Dixie, orto stop smoking—or to start smoking, forthat matter.”“It could be done,” said Halsted gently,

“if the host proposed the measure and putit to a vote, but the smokers are four totwo against you, Tom.”“Wait awhile,” said Trumbull. “There'sHenry. He's a member. What do you say,Henry?”Henry, the perennial waiter at the BlackWidowers' banquets, had nearlycompleted setting the table. Now he liftedhis smooth and unwrinkled face which, asalways, belied the fact that he was asexagenarian, and said, “I do not myselfsmoke and would welcome a ban onsmoking, but I do not demand it.”“Even if he did,” said Rubin, “it wouldbe four to three, still a majority on theside of vice.”

“How about the guest?” said Trumbulldoggedly, “Mr.—”“Hilary Evans,” said Avalon severely.He made it his business never to forget aguest's name, at least for the evening ofthe dinner.Trumbull said, “Where do you stand, Mr.Evans?”Hilary Evans was short and tubby, withcheeks that were plump, pink, andsmooth. His mouth was small and his eyeswere quick-moving behind the lightlytinted lenses of his metal-rimmedspectacles. His hair, surprisingly dark inview of the lightness of his complexion,lay back smoothly. He might have been inhis middle forties.

He said in a tenor voice, “I smokeoccasionally and do not often mind ifothers do, but I have current reasons forsympathy with you, sir. Smoking has beenthe occasion for misery for me.”Trumbull, one eye nearly closing as helifted the side of his mouth in a snarl,looked as though he would have pressedthe matter further, but Rubin said at once,“Five to three. Issue settled,” and Henryimperturbably announced that the dinnerwas served.Trumbull scrambled to get the seat next toGonzalo, the other non-smoker, and askedhim in an undertone, “Who is this-Evans?”Gonzalo said, “He's personnel manager

for a firm in whose advertising campaignI was involved. He interviewed me and,even though he's rather a queer guy, wegot along. I thought he might beinteresting.”“I hope so,” said Trumbull, “though Idon't think much of a guy who votes withthe enemy even though he sympathizeswith me.”Gonzalo said, “You don't know thedetails.”“I intend to find out,” said Trumbullgrimly.The dinner conversation had troublegetting off the subject of tobacco. Avalon,who had reduced his second drink to theusual half-way mark and had then left it

severely alone, remarked that cigarettesmoking was the only new viceintroduced by modern man.“How about LSD and the mind-expandingdrugs?” said Gonzalo at once and Avalon,having thought about that for a moment,owned defeat.Rubin loudly demanded the definition of“vice.” He said, “Anything you don't likeis a vice. If you approve of it, it isn't.Many a temperance crusader wasaddicted to food as viciously as anyonecould be addicted to drink.” And Rubin,who was thin, pushed his soup away halfeaten, with a look of ostentatious virtue.Halsted, who was not thin, muttered, “Notmany calories in clear turtle soup.”

Trumbull said, “Listen, I don't care whatyou do, or whether it's a vice or a virtue,as long as you keep it to yourself and tothose you practice it with. If you drinkwhisky and I don't want to, no alcoholgets into my blood; if you want to pick upa dame, there's no risk of my picking upanything that goes along with that. Butwhen you drag at a cigarette I smell thesmoke, I get it in my lungs, I run the riskof cancer.”“Quite right,” said Evans suddenly.“Filthy habit,” and he glanced quickly atDrake, who was sitting next to him andwho shifted his cigarette to his otherhand, the one farther from Evans.Avalon cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,

there are no strictures against tobacco thatcan be considered new. Over three and ahalf centuries ago James I of Englandwrote a book called Counterblast toTobacco in which he rehearsed everypoint that Tom could make, allowing forgains in scientific knowledge since then—”“And you know what kind of a personJames I was?” said Rubin with a snort.“Filthy and stupid.”“Not really stupid,” said Avalon. “HenryIV of France called him the 'wisest fool inChristendom' but that merely indicated helacked judgment rather than learning.”“I call that stupid,” said Rubin.“If lacking judgment were the criterion,

few of us would escape,” said Avalon.“You'd be first in line, Manny,” saidTrumbull, and then allowed hisexpression to soften as Henry placed agenerous sliver of pecan pie, laden withice cream, before him. Trumbullapproved of pecan pie as he approved offew things.Over the last of the coffee Gonzalo said,“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! I think it's timeto leave the general for the specific. Ourguest is now the subject and, Tom, areyou willing—”Trumbull said with alacrity, “I am notonly willing to take over the grilling, Iinsist on it. Let's have quiet. —Henry, youcan bring the brandy at your convenience.

—Mr. Evans, it is the custom of thisorganization to ask a guest, as our firstquestion, how he justifies his existence. Inthis case, I will tell you how you mayjustify your existence as far as I amconcerned. Please tell me why it is youhave current reason to sympathize withmy view on smoking, though you smokeyourself on occasions. Have you beencheated by the tobacco industry?”Evans shook his head and smiled briefly.“It has nothing to do with the tobaccoindustry. I wish it had. I work for aninvestment firm and my reasons have todo with my activities there.”“In what way?”Evans looked rather gloomy. “That,” he

said, “would be difficult to explainadequately. I might say that a matter ofsmoking has rather spoiled a hithertoperfect record of mine in the SherlockHolmes way. But,” and here he sighed,“I'd rather not talk about it, to be perfectlyhonest.”“Sherlock Holmes?” said Gonzalodelightedly. “Henry, if—”Trumbull waved an imperious arm. “Shutup, Mario. I think, Mr. Evans, that theprice of the meal is an honest attempt onyour part to explain exactly what youmean. We have time and we will listen.”Evans sighed again. He adjusted hisglasses and said, “Mr. Gonzalo, ininviting me, you told me I would be

grilled. I must confess I did not think thesore spot would be probed at the verystart.”Trumbull said, “Sir, I merely followed upyour own remark. You have no one toblame but yourself for making it. Pleasedo not spoil our game.”Gonzalo said, “It's all right, Mr. Evans. Itold you that nothing said in this room isever repeated outside.”“Never!” said Trumbull emphatically.Evans said, “Not that there is anything inthe least criminal or unethical about whathappened to me. It is merely that I will beforced to—deflate myself. I imagine Icould easily be made fun of if it were tobecome general knowledge that—”

“It will not get about,” said Trumbull and,anticipating the other's next remark out ofweary experience, went on, “Nor will ouresteemed waiter be a problem to you. Ofus all, Henry is the most trustworthy.”Evans cleared his throat and held hisbrandy glass between thumb andforefinger. “The point is that I ampersonnel manager. It is my job to helpdecide on whether this one or that one isto be hired, fired, promoted, or leftbehind. Sometimes I turn out to be thecourt of last resort, for I have provenmyself to be expert at the job. —You see,since I have been assured of theconfidentiality of what I say, I can affordto praise myself.”

“Tell the truth even if it be self-praise,”said Trumbull. “In what way have youproved yourself to be expert?”“In hiring a man to a sensitive position,”said Evans, “and many of our positionsare extremely sensitive since we routinelyhandle very large sums of money, we, ofcourse, rely on all sorts of reference datawhich the applicant, whether coming fromoutside or facing promotion from inside,may be unaware of. We know much abouthis background, his character, hispersonality, his experience.“Yet that, you see, if often not enough. Toknow that a person has done well in acertain position is no certain augury thathe will do well in another more

responsible position, or one that is merelydifferent. To know that he has done wellin the past does not tell us what strains heis under that might cause him to do ill inthe future. We may not know to whatextent he dissimulates. The human mind isa mystery, gentlemen.“It may happen, then, that on certainoccasions there is left room for doubt,despite all the information we have, and itis then that the judgment is left up to me.For many years my judgments have beenjustified by subsequent experience withthose I have chosen for one position oranother, and in many cases by indirectexperience with those I have turned away.At least this has been so until—”

Evans removed his glasses and rubbedhis eyes as though aware that an innersight had failed him. “My superiors arekind enough to say that one mistake intwenty-three years is excusable, but itdoesn't help. I shall not be trusted infuture as I have been before. And rightlyso, for I acted too soon, and on the basisof a prejudice.”Gonzalo, who was putting the finaltouches on the sketch of the guest, andmaking him look preternaturally primwith a mouth pursed to a dot, said,“Against whom or what were youprejudiced?”Rubin said, “Artists, I hope.”Trumbull cried out, “Let the man talk. —

The prejudice had something to do withsmoking?”Evans replaced his glasses carefully andfixed his gaze on Trumbull. “I have asystem which is impossible to describe inwords, for it is based partly on intuitionand partly on experience. —I am a closeobserver of the minutiae of humanbehavior. I mean the small things. I selectsomething highly characteristic of aparticular person, out of some instinctivefeeling I appear to have.“It might be smoking, for instance. If so, Inote how he handles the cigarette; how hefiddles with it; the manner in which hepuffs; the interval between puffs; how fardown he smokes the stub; how he puts it

out. There is infinite complexity in theinteraction between a person and hiscigarette—or anything else, his tie clasp,his ringers, the table before him. I havestudied the complexity of small behaviorall my adult life, first out of curiosity andamusement and, soon enough, out ofserious intent.”Drake smiled narrowly and said, “Youmean those little things tell you somethingabout the people you interview?”“Yes, they do,” said Evans emphatically.“All right. That's where the SherlockHolmes angle comes in. And what canyou tell us about ourselves, then?”Evans shook his head. “I have beenpaying little professional attention to any

of you. Even if I had, the conditions hereare not proper for my purposes and I amwithout the ancillary knowledge that morestandardized investigations would haveplaced on my desk. I can say very littleabout you.”Trumbull said, “This isn't a parlor gameanyway, Jim. Mr. Evans can tell you're atobacco addict who flips ashes into hissoup—”Evans looked surprised and said hastily,“As a matter of fact, Dr. Drake did getsome ashes in his soup—”“And I noticed it too,” said Trumbull.“What are the proper conditions for youto study your victim?”“The conditions I have standardized over

the years. The person to be interviewedenters my office alone. He sits in a certainchair under a certain light. He is under acertain tension I do nothing to relieve. Itake some time to choose what it is I willobserve in detail, and then we start.”“What if you don't find anything you canobserve? What if he's a complete blank?”asked Gonzalo.“That never happens. Something alwaysshows up.”Gonzalo said, “Did something show upwhen you interviewed me?”Evans shook his head. “I never discussthat sort of thing with the individualsinvolved, but I can tell you this. Therewas a mirror in the room.”

Gonzalo bore up under the generallaughter and said, “A handsome man hashis problems.”Trumbull said, “Someone must have toldyou that. —Mr. Evans, could you get tothe crux of your story: yourembarrassment.”Evans nodded and looked unhappy. Heturned slightly and said to Henry, “Iwonder if I might have another cup ofcoffee.”“Certainly, sir,” said Henry.Evans sipped at it and said thoughtfully,“The trouble is, you see, that I havewatched smoking so meticulously on somany occasions that I have developed adislike for smokers; a prejudice, if you

will; even though I smoke myself onoccasion. It is not nearly as strong asyours, Mr. Trumbull, but on occasion itexplodes and it did so to my own hurt onone occasion.“The story concerns two men who hadworked in a branch office of ours; we cancall them—uh, Williams and Adams.”Avalon cleared his throat and said, “If Iwere you, Mr. Evans, I would use theirreal names. In the course of telling thestory, you are very likely to do soanyway. Remember that you speak here inconfidence.”Evans said, “I will attempt thesubstitution in any case. The two menwere quite different in appearance.

Williams was a large, bulky man withsomething of a stoop and with a slow wayof talking. Adams was smaller, straighter,and could be very eloquent indeed.“Both were of an age, both in their earlythirties; both were equally competent, itappeared, and had fulfilled their jobswith equal satisfaction; both seemed to bequalified to fill a key opening that hadbecome available in the home office.Both were bachelors, both ratherwithdrawn. Both led quiet lives and didnot seem to show elements of instabilityin their socializing—”Halsted interrupted. “What does thatmean? Instability?”Evans said, “Neither gambled to a

dangerous extent. Neither exhibitedsexual or personal habits so at variancewith their social surroundings as to makethem unduly conspicuous. Neitherexhibited strong likes or dislikes thatmight twist them into unexpected actions.They had come to be friendly in a mildsort of way while working in the sameoffice, but it was symptomatic of the lackof intensity of emotion in both men that,although it was the closest friendshipeither had, as far as we knew, it wasmerely a casual relationship.”Rubin, leaning back in his chair, said,“Well, that churns up ray writer's soul.Here we have two mild buddies, goingdown life's pathway in parallel paths,

both quiet milksops— and now they findthat they are competing for the same job, ajob with more money and more prestige,and suddenly the lambs become lions andturn on each other—”“Nothing of the kind,” said Evansimpatiently. “There was competitionbetween the two, of course. That couldn'tbe helped. But neither before nor afterwas there any sign that this rivalry wouldfind a release in violence.“Both had taken advantage of thecompany's policy of encouraging furthereducation and had been involved incourses in computer technology which wesupervised. Both had done very well. Itwas hard to choose between them. All the

data we had indicated, rathersurprisingly, that Williams —slow,bumbling Williams—was actually a triflethe more intelligent of the two. Yet therewas hesitation; he somehow didn't seemmore intelligent than the quick andarticulate Adams. So they left it up to me,with their usual confidence in my methods—”Trumbull said, “Do you mean to tell usthat your company knew you judged menby how they fiddled with paper clips andso on?”“They knew this,” said Evans a littledefensively, “but they also knew that myrecommendations were invariably provenaccurate in the aftermath. What more

could they ask?”He finished his coffee and went on. “Isaw Williams first, since I rather had thesuspicion that he might be the man. Iwould not turn down the better-qualifiedman simply because he was slow-spoken.I suppose,” and he sighed, “everythingwould have been entirely different if 1had seen Adams first, but we can't adjustpast circumstances to suit ourconvenience, can we?“Williams seemed distinctly nervous, butthat was certainly not unusual. I askedsome routine questions while I studied hisbehavior. I noticed that his rightforefinger moved on the desk as though itwere writing words, but that stopped

when he caught me looking at his hand; Ishould have been more careful there. Infact I had not really settled on what I wasto study, when he reached for thecigarettes and matches.”“What cigarettes?” asked Rubin.“I keep an unopened pack of cigarettes onthe desk, together with a matchbook, somepaper clips, a ball-point pen, and othersmall objects within easy reach of theperson being interviewed. There is agreat tendency to handle them and that canbe useful to me. The pack of cigarettes isoften played with, for instance, but it israrely opened.“Williams, however, opened the pack andthat caught me rather by surprise, I must

confess. His dossier had not mentionedhim to be a heavy smoker, and forsomeone to help himself to theinterviewer's cigarettes without askingpermission would require a strongaddiction.”Evans closed his eyes as though he werereproducing the scene upon the innersurface of his eyelids and said, “I can seeit now. I became aware of an incongruityin the proceedings when he placed acigarette between his lips with an attemptat simulating self-possession that utterlyfailed. It was then that I began to watch,since the incompatibility of the arrogancethat led him to take a cigarette withoutpermission and the timorousness with

which he handled the cigarette caught myattention.“His lips were dry, so that he had toremove the cigarette briefly, and wet hislips with his tongue. He then put it backbetween his lips and held it there asthough he were afraid it would fall out.He seemed more and more nervous and Iwas now watching nothing else, only hishand and his cigarette. I was sure theywould tell me all I wanted to know. Iheard him scratch a match to life and, stillholding onto the cigarette, he lit it withthe match in his left hand.“He seemed to hesitate, taking one or twoshallow puffs while I watched and then,as though somehow aware I was not

impressed by his performance, he inhaleddeeply, and instantly went into aprolonged and apparently dangerous fit ofcoughing. —It turned out that he didn'tsmoke.”Evans opened his eyes. “That came out atonce, of course. Apparently, he felt thatby smoking he would impress me as asuave and competent fellow. He knewthat he had a bumbling appearance andwanted to counteract it. It did quite thereverse. It was an attempt to use me, tomake a fool of me, and I was furious. Itried not to show it but I knew at once thatunder no circumstances would Irecommend Williams for the job.“And that was disastrous, of course. Had

I seen Adams first, I would surely haveinterviewed him in my most meticulousfashion. As it was, with Williams out, Iam afraid I treated Adams casually. Irecommended him after the barestinteraction. Do you wonder that myprejudice against smoking has intensifiedand that I am more inclined now than Iwas before to sympathize with yourviews, Mr. Trumbull?”Trumbull said, “I take it that Mr. Adamsproved incompetent at the job.”“Not at all,” said Evans. “For two yearshe filled it in the fashion that I hadpredicted in my report after myinadequate examination of him. In fact, hewas brilliant. In a number of cases he

made decisions that showed real courageand that proved, in the aftermath, to havebeen correct.“He was, in fact, in line for anotherpromotion when one day he disappeared,and with him over a million dollars incompany assets. When the situation wasstudied, it seemed that he had beenintelligent enough and daring enough toplay successful games with a computer,and his courageous decisions, which wehad all applauded, had been part of thegame. You see, had I examined him asthoroughly as I should have done, I wouldnot have missed that streak of cunning andof patience. It was obvious he had beenplanning the job for years and had studied

computer technology with that thought inmind and with the object of qualifyinghimself for the promotion which he finallygained. —Quite disastrous, quitedisastrous.”Drake said, “Over a million is quitedisastrous all right.”“No, no,” said Evans. “I mean the blow tomy pride and to my standing in thecompany. Financially, it is no great blow.We were insured and we may even get thestolen items back someday. In fact, justicehas been done in a crude sort of way.Adams did not get away with it; in fact,he's dead.” Evans shook his head andlooked depressed.“Rather brutally, too, I'm afraid,” he went

on. “He had lost himself, quitedeliberately and successfully, in one ofthe rabbit warrens of the city, disguisedhimself more by a new way of life than byanything physical, lived on his savingsand didn't touch his stealings, and waitedpatiently for time to bring him relativesafety. But he got into a fight somehowand was knifed. He was taken to themorgue and his fingerprints identifiedhim. That was about six months ago.”“Who killed him?” asked Gonzalo.“That's not known. The police theory isthis— The privacy index of a slum is lowand somehow the fact that Adams hadsomething hidden must have gottenaround. Perhaps he drank a bit to forget

the rather miserable life he was leadingwhile waiting to be safely rich, andperhaps he talked a bit too much.Someone tried to cut himself in on theloot; Adams resisted; and Adams died.”“And did whoever killed him take theloot?”Evans said, “The police think not. Noneof the stolen items have surfaced in thesix months since Adams' murder. Adamsmight have the patience to sit on a fortuneand lie in hiding, but the average thiefwould not. So the police think the hoardis still wherever Adams kept it.”Halsted made his characteristic brushinggesture up along his high forehead, asthough checking to see if the hairline had

yet come down to its original place, andsaid thoughtfully, “Could you check on thecompany's knowledge of the details ofAdams' life and personality and work outa kind of psychological profile that wouldtell where the stolen goods would havebeen placed?”“I tried that myself,” said Evans, “but theanswer we came up with is that a manlike Adams would hide it mostingeniously. And that does us no good.”Avalon said with a sudden slap of hishand on the table, “I have an idea. Whereis Williams? The other man, the one wholost out, I mean?”Evans said, “He's still at his old job, anddoing well enough.”

Avalon said, “Well, you might consulthim. They were friends. He might knowsomething the company doesn't; somethingvital that he himself wouldn't dream isvital.”“Yes,” said Evans dryly. “That occurredto us and he was interviewed. It wasuseless. You see, the friendship betweenthe two men had been mild enough tobegin with, but it had ceased completelyafter the incident of the interviews.“Apparently Adams had, in apparentfriendliness, advised Williams to practicesmoking in order to demonstrate self-possession and nonchalance. Adams hadoften told the large, slow-speakingWilliams that he made an unfortunate first

impression and that he should dosomething about it.“Adams' often-repeated advice had itseffect at precisely the wrong moment forWilliams. Sitting in my office and keenlyaware that he made a poor appearance, hecould not resist reaching for the cigarettes—with disastrous results. The poor manblamed Adams for what happened,although the action was his own and hemust bear the responsibility himself. Still,it ended the friendship and we could learnnothing useful from Williams.”Gonzalo interrupted excitedly, “Wait aminute! Wait a minute! Couldn't Adamshave deliberately set it up that way; sortof hypnotized Williams into the act?

Couldn't he have arranged it so thatWilliams was sure to reach for a cigaretteat some crucial point? The interviewwould be the crucial point; Williamswould be eliminated; Adams would getthe job.”Evans said, “I don't accept suchMachiavellianism. How would Adamsknow that there would be cigarettes athand on just that occasion? Too unlikely.”“Besides,” said Avalon, “that sort ofIago-like manipulation of human beingsworks on the stage but not in real life.”There was a silence after that and thenTrumbull said, “So that's it, I suppose.One crook, now a dead man, and onebundle of stolen goods, hidden

somewhere. Nothing much we can dowith that. I don't think that even Henrycould do anything with that.” He lookedtoward Henry, who was standing by thesideboard patiently. “Henry! Could youtell us, by chance, where the hiding placeof the ill-gotten pelf might be?”“I think I might, sir,” said Henry calmly.Trumbull said, “What?”Evans said in Trumbull's direction, “Is hejoking?”Henry said, “I think it is possible, on thebasis of what we have heard here thisevening, to work out what may reallyhave happened.”Evans said indignantly, “What reallyhappened other than what I have told you?

This is nonsense.”Trumbull said, “I think we ought to hearHenry, Mr. Evans. He's got a knack too.”“Well,” said Evans, “let him have hissay.”Henry said, “It occurs to me that becauseof Mr. Williams' foolish behavior at theinterview you were virtually forced torecommend Mr. Adams—yet it is hard tobelieve that Mr. Williams could be sostupid as to imagine he could pretend tosmoke when he was a non-smoker. It iscommon knowledge that a non-smokerwill cough if he inhales cigarette smokefor the first time.”Evans said, “Williams says he wastricked into it by Adams. It was more

likely, stupidity. It may be hard to believethat a person could be stupid, but underpressure some quite intelligent people dostupid things and this was one of thoseoccasions.”“Perhaps it was,” said Henry, “andperhaps we are looking at the matter fromthe wrong end. Perhaps it was not Adamswho tricked Williams into attempting tosmoke, thus forcing you to recommendAdams for the job. Perhaps it wasWilliams who did it deliberately in orderto force you to recommend Adams for thejob.”“Why should he do that?” said Evans.“Might the two not have been workingtogether, with Williams the brains of the

pair? Williams arranged to have Adamsdo the actual work while he remained inthe background and directed activities.Then might not Williams, after arranginga murder as cleverly as he had arrangedthe theft, have taken the profits? And if allthat is so, would you not expect Williams,right now, to know where the stolengoods are?”Evans merely stared in utter disbelief andit fell to Trumbull to put the generalstupefaction into words. “You've pulledthat from thin air, Henry.”“But it fits, Mr. Trumbull. Adams couldnot have arranged the smoking attempt.He wouldn't have known the cigaretteswould be there. Williams would know; he

was sitting there. He might have hadsomething else in mind to force Adamsinto the job but, seeing the cigarettes, heused those.”“But it's still out of whole cloth, Henry.There's no evidence.”“Consider,” said Henry earnestly. “Anon-smoker can. scarcely pretend to be asmoker. He will cough; nothing will (prevent that. But anyone can cough atwill; a cough need never be genuine.What if Williams was, in actual fact, anaccomplished smoker who had oncegiven up smoking? It would have been theeasiest thing for him to pretend he was anon-smoker by pretending to cough

uncontrollably.”Evans shook his head stubbornly. “Thereis nothing to indicate Williams was asmoker.”“Isn't there?” said Henry. “Is it wise ofyou, sir, to concentrate so entirely on oneparticular variety of behavior patternwhen you interview a prospect? Mightyou not miss something crucial that wasnot part of the immediate pattern youwere studying?”Evans said coldly, “No.”Henry said, “You were watching thecigarette, sir, and nothing else. You werenot watching the match with which it waslit. You said you heard him scratch thematch; you didn't see it.”

“Yes, but what of that?”Henry said, “These days, there is nooccasion to use matches for anything butcigarettes. A non-smoker, in an age whenelectricity does everything and even gasstoves have pilot lights, can easily goyears without striking a match. It followsthat a non-smoker who cannot inhalesmoke without coughing cannot handle amatchbook with any skill at all. Yet youdescribed .Williams as having held hiscigarette with his right hand and havingused his left hand only to light it.” “Yes.”“An unskilled smoker,” said Henry,“would surely use two hands to light acigarette, one to hold the matchbook andone to remove the match and strike it on

the friction strip. A skilled smokerpretending to be unskilled might be sointent on making sure he handled thecigarette with the properly amateurishtouch that he might forget to do the samefor the match. In fact, forgetting the matchaltogether, he might, absent-mindedly, usethe kind of technique that only anaccomplished smoker could possiblyhave learned and have lit the match one-handed. I have seen Dr. Drake do such athing.”Drake, who had, for the last minute, beenlaughing himself into a quiet coughing fit,managed to say, “I don't do it oftenanymore, because I use a cigarette lighterthese days, but here's how it goes.”

Holding a book of matches in his lefthand, he bent one of the matches doublewith his left thumb so that the head cameup against the friction strip. A quickstroke set it aflame.Henry said, “This is what Williams musthave done, and that one-handed matchstrike indicates an accomplished smokerfar more surely than any number of coughswould indicate a non-smoker. If thepolice look back into his past life farenough, they'll find a time when hesmoked. His act in your office will thenseem exactly what it was—an act.”“Good God, yes,” said Trumbull, “andyou can preserve Black Widowerconfidentiality. Just tell the police that

you remember—what you actuallyremember, what you've told us tonight.”“But to have not realized this,” saidEvans confusedly, “will make me seemmore a fool than ever.”“Not,” said Henry softly, “if yourstatement leads to a solution of thecrime.”6 Afterword“No Smoking” appeared in the December1974 issue of Ellery Queen's MysteryMagazine under the title of “Confessionsof an American Cigarette Smoker.”I'm growing ever more fanatical on thesubject of smoking. Trumbull in this storyis speaking for me. I allow no smoking in

either my apartment or my office, but oneis limited in one's dictatorial powerselsewhere. The meetings of the TrapDoor Spiders are indeed made hideouswith smoke— as are almost all othermeetings I attend.There's nothing I can do about it directly,of course, except to complain when thelaw is with me. (I once plucked thecigarette out of the hand of a woman whowas smoking under a “No Smoking” signin an elevator and who wouldn't put it outwhen I asked her, politely, to do so.) Ithelps a bit, though, to write a storyexpressing my views.To Table of Contents

7 Season's Greetings

Thomas Trumbull, whose exact positionwith government intelligence was notknown to the other Black Widowers,creased his face into a look of agonizedcontempt, bent toward Roger Halsted, andwhispered, “Greeting Cards?”“Why not?” asked Halsted, his eyebrowslifting and encroaching on the pinkexpanse of his forehead. “It's anhonorable occupation.”Trumbull had arrived late to the monthlybanquet of the Black Widowers and hadbeen introduced to the guest of theevening even while Henry, the wonder-waiter, had placed the scotch and soda

within the curve of his clutching fingers.The guest, Rexford Brown, had amarkedly rectangular face, a good-humored mouth, a closely cut fuzz ofwhite hair, a soft voice, and a patientexpression.Trumbull said discontentedly, “It's theseason for it, with Christmas next week;I'll grant you that much. Still it meanswe'll have to sit here and listen to MannyRubin tell us his opinion of greetingcards.”“Who knows?” said Halsted. “It may turnout that he's written greeting-card rhymeshimself. Anyone who's been a boyevangelist—”Emmanuel Rubin, writer and polymath,

had, as was well known, an incrediblesharpness of hearing where mention wasmade, however tangentially, of himself.He drifted over and said, “Written what?”“Greeting-card rhymes,” said Halsted.“You know—'There once were threetravelers Magian, Who on a most festiveoccasion—'““No limericks, damn you,” shoutedTrumbull. Geoffrey Avalon looked upfrom the other end of the room and said inhis most austere baritone, “Gentlemen, Ibelieve Henry wishes to inform us thatwe may be seated.”Mario Gonzalo, the club artist, hadalready completed his sketch of the guestwith an admirable economy of strokes

and said lazily, “I've been thinking aboutRoger's limericks. Granted, they're prettyputrid, but they can still be put to use.”“If you printed them on toilet paper—”began Trumbull.“I mean money,” said Gonzalo. “Look,these banquets cost, don't they? It wouldbe nice if they could be made self-supporting, and Manny knows about a halfdozen publishers who will publishanything if they publish his garbage—”Drake, stubbing his cigarette out with onehand, put the other over Mario's mouth.“Let's not get Manny into an explosivemood.”But Rubin, who was inhaling veal at itsmost Italian with every indication of

olfactory pleasure, said, “Let him talk,Jim. I'm sure he has an idea that will addnew dimensions to the very concept ofgarbage.”“How about a Black Widowers' LimerickBook?”“A what?” said Trumbull in a stupefiedtone.“Well, we all know limericks. I have onethat goes, There was a young lady ofSydney Who could take it—'““We've heard it,” said Avalon, frowning.“And, There was a young fellow ofJuilliard With a—”“We've heard that one too.”“Yes,” said Gonzalo, “but the greatpublic out there hasn't. If we included all

the ones we make up and all the ones wecan remember, like Jim's limerick aboutthe young lady of Yap, the one that rhymes'interstices' and 'worse disease'—”“I will not,” said Trumbull, “consent tohave the more or less respectable name ofthe Black Widowers contaminated withany project of such infinite lack ofworth.”“What did I tell you about garbage?” saidRubin.Gonzalo looked hurt. “What's wrong withthe idea? We could make an honest buck.We could even include clean ones.Roger's are all clean.”“That's because he teaches at a juniorhigh school,” said Drake, snickering.

“You should hear some of those kids,”said Halsted. “How many are in favor ofa Black Widowers? Limerick Book?Gonzalo's hand went up in lonelysplendor. Halsted looked as though hemight join him; his arm quivered—butstayed down.Rexford Brown asked mildly, “May Ivote?”“It depends,” said Trumbull suspiciously.“Are you in favor or not?”“Oh, I'm in favor.”“Then you can't vote.”“Oh well, it wouldn't change the result,anyway, but I’m for anything that willbring moments of pleasure. There aren'tenough of those.”

Gonzalo, speaking with his mouth full,said, “Tom never had one. How would heknow?”Rubin, with a clear effort to keep fromsounding sardonic, and marking up a clearfailure, said, “Is it those moments ofpleasure that justify you in spending yourlife in the greeting-card business, Mr.Brown?”“One of the ways,” said Brown.“Hold it, Manny,” said Avalon. “Wait forthe coffee.”The conversation then grew general,though Gonzalo kept sulkily silent andwas observed to be fiddling with hisnapkin, on which he wrote, in careful OldEnglish lettering, “There once was a

group of dull bastards—” but never got toa second line.Over the coffee, Halsted said, “Okay,Manny, you nearly got to it earlier, sowhy don't you start the grilling?”Rubin, who was just holding up his handto Henry to indicate that he had enoughcoffee for the moment, looked up at this,his eyes owlish behind the thick lenses ofhis glasses and his sparse beardquivering.“Mr. Brown,” he said, “how do youjustify your existence?”Brown smiled and said, “Very goodcoffee. It gives me a moment of pleasureand so does a greeting card. But wait,that's not all. There's more to it than that.

You may take no pleasure from what youconsider doggerel or moist sentiment ortired wit That is you, but you are noteveryone. The prepared greeting card isof service to those who can't write lettersor who lack the time to do so or whowish only to maintain a minimal contact.It supplies the needs of those to whomdoggerel is touching verse, to whomsentiment is a real emotion, to whom anywit at all is not tired.”Rubin said, “What is your function inconnection with them? Do youmanufacture them, ship them, design them,write the verses?”“I manufacture them primarily, but Icontribute to each of the categories, and

more besides.”“Do you specialize in any particularvariety?”“Not too intensively, although I'm ratherweak on the funny ones. Those are forspecialized areas. I must say, though, thediscussion on limericks interested me. Idon't know that limericks have ever beenused on greeting cards. How did yoursgo, Roger?”“I was just improvising,” said Halsted.“Let's see now— There once were threetravelers Magian, Who on a most festiveoccasion—' “Trumbull said, “Imperfect rhyme.”Halsted said, “That's all right. You makea virtue out of necessity and keep it up.

Let's see. Let's see—”He thought a moment and said:“There once were three travelers Magian,Who on a most festive occasionPresented their presentsWith humble obeisance To the King of theIsraelite nation.”“King of the Jews,” muttered Avalonunder his breath.“You just tossed that off?” asked Brown.Roger flushed a little. “It gets easy whenyou have the meter firmly fixed in yourhead.”Brown said, “I don't know that that one'susable, but I sell one or two that are nottoo distant from that sort of thing.”“I wish,” said Avalon, with a trace of

discontent on his handsome, dark-browedface, “that you had brought somesamples.”Brown said, “I didn't know it would bethe kind of dinner where that would beexpected. If you want samples, though, mywife is the one for you. Clara is the realexpert.”“Is she in greeting cards too?” askedGonzalo, his large, slightly protuberanteyes filled with interest“No, not really. She grew interested inthem through me,” said Brown. “Shebegan to collect interesting ones, and thenher friends began to collect them and sendthem to her. Over the last ten or twelveyears, the thing has been getting more and

more elaborate. Christmastimeespecially, of course, since that isgreeting-card time par excellence. Thereisn't a holiday, though, on which shedoesn't receive a load of unusual cards.Just to show you, last September she gotforty-two Jewish New Year cards, andwe're Methodists.”Rubin said, “Jewish New Year cards areusually pretty tame.”“Usually, but people managed to findsome dillies. She put them up on themantelpiece and you never saw such afancy collection of variations on thetheme of the Star of David and the Tabletsof the Law. —But it's Christmastime thatcounts. She practically papers the walls

with cards and the apartment becomes akind of fairyland, if I may use the termwithout being misunderstood.“In fact, gentlemen, if you're reallyinterested in seeing samples of unusualgreeting cards, you're invited to myapartment. We have open house the weekbefore Christmas. All the people whosend cards come around to see where andhow theirs contribute. Practicallyeveryone from the apartment house comestoo, and it's a large one—to say nothing ofthe repairman, doorman, postman,delivery boys, and who knows how manyothers from blocks around. I keep tellingher we'll have to get the apartmentdeclared a national landmark.”

“I feel sorry for your postman,” saidDrake in his softly hoarse smoker's voice.Brown said, “Don't be. He takes aproprietary interest and gives us specialtreatment. He never leaves our mail in thebox—even when it would fit there. Healways takes it up the elevator after allthe rest of the mail has been distributed,and gives it to us personally. If no one'shome, he goes back down and leaves itwith the doorman.”Drake said, “That sounds as though youhave to give him a healthy tip comeChristmastime.”“A very healthy one,” said Brown. Hechuckled. “I had to reassure himyesterday on that very point.”

“That you would give him a tip?”“Yes. Clara and I were due at a luncheonand we were late, which was annoyingbecause I had taken time off from work toattend and we dashed out of the elevatorat the ground floor just as the postmanwas about to step into it with our mail.Clara recognized it, of course—it'salways as thick as an unabridgeddictionary in December—and said, 'I'lltake it, Paul, thank you,' and off shewhirled. The poor old guy just stoodthere, so caught by surprise and soshocked that I said to him, 'It's all right,Paul, not one cent off the tip.' PoorClara!” He chuckled again.“Why poor Clara?” asked Trumbull.

“I know,” said Gonzalo, “it wasn't yourmail.”“Of course it was our mail,” said Brown.“It's the only mail old Paul ever takes up.Listen, the days he's off they hold back thegreeting-card items so he can bring themhimself the next day. He's practically afamily retainer.”“Yes, but why poor Clara?” askedTrumbull, escalating the decibels.“Oh, that. We got into our car and, since itwas a half-hour drive, she counted ongoing through the mail rapidly and thenleaving it under the seat. —But the firstthing she noticed was a small envelope,obviously a greeting card, sticking outfrom the rest of the mail, almost as though

it were going to fall out. I saw it myselfwhen she had snatched the mail fromPaul. Well, we never get small greetingcards, so she took it out and said, 'What'sthis?'“She flipped the envelope open and itwas a Christmas card—the blankest,nothingest, cheapest Christmas card youever saw—and Clara said, 'Who had thenerve to send me this?' I don't think she'das much as seen a plain card in years. Itirritated her so that she just put the rest ofthe mail away without looking at it andchafed all the way to the luncheon.”Halsted said, “It was probably a practicaljoke by one of her friends. Who sent it?'Brown shrugged. “That's what we don't

know. —It wasn't you, Roger, was it?”“Me? Think I'm crazy? I sent her one withlittle jingle bells in it. Real ones. Listen,”and he turned to the others, “you reallyhave to knock yourself out for her. Youshould see the apartment on Mother'sDay. You wouldn't believe how manydifferent cards have tiny little diapers inthem.”“And we don't have any children, either,”said Brown, sighing.“Wasn't there a name on that card yougot?” asked Trumbull, sticking to thesubject grimly.“Unreadable,” said Brown. “Illegible.”Gonzalo said, “I smell a mystery here.We ought to try to find out who sent it.”

“Why?” said Trumbull, changing attitudeat once.“Why not?” said Gonzalo. “It might giveMrs. Brown a chance to get back atwhoever it is.”“I assure you,” said Brown, “you'll findno hint to the sender. Even fingerprintswouldn't help. We handled it and so didwho knows how many postal employees.”“Just the same,” said Gonzalo, “it's a pitywe can't look at it.”Brown said rather suddenly, “Oh, you canlook at it I've got it.”“You've got it?”“Clara was going to tear it up, but I hadjust stopped for a red light and I said, 'Letme see it,' and I looked it over and then

the green light came on and I shoved it inmy coat pocket and I suppose it's stillthere.”“In that case,” said Halsted, “let's see it.”“I'll get it,” said Brown. He retired for amoment to the cloakroom and was back atonce with a square envelope, pinkish incolor, and handed it to Halsted. “You'rewelcome to pass it around.”Halsted studied it. It had not beencarefully pasted and the flap had come upwithout tearing. On the back was theaddress in its simplest possible form:BROWN354 cps 21CNYC 10019

The handwriting was a just-legiblescrawl. The stamp was a Jackson 100, thepostmark was a black smear, and therewas no return address.The other side of the envelope was blank.Halsted removed the card from withinand found it to be a piece of cardboardfolded down the middle. The two outsidesurfaces were the same pink as theenvelope and were blank. The innersurfaces were white. The left-hand sidewas blank and the right-h.ind side said“Season's Greetings” in black letters thatwere only minimally ornamented.Underneath was a scrawled signaturebeginning with what looked like a capitalD followed by a series of diminishing

waves.Halsted passed it to Drake on his left andit made its way around the table tillAvalon received it and looked at it. Hepassed it on to Henry, who wasdistributing the brandy glasses. Henrylooked at it briefly and handed it back toBrown.Brown looked up a little surprised, asthough finding the angle of return anunexpected one. He said, “Thank you,”and sniffed at his brandy delicately.“Well,” said Gonzalo, “I think the name isDanny. Do you know any Danny, Mr.Brown?”“I know a Daniel Lindstrom,” saidBrown, “but I don't think his own mother

ever dared call him Danny.”Trumbull said, “Hell, that's no Danny. Itcould be Donna or maybe a last name likeDormer.”“We don't know any Donna or Donner.”“I should think,” said Avalon, running hisfinger about the rim of his brandy glass,“that Mr. Brown has surely gone overevery conceivable first and last namebeginning with D in his circle ofacquaintances. If he has not come up withan answer, I am certain we will not. Ifthis is what Mario calls a mystery, thereis certainly nothing to go on. Let's dropthe subject and proceed with the grilling.”“No,” said Gonzalo vehemently. “Not yet.Good Lord, Jeff, just because you don't

see something doesn't mean there'snothing there to be seen.” He turned in hisseat “Henry, you saw that card, didn'tyou?”“Yes, sir,” said Henry.“All right, then. Wouldn't you agree withme that there is a mystery worthinvestigating here?”“I see nothing we can seize upon, Mr.Gonzalo,” said Henry.Gonzalo looked hurt. “Henry, you're notusually that pessimistic.”“We cannot manufacture evidence, surely,sir.”“That's plain enough,” said Avalon. “IfHenry says there's nothing to be done,then there's nothing to be done. Manny,

continue the grilling, won't you?”“No, damn it,” said Gonzalo, with quiteunaccustomed stubbornness. “If I can'thave my book of limericks, then I'm goingto have my mystery. If I can show youwhere this card does tell us something—”“If pigs can fly,” said Trumbull.Halsted said, “Host's privilege. LetMario talk.”“Thanks, Roger.” Gonzalo rubbed hishands. “We'll do this Henry-style. Youlisten to me, Henry, and you'll see how itgoes. We have a signature on the card andthe only thing legible about it is thecapital D. We might suppose that the D isenough to tell us who the signer is, butMr. Brown says it isn't. Suppose we

decided then that the D is the only clearpart of the signature because it's the onlything that's important.”“Wonderful,” said Trumbull, scowling.“Where does that leave us?”“Just listen and you'll find out. Supposethe greeting card is a device to pass oninformation, and it is the D that's thecode.”“What does D tell you?”“Who knows? It tells you what column touse in a certain paper, or in what row acertain automobile is parked, or in whatsection to find a certain locker. Whoknows? Spies or criminals may beinvolved. Who knows?”“That's exactly the point,” said Trumbull.

“Who knows? So what good does it dous?”“Henry,” said Gonzalo, “don't you thinkmy argument is a good one?”Henry smiled paternally. “It is aninteresting point, sir, but there is no wayof telling whether it has any value.”“Yes, there is,” said Avalon. “And a veryeasy way, too. The letter is addressed toMr. Brown. If the D has significance, thenMr. Brown should know what thatsignificance is. Do you, Mr. Brown?”“Not the faintest idea in the world,” saidBrown.“And,” said Avalon, “we can't evensuppose that he has guilty knowledgewhich he is hiding, because if that were

the case, why show us the card in the firstplace?”Brown laughed. “I assure you. No guiltyknowledge. At least, not about this card.”Gonzalo said, “Okay, I'll accept that.Brown here knows nothing about the D,But what does that show? It shows thatthe letter went to him by mistake. In fact,that fits right in. Who would send a cardlike that to someone who makes herapartment into a Christmas card showplace? It had to have gone wrong.”Avalon said, “I don't see how that'spossible. It's addressed to him.”“No, it isn't, Jeff. It is not addressed tohim. It is addressed to Brown and theremust be a trillion Browns in the world.”

Gonzalo's voice rose and he wasdistinctly flushed. “In fact, I'll bet there'sanother Brown in the building and thecard was supposed to go to him and hewould know what the D means. Rightnow this other Brown is waiting andwondering where the devil the greetingcard he's expecting is and what the letteris. He's in a spot. Maybe heroin isinvolved, or counterfeit money or—”“Hold on,” said Trumbull, “you're goingoff the diving board into a dry pool.”“No, I'm not” said Gonzalo. “If I werethis other Brown, I would figure out that itprobably went to the wrong Brown, Imean the right one, the one we've gothere, and I would go up to the apartment

to search for it. I would say, 'I want tolook at the collection,' and I would pokearound but I wouldn't find it becauseBrown has the card right here and—”Brown had been listening to Gonzalo'sfantasy with a rather benign expression onhis face, but now it was suddenlyreplaced by a look of deep astonishmentHe said, “Wait a minute!”Gonzalo caught himself up. He said,“Wait a minute, what?”“It's funny, but Clara said that someonehad been poking around the cards today.”Rubin said, “Oh no. You're not going totell me that Mario's nonsense hassomething to it. Maybe she's justimagining it.”

Brown said, “I told her she was, but Iwonder. She gets the mail each day andspends some time sorting it out in her —well, she calls it her sewing room, thoughI've never caught her sewing there—andthen comes out and distributes itaccording to some complicated system ofher own. And today she found that someof the cards had been misplaced since theday before. I don't really see her making amistake in such a matter.”“There you are,” said Gonzalo, sittingback smugly. “That's what I call workingout an inexorable chain of logic.”“Who was in the house today?” saidTrumbull. “I mean, besides you and yourwife?”

“No one. There were no visitors. It's alittle too early for open house. No one.And no one broke in, either.”“You can't be sure,” said Gonzalo. “Ipredicted someone would be pokingaround and someone was. I think we'vegot to follow this up now. What do yousay, Henry?”Henry waited a moment before replying.“Certainly,” he said, “it seems to be apuzzling coincidence.”Gonzalo said, “Not puzzling at all. It'sjust this other Brown. We've got to gethim.”Brown sat there, frowning, as though thefun had gone out of the game for him. Hesaid, “There is no other Brown in the

building.”“Maybe the spelling is different,” saidGonzalo, with no perceptible loss ofconfidence. “How about Browne with afinal e or spelling it with an au the waythe Germans do?”“No,” said Brown.“Come on, Mr. Brown. You don't knowthe name of everyone in the building.”“I know quite a few, and I certainly knowthe B’s. You know, you look at thedirectory sometimes and your eyesautomatically go to your own name.” Hethought awhile as though he werepicturing the directory. Then he said witha voice that seemed to have grownpinched, 'There's a Beroun, though, B-e-r-

o-u-n. I think that's the spelling. No, I'msure of it.”The Black Widowers sat in silence.Gonzalo waited thirty seconds, then saidto Henry, “Showed them, didn't we?”Halsted passed his hand over hisforehead in the odd gesture characteristicof him and said, “Tom, you're somethingor other in the cloak-and-dagger groups.Is it possible there might be something tothis?”Trumbull was deep in thought. “Theaddress,” he said finally, “is 354 CPS.That's Central Park South— I don't know.I might be happier if it were CPW,Central Park West.”“It says CPS quite clearly,” said Gonzalo.

“It also says Brown quite clearly,” saidDrake, “and not Beroun.”“Listen,” said Gonzalo, “that handwritingis a scrawl. You can't tell for surewhether that's a w or a u and there couldbe an e in between the b and the r.”“No, there couldn't,” said Drake. “Youcan't have it both ways. It's a scrawl whenyou want the spelling different, and it'squite clear when you don't.”“Besides,” said Avalon, “you're allignoring the fact that there's more than aname in the address, or a street either.There's an apartment number, too, and it's21C. Is that your apartment number, Mr.Brown?”“Yes, it is,” said Brown.

“Well then,” said Avalon, “it seems thatthe theory falls to the ground. The wrongBrown or Beroun doesn't live in 21C. Theright Brown does.”For the moment Gonzalo seemednonplused. Then he said, “No, it's allmaking too much sense. They must havemade a mistake with the apartmentnumber too.”“Come on,” said Rubin. “The name ismisspelled and the apartment number ismiswritten and the two end up matching?A Mr. Brown at the correct apartmentnumber? That's just plain asking too muchof coincidence.”“It could be a small mistake,” saidGonzalo. “Suppose this Beroun is in 20C

or 21E. It might take just two smallmistakes, one to make Beroun look likeBrown and one to get 21C instead of20C.”“No,” said Rubin, “it's still two mistakesmeshing neatly. Come on, Mario, evenyou can see how stupid it is.”“I don't care how stupid it may seemtheoretically. What is the situation inactual practice? We know there is aBeroun in the same apartment house withBrown. All we have to do now is find outwhat Beroun's apartment number is andI'll bet it's very close to 21C, somethingwhere it is perfectly easy to make amistake.”Brown shook his head. “I don't think so. I

know there's no Beroun anywhere on myfloor, on the twenty-first, that is. And Iknow the people who live below me in20C and above me in 22C and neither oneis Beroun or anything like it.”“Well then, where does Beroun live?What apartment number? All we have todo is find that out.”Brown said, “I don't know whichapartment number is Beroun's. Sorry.”“That's all right,” said Gonzalo. “Callyour wife. Have her go down and look atthe directory and then call us back.”“I can't She's gone out to a movie.”“Call the doorman, then.”Brown looked reluctant. “How do Iexplain—”

Drake coughed softly. He stubbed out hiscigarette, even though there was still aquarter inch of tobacco in front of thefilter, and said, “I have an idea.”“What?” said Gonzalo.“Well, look here. You have apartment21C and if you look at the envelope yousee that 21C is made in three marks.There's a squiggle for the 2 and a straightline for the 1 and a kind of arc for the C”“So what?” said Gonzalo, looking verymuch as though ideas were his monopolythat evening.“So how can we be sure that the 1belongs to the 2 and makes the number21? Maybe the 1 belongs to the C, and ifyou take them together, the guy's trying to

write a K. What I'm saying is that maybethe apartment number is 2K.”“That's it,” said Gonzalo excitedly. “Jim,remind me to kiss any girl sitting next toyou any time there are girls around. Sure!It's Beroun, 354 CPS 2K, and the postmanread it as Brown, 354 CPS 21C. Thewhole thing's worked out and now, Tom,you pull the right strings to get someoneafter this Beroun—”“You know,” said Trumbull, “you'rebeginning to hypnotize me with this foolthing and I'm almost ready to arrange tohave this damned Beroun watched—except that, no matter how I stare at thisaddress, it still looks like Brown, notBeroun,- and like 21C, not 2K.”

'Tom, it's got to be Beroun 2K. The wholething fits.”Brown shook his head. “No, it doesn't.Sorry, Mario, but it doesn't. If Berounlived in 2K, your theory might beimpressive, but he doesn't.”“Are you sure?” asked Gonzalodoubtfully.“It happens to be the Super's apartment.I've been there often enough.”“The Super,” said Gonzalo, taken abackfor a moment and then advancing to thecharge again. “Maybe he'd fit even better.You know—blue-collar worker—maybehe's in the numbers racket. Maybe—Hey,of course it fits. Who would be pokingaround your apartment today looking over

the Christmas cards? The Super, that'swho. He wouldn't have to break in. He'dhave the keys and could get in any time.”“Yes, but why is the card addressed toBrown, then?”“Because the names may be similarenough. What's the Super's name, Mr.Brown?”Brown sighed. “Ladislas Wessilewski,”and he spelled it out carefully. “How areyou going to write either one of thosenames so that it looks anything likeBrown?”Avalon, sitting bolt upright, passed agentle finger over each half of hismustache and said sententiously, “Well,Mario, there we have our lesson for the

day. Not everything is a mystery andinexorable chains of logic can endnowhere.”Gonzalo shook his head. “I still saythere's something wrong there. —Comeon, Henry, help me out here. Where did Igo off base?”Henry, who had been standing quietly atthe sideboard for the past fifteen minutes,said, “There is indeed a possibility, Mr.Gonzalo, if we accept your assumptionthat the Christmas card represents a codeintended to transfer information. In thatcase, I think it is wrong to suppose thatthe card was misdirected.“If the card had been delivered to thewrong place, it is exceedingly odd that it

should end up at an apartment where thereis a notorious card collector, well knownas such throughout the apartment houseand perhaps over a much wider area.”Gonzalo said, “Coincidences do happen,Henry.”“Perhaps, but it seems much more likelythat Mr. Brown's address was useddeliberately. Who would pay anyattention whatever to one greeting card,more or less, addressed to Mr. and Mrs.Brown, when they get so many? Sincethey get many greeting cards even on suchunlikely holidays, for them, as the JewishNew Year and Mother's Day, it would bequite convenient to use them as a target atany time of the year, especially if all the

card says is a noncommittal 'Season'sGreetings.'“Brown said with sudden coldness, “Areyou suggesting, Henry, that Clara and Iare involved in some clandestineoperation?”Henry said, “I doubt it, sir, since, assomeone said earlier, you would not havebrought up the matter of the card if youwere.”“Well then?”“Assuming Mr. Gonzalo's theory to becorrect, I suggest the cards were sent toyou rather than to someone else, becauseif they actually reached you they would beunnoticeable. They may haveunderestimated her--your wife's--

penchant for novel cards and hercontempt for plain ones.”“But as far as I know, this is the only cardof the kind we've ever received, Henry.”“Exactly, sir. It was an accident. You'renot supposed to receive them. Your nameon them is simply a blind, losing it inhundreds of other greeting-card envelopessimilarly addressed. Only these particularcards are supposed to be intercepted.”“How?”“By the person who well knows thequantity and kind of mail you get andcould suggest that you be used for thepurpose; by the person who would havethe easiest opportunity to intercept, butfailed this one time. Mr. Brown, how.

many times have you come out of theelevator just as the postman was going in,and how many times have you taken thepackage out of his hands on such anoccasion?”Brown said, “As far as I know, that wasthe only time.”“And the card in question was stickingout, almost as though it were falling out.That's how your wife noticed it at once.”“You mean Paul—”“I mean it seems strange that a postmanshould be so insistent on dealing withyour Christmas cards that he arranges tohave them left in the post office an extraday when he is not on duty. Is it so that heremains sure of never missing one of the

cards addressed to you that he mustintercept?”Trumbull interrupted. “Henry, I knowsomething of this. Postmen in the processof sorting mail are under constantobservation.”“I imagine so, sir,” said Henry, “but thereare other opportunities.”Brown said, “You don't know Paul. I'veknown him since we've moved into theapartment. Years! He's a phenomenallycautious man. I imagine he'd lose his jobif he were ever seen pocketing a letter hewas supposed to deliver. That lobby is acrowded place; there are always twopostmen working. I know him, I tell you.Even if he wanted to, he would never take

the chance.”Henry said, “But that is precisely thepoint, Mr. Brown. If this man is as yousay he is, it explains why he is soinsistent on taking the mail up to you.Even in this crowded city, there is oneplace you can count on being surelyunobserved for at least a few momentsand that is in an empty automatic elevator.“There is nothing to prevent the postman,in sorting the mail and preparing thebundle, from placing one greeting card,which he recognizes by shape, color, andhandwriting, in such a way that it willstick out from the rest. Then, in theelevator, which he takes only when he issure he is the only rider, he has time to

flick out the envelope and put it in hispocket, even if he remains alone only forthe time it takes to travel one floor.”Brown said, “And was it Paul who waspoking around in our apartment today?”“It's possible, I should think,” said Henry.“Your wife receives the mail from thepostman at the door and, since it is gettingclose to Christmas, the arrangements shemust make are getting complicated. Sherushes to the sewing room withoutbothering to bolt the door. The postmanhas a chance to push the little button thatmakes it possible to turn the knob fromoutside. He might then have had a fewminutes to try to find the card. He didn't,of course.”

Brown said, “A man so cautious as toinsist on using an empty elevator for thetransfer of a letter surely would not—”“It is perhaps a sign of the desperation ofthe case. He may know this to be anunusually important card. If I were you,sir—n

“Yes?”'Tomorrow is Saturday and you may notbe at work, but the postman will. Handthis card to the postman. Tell him that itcan't possibly be yours and that perhaps itis Beroun's, His facial expression may beinteresting and Mr. Trumbull mightarrange to have the man watched. Nothingmay come of it, of course, but I strongly

suspect that something is there.”Trumbull said, “There is a chance. I canmake the arrangements.”A look of gloom gathered on Brown'sface and he shook his head. “I hate layinga trap for old Paul at Christmastime,”“Being guest at the Black Widowers hasits drawbacks, sir,” said Henry.7 Afterword“Season's Greetings” was rejected byEllery Queen's Mystery Magazine forsome reason, as it is their complete rightto do, of course—even without a reason,if they don't care to advance one. What'smore, there clearly isn't the shadow of anexcuse for sending it on to F & SF. So I

just let it stay unsold.Actually, I like to have a few stories inthe collections that have not appeared inthe magazines. There ought to be somesmall bribe for the reader who has beenenthusiastic enough and loyal enough toread them all when they first appeared.Of course, I might reason that in bookform you have the stories all in one bunchwithout the admixture of foreigncomponents so that it doesn't matter if allwere previously published—but it wouldalso be nice to have something new. Thisis one of them, and it isn't the only one inthis book, either.To Table of Contents

8 The One and Only East

Mario Gonzalo, host of the month's BlackWidowers' banquet, was resplendent inhis scarlet blazer but looked a littledisconsolate nevertheless.He said in a low voice to GeoffreyAvalon, the patent attorney, “He's sort ofa deadhead, Jeff, but he's got aninteresting problem. He's my landlady'scousin and we were talking about it and Ithought, Well, hell, it could beinteresting.”Avalon, on his first drink, bent his darkbrows disapprovingly and said, “Is he apriest?”“No,” said Gonzalo, “not a Catholic

priest. I think what you call him is 'elder.'He's a member of some small uptight sect—Which reminds me that I had better askTom to go a little easy on his language.”Avalon's frown remained. “You know,Mario, if you invite a man solely on thebasis of his problem, and without anypersonal knowledge of him whatever, youcould be letting us in for a very stickyevening. —Does he drink?”“I guess not,” said Mario. “He asked fortomato juice.”“Does that mean we don't drink?” Avalontook an unaccustomedly vigorous sip.“Of course we drink.”“You're the host, Mario—but I suspect theworst.”.

The guest, standing against the wall, wasdressed in a somber black and wore amournful expression which may havebeen merely the result of the naturaldownward slant of the outer corners ofhis eyes. His face almost glistened with arecent close shave and bore a pallor thatmight merely have been the contrast withhis dark clothes. His name was RalphMurdock.Emmanuel Rubin, his spectacle-magnifiedeyes glaring and his sparse beardvibrating with the energy of his speech,had taken the measure of the man at onceand had managed to maneuver thediscussion into a sharp analysis' of thenature of the Trinity almost before the

meal had been fairly begun.Murdock seemed unmoved, and his faceremained as calm as that of Henry, theclub waiter, who performed his functionsas imperturbably as ever.“The mistake,” said Murdock, “usuallymade by those who want to discuss themysteries in terms of ordinary logic is tosuppose that the rules that originate fromobservation of the world of senseimpression apply to the wider universebeyond. To some extent, they may, buthow can we know where and how they donot?”Rubin said, “That's an evasion.”“It is not,” said Murdock, “and I’ll giveyou an example within the world of sense

impression. We obtain our common-sensenotions of the behavior of objects fromthe observation of things of moderatesize, moving at moderate speeds andexisting at moderate temperatures. WhenAlbert Einstein worked a scheme for avast universe and enormous velocities, heended with a picture that seemed againstcommon sense; that is, against theobservations we found it easy to make ineveryday life.”Rubin said, “Yet Einstein deduced therelativistic universe from senseimpressions and observations that anyonecould make.”“Provided,” said Murdock smoothly,“that instruments were used which were

unknown to man some centuries earlier.The observations we can now make andthe effects we can now produce wouldseem to mankind a few centuries ago likethe result of wizardry, magic, or even,perhaps, revelation, if these things weremade apparent without the properintroduction and education.”“Then you think,” said Rubin, “that therevelation that has faced man with aTrinity now incomprehensible may makesense in a kind of super-relativity of thefuture?”“Possibly,” said Murdock, “or possibly itmakes sense in a kind of super-relativitythat was reached by man long ago throughthe short-circuiting of mere reason and the

use of more powerful instruments forgaining knowledge.”With open delight, the others joined in thebattle, everyone in opposition toMurdock, who seemed oblivious to theweight of the forces against him. With anunchanging expression of melancholy andwith unmoved politeness, he answeredthem all without any sense of urgency orannoyance. It was all the more exciting inthat it did not deal with matters that couldbe settled by reference to the clublibrary”Over the dessert, Trumbull, with a carefulmildness of vocabulary that was beliedby the ferocious wrinkling of his tannedface, said, “Whatever you can say of

reasoning, it has lengthened the averagehuman life by some forty years in the lastcentury. The forces beyond reason,whatever they may be, have been unableto lengthen it a minute.”Murdock said, “That reason has its usesand seeming benefit no one can deny. Ithas enabled us to live long, but lookround the world, sir, and tell me whetherit has enabled us to live decently. And askyourself further whether length withoutdecency is so unmixed a blessing.”By the time the brandy was served and thelances of all had been shivered againstMurdock's calm verbal shield, it seemedalmost anticlimactic to have Gonzalostrike his water glass with his spoon to

mark the beginning of the post-dinnergrilling.Gonzalo said, “Gentlemen, we have hadan unusually interesting dinner, I think”—and here he made a brief gesture atAvalon, who sat on his left, one it waswell for Murdock not to have seen—”andit seems to me that our guest has alreadybeen put through his hurdles. He hasacquitted himself well and I think evenManny has suspicious signs of egg on hisface. —Don't say anything, Manny. —Ashost, I am going to end the grilling thenand direct Mr. Murdock, if he will, to tellus his story.”Murdock, who had ended the dinner witha large glass of milk, and who had

refused Henry's offer of coffee and ofbrandy, said:“It is kind of Mr. Gonzalo to invite me tothis dinner and I must say I have beenpleased with the courtesy extended me. Iam grateful as well. It is not often I have achance to discuss matters withunbelievers who are as ready to listen asyourselves. I doubt that I have convincedany of you, but it is by no means mymission to convince you— rather to offeryou an opportunity to convinceyourselves.“My problem, or 'story’ as Mr. Gonzalohas called it, has preyed on my mind theserecent weeks. I have confided some of it,in a moment of agony of mind, to Sister

Minerva, who is, by the reckoning of theworld, a cousin of mine, but a sister byvirtue of a common membership in ourChurch of the Disciples of Holiness. She,for reasons that seemed worthwhile toherself, mentioned it to her tenant, Mr.Gonzalo, and he sought me out andimplored me to attend this meeting.“He assured me that it was possible youmight help me in this problem that preysupon my mind. You may or you may not;that does not matter. The kindness youhave already shown me is great enough tomake failure in the other matter somethingof little consequence.“Gentlemen, I am an elder of the Churchof the Disciples of Holiness. It is a small

church of no importance at all as theworld counts importance, but the world'sapproval is not what we seek. Nor do welook for consolation in the thought that wealone will find salvation. We areperfectly ready to admit that all may findtheir way to the throne by any of aninfinite number of paths. We find comfortonly in that our own path seems to us tobe a direct and comfortable one, a paththat gives us peace—a commodity as rarein the world as it is desirable.“I have been a member of the Churchsince the age of fifteen and have beeninstrumental in bringing into the foldseveral of my friends and relations.“One whom I failed to interest was my

Uncle Haskell.“It would be easy for me to describe myUncle Haskell as a sinner but that word isusually used to describe offenses againstGod, and I consider that to be a uselessdefinition. God's mercy is infinite and Hislove is great enough to find offense innothing that applies to Himself only. If theoffense were against man that would befar graver, but here I can exonerate myUncle Haskell by at least the amount bywhich I can exonerate mankind generally.One cannot live a moment without insome way harming, damaging or, at thevery least, inconveniencing a fellow man,but I am sure my Uncle Haskell neverintended such harm, damage, or

inconvenience. He would have, gone amile out of his way to prevent this, if heknew what was happening and ifprevention were possible.“There remains the third class of damage—that of a man against himself—and itwas here, I am afraid, that my UncleHaskell was a sinner. He was a largeman, with a Homeric sense of humor andgargantuan appetites. He ate and drank toexcess, and womanized as well, yetwhatever he did, he did with such gustothat one could be deluded into believinghe gained pleasure from his way of life,and fall into the error of excusing him onthe grounds that it was far better to enjoylife than to be a sour Puritan such as

myself who finds a perverse pleasure ingloom.“It was this, in fact, that was my UncleHaskell's defense when I remonstratedwith him on one occasion when whatmight have seemed to himself and toothers to have been a glorious spreeended with himself in jail and possessinga mild concussion to boot“He said to me, 'What do you know oflife, you such-and-such Puritan? Youdon't drink, you don't smoke, you don'tswear, you don't—‘““Well, I will spare you the list ofpleasures in which he found me lacking.You can, undoubtedly, imagine each one.It may seem sad to you, too, that I miss out

on such routes to elevation of the spirit,but my Uncle Haskell, if he knew a dozenladies of doubtful virtue, had neverknown the quiet heart-filling of love. Hedid not know the pleasurable serenity ofquiet contemplation, of reasoneddiscourse, of communion with the greatsouls who have left their thoughts behindthem. He knew my feelings in this respectbut scorned them.“He may have done so the morevehemently because he knew what he hadlost. While I was in college—in the dayswhen I first came to know my UncleHaskell and to love him—he was writinga dissertation on Restoration England. Attimes he spoke as though he were

planning to write a novel, at times ahistorical exposition. He had a home inLeonia, New Jersey, then—still had, Ishould say, for he had been born there, ashad his ancestors and mine back to theQuaker days in colonial times. —Well, helost it, along with everything else.“Now, where was I? —Yes, in his Leoniahome, he built up a library of material onRestoration England, in which he found, Ihonestly believe, more pleasure than inany of the sensualities that eventuallyclaimed him.“It was his addiction to gambling that didthe real damage. It was the first of thepassions he called pleasures that he tookto extremes. It cost him his home and his

library. It cost him his work, both that inwhich he made his living as an antiquedealer, and that in which he found his joyas an amateur historian.“His sprees, however rowdily joyful, lefthim in the hospital, the jail, or the gutter,and I was not always there to find andextricate him at once.“What kept him going was the erraticnature of his chief vice, for occasionallyhe made some fortunate wager or turnedup a lucky card and then, for a day or fora month, he would be well to do. At thosetimes he was always generous. He nevervalued money for itself nor clung to it inthe face of another's need—which wouldhave been a worse vice than any he

possessed—so that the good times neverlasted long nor served as any base for therenewal of his former, worthier life.“And, as it happened, toward the end ofhis life, he made the killing of a lifetime. Ibelieve it is called a 'killing,' which isreasonable since the language of vice hasa peculiar violence of its own. I do notpretend to understand how it was done,except that several horses, each unlikelyto win, nevertheless won, and my UncleHaskell so arranged his bets that eachwinning horse greatly multiplied what hadalready been multiplied.“He was left, both by his standards andmine, a wealthy man, but he was dyingand knew he would not have time to

spend the money in his usual fashion.What occurred to him, then, was to leavethe world in the company of a huge joke— a joke in which the humor rested inwhat he conceived to be my corruption,though I'm sure he didn't look upon it thatway.“He called me to his bedside and said tome something which, as nearly as I canremember, was this:“ 'Now, Ralph, my boy, don't lecture me.You see for yourself that I am virtuousnow. Lying here, I can't do any of theterrible things you deplore—exceptperhaps to swear a little. I can only findtime and occasion now to be as virtuousas you and my reward is that I am to die.

“ 'But I don't mind, Ralph, because I'vegot more money now than I've ever had atone time for many years and I will beable to throw it away in a brand-newfashion. I am willing it to you, nephew.'“I began to protest that I preferred hishealth and his true reform to his money,but he cut me off.“ 'No, Ralph, in your twisted way youhave tried your best for me and havehelped me even though you disapprovedof me so strongly and could have no hopeof a reasonable return either in money orin conversion. On top of that, you're myonly relative and you should get themoney even if you had done nothing at allfor me.'

“Again I tried to explain that I had helpedhim as a human being and not as arelative, and that I had not done so as akind of business investment, but again hecut me off. He was having difficultyspeaking and I did not wish to prolongmatters unduly.“He said, 'I will leave you fifty thousanddollars, free and clear. Matters will be soarranged that all legal expenses and alltaxation will be taken care of. I havealready discussed this with my lawyer.With your way of life, I don't know whatyou can possibly do with the money otherthan stare at it, but if that gives youpleasure, I'll leave you to it’”“I said gently, 'Uncle Haskell, a great

deal of good can be done with fiftythousand dollars and I will spend it inways that the Disciples of Holiness willfind fitting and useful. If this displeasesyou, then do not leave the money to me.'“He laughed then, a feeble effort, andfumbled for my hand in a way that made itclear how weak he had grown. I had notseen him for a year and in that interval hehad gone downhill at an incredible pace.“The doctors said that a combination ofdiabetes and cancer, treated inadequately,had advanced too rapidly across thebastions of his pleasure-riddled body,heaven help him, and left him withnothing but the hope of a not tooprolonged time of dying. It was on

himself and the horse races that he hadmade a simultaneous killing.“He clutched my hand weakly and said,'No, do whatever you want with themoney. Hire someone to sing psalms.Give it away, a penny at a time, to fivemillion bums. That's your business; I don'tcare. But, Ralph, there's a catch to allthis, a very amusing catch.'““'A catch? What kind of catch?' It was allI could think of to ask.”“'Why, Ralph, my boy, I'm afraid you willhave to gamble for the money.' He pattedmy hand and laughed again. 'It will be agood, straight gamble with the odds fiveto one against you.“'My lawyer,' he went on, 'has an

envelope in which is located the name ofa city—a nice, sealed envelope, which hewon't open till you come to him with thename of a city. I will give you six cities tochoose from and you will select one ofthese. One! If the city you select matchesthe one in the envelope, you get fiftythousand dollars. If it does not match, youget nothing, and the money goes to variouscharities. My kind of charities.'“ 'This is not a decent thing to do, Uncle,'I said, rather taken aback,“ 'Why not, Ralph? All you have to do isguess the city and you have a great deal ofmoney. And if you guess wrong, you losenothing. You can't ask better than that. Mysuggestion is that you number the cities

from one to six, then roll a dice and pickthe city corresponding to the number youroll. A sporting chance, Ralph!'“His eyes seemed to glitter, perhaps at thepicture of myself rolling dice for money. Ifelt that sharply and I said, shaking myhead, 'Uncle Haskell, it is useless toplace this condition on me. I will not playgames with the universe or abdicate thethrone of conscience in order to allowchance to make my decisions for me.Either leave me the money, if that pleasesyou, or do not leave it, if that pleasesyou.'“He said, 'Why do you think of it asplaying games with the universe? Don'tyou accept what men call chance to be

really God's will? You have said thatoften enough. Well then, if He thinks youworthy, you will get the money. Or don'tyou trust Him?'“I said, 'God is not a man that He may beput to the test.'“My Uncle Haskell was growing feebler.He withdrew his arm and let it restpassively on the blanket. He said in awhile, 'Well, you'll have to. If you don'tsupply my lawyer with your choice withinthirty days of my death, it will all go tomy charities. Come, thirty days gives youenough time.'“We all have our weaknesses, gentlemen,and I am not always free of pride. I couldnot allow myself to be forced to dance to

my Uncle Haskell's piping merely inorder to get the money. But then I thoughtthat I could use the money—not for myselfbut for the Church—and perhaps I had noright to throw it away out of pride in myvirtue, when so much would be lost in theprocess.“But pride won. I said, 'I'm sorry, UncleHaskell, but in that case, the money willhave to go elsewhere. I will not gamblefor it.'“I rose to go but his hand motioned and Idid not yet turn away. He said, 'All right,my miserable nephew. I want you to havethe money, I really do; so if you lacksporting blood and can't take your honestchance with fate, I will give you one hint.

If you penetrate it, you will know whichcity it is—beyond doubt, I think—and youwill not be gambling when you hand in-that name.'“I did not really wish to prolong thediscussion and yet I hated to abandon himand leave him desolate if I could avoiddoing so. I said, 'What is this hint?'“He said, 'You will find the answer in theone and only east—the one and only east.'“’The one and only east,' I repeated. 'Verywell, Uncle Haskell, I will consider it.Now let us talk of other things.”“I made as though to sit down again, butthe nurse entered and said it was time formy Uncle Haskell to rest. And, indeed, Ithought it was; he seemed worn to the last

thread.“He said, 'Saved a sermon, by theAlmighty,' and laughed in a whisper.“I said, 'Good-by, Uncle Haskell. I willcome again.'“When I reached the door he called out,'Don't jump too soon, nephew. Think itover carefully. The one and only east.''That is the story, gentlemen. My uncledied twenty-seven days ago. Within threedays, by this coming Monday, I must givemy choice to the lawyer. I suspect I willnot give that choice, for my UncleHaskell's clue means nothing to me and Iwill not choose a city as a mere gamble. Iwill not.”There was a short silence after Murdock

had finished his tale. James Drake puffedthoughtfully on his cigarette. TomTrumbull scowled at his empty brandyglass. Roger Halsted doodled on hisnapkin. Geoffrey Avalon sat bolt uprightand looked blank. Emmanuel Rubin shookhis head slowly from side to side.Gonzalo broke the silence uneasily,perhaps thinking it his duty to do so, asthe host. He said, “Do you mind telling usthe names of the six cities, Mr.Murdock?”“Not at all, Mr. Gonzalo. Since you askedme to come here in order that I mightpossibly be helped—and since I agreed tocome—I obviously seek help. With that inview, I must answer any honorable

question. The names of the cities, as Ireceived them from the lawyer on the dayof my Uncle Haskell's death, are on thispaper. You'll notice it is on the lawyer'sstationery. It is the paper he gave me.”He passed it on to Gonzalo. Aside fromthe lawyer's letterhead, it contained onlythe typed list of six cities in alphabeticalorder:ANCHORAGE, ALASKAATHENS, GEORGIAAUGUSTA, MAINECANTON, OHIOEASTON, PENNSYLVANIAPERTH AMBOY, NEW JERSEYGonzalo passed it around. When he

received it back he called, “Henry!”Then, to Murdock, “Our waiter is amember of the club. “You have noobjection to his seeing the list, I hope?”“I have no objection to anyone seeing it,”said Murdock.Avalon cleared his throat. “Before welaunch ourselves into speculation, Mr.Murdock, it is only fair to ask if you havegiven the matter some thought yourself.”Murdock's sorrowful face grewthoughtful. His lips pressed together andhis eyes blinked. He said in a soft, almostshamefaced voice, “Gentlemen, I wouldlike to tell you that I have resistedtemptation completely, but the fact is Ihave not. I have thought at times and tried

to convince myself that one city oranother fits my Uncle Haskell's hint sothat I can offer it to the lawyer on Mondaywith a clear conscience. On occasion Ihave settled on one or another of thecities on the list but each time it wasmerely a case of fooling myself, ofcompromising, of pretending I was notgambling when I was.”Rubin said, with a face innocently blank,“Have you prayed, Mr. Murdock? Haveyou sought divine guidance?”For a moment it seemed as thoughMurdock's careful armor had beenpierced, but only for a moment. After thatslight pause he said, “If that wereappropriate in this case, I would have

seen a solution without prayer. In God'seyes, it is my needs that count and not mydesires, and He knows my needs withoutmy having to inform Him.”Rubin said, “Have you tried to approachthe problem using the inferior weapon ofreason?”“I have, of course,” said Murdock. “In acasual way. I have tried to resist beingdrawn into it too deeply. I mistrustmyself, I fear.”Rubin said, “And have you come to anyfavorite conclusion? You've said that youhave been unable to settle on any one citydefinitely, to the point where you wouldconsider its choice as no longerrepresenting a gamble—but do you lean

in one direction or another?”“I have leaned in one direction at onetime and in another direction at another. Icannot honestly say that any one of thecities is my favorite. With yourpermission, I will not tell you the thoughtsthat have struck me since it is your help Iseek and I would prefer you to reach yourconclusions, or hypotheses, uninfluencedby my thoughts. If you miss anything Ihave thought of, I will tell you.” . “Fairenough,” said Gonzalo, smoothing downone collar of his blazer with an air ofabsent self-satisfaction. “I suppose wehave to consider whether any of thosecities is the one and only east.”Murdock said, “I would think so.”

“In that case,” said Gonzalo, “pardon mefor mentioning the obvious, but the word'east' occurs only in Easton. It is the oneand only east.”“Oddly enough,” said Murdock dryly, “Ihad not failed to notice that, Mr. Gonzalo.It strikes me as obvious enough to beignored. My Uncle Haskell also said,'Don't jump too soon.’”“Ah,” said Gonzalo, “but that might justbe to throw you off. The real gambler hasto know when to bluff and your unclecould well have been bluffing. If he had areal rotten kind of humor, it would haveseemed fun to him to give you the answer,let it lie right there, and then scare you outof accepting it.”

Murdock said, “That may be so, but thatsort of thing would mean I would have topenetrate my Uncle Haskell's mind andsee whether he was capable of a doublecross or something like that. It would be agamble and I won't gamble. Either thehint, properly interpreted, makes thematter so plain that it is no longer agamble, or it is worthless. In short,Easton may be the city, but if so, I willbelieve it only for some reason strongerthan the mere occurrence of 'east' in itsname.”Halsted, leaning forward towardMurdock, said, “I think no gambler worthhis salt would set up a puzzle with soeasy a solution as the connection between

east and Easton. That's just misdirection.Let me point out something a little morereasonable, and a little more compelling.Of the six cities mentioned, I believeAugusta is easternmost. Certainly it is inthe state of Maine, which is theeasternmost of the fifty states. Augusta hasto be the one and only east, and beyondany doubt.”Drake shook his head violently. “Quitewrong, Roger, quite wrong. It's just acommon superstition that Maine is theeasternmost state. Not since 1959. OnceAlaska became the fiftieth state, it becamethe easternmost state.”Halsted frowned. “Westernmost, youmean, Jim.”

“Westernmost and easternmost. Andnorthernmost too. Look, the 180°longitude line passes through the AleutianIslands. The islands west of the line arein the Eastern Hemisphere. They are theonly part of the fifty states that are in theEastern Hemisphere and that makesAlaska the easternmost state, the one andonly east.”“What about Hawaii?” asked Gonzalo.“Hawaii does not reach the 180° mark.Even Midway Island, which lies to thewest of the state, does not. You can lookit up on the map if you wish, but I knowI'm right.”“It doesn't matter whether you're right ornot,” said Halsted hotly. “Anchorage isn't

on the other side of the 180° line, is it? Soit's west, not east. In the case of Augusta,the city is the easternmost of the sixmentioned.”Murdock interrupted. “Gentlemen, it isnot worth arguing the matter. I had thoughtof the eastern status of Maine but did notfind it compelling enough to convert itinto a bid.The fact that one can argue over thematter of Alaska versus Maine—and Iadmit that the Alaska angle had notoccurred to me—removes either from thecategory of the one and only east”Rubin said, “Besides, from the strictlygeographic point, east and west arepurely arbitrary terms. North and south

are absolute since there is a fixed pointon Earth that is the North Pole andanother that is the South Pole. Of any twospots on Earth, the one closer to the NorthPole is farther north, the other farthersouth, but of those same two spots, neitheris farther east or farther west, for you cango from one to the other, or from the otherto the one, by traveling either eastward orwestward. There is no absolute easternpoint or western point on Earth.”“Well then,” said Trumbull, “where doesthat get you, Manny?”“To the psychological angle. Whattypifies east to us in the United States isthe Atlantic Ocean. Our nation stretchesfrom sea to shining sea and the only city

on the list which is on the Atlantic Oceanis Perth Amboy. Augusta may be farthereast geographically, but it is an inlandtown.”Trumbull said, “That's a bunch of nothingat all, Manny. The Atlantic Oceansymbolizes the east to us right now, butthrough most of the history of Westerncivilization it represented the west, thefar west. It wasn't till after Columbussailed westward that it became the east tothe colonists of the New World. If youwant something that's east in the Westerntradition, and always has been east, it'sChina. The first Chinese city to be openedto Western trade was Canton and theAmerican city of Canton was actually

named for the Chinese city. Canton has tobe the one and only east.”Avalon lifted his hand and said withmajestic severity, “I don't see that at all,Tom. Even if Canton typifies the east byits recall of a Chinese city, why is that theone and only east? Why not Cairo,Illinois, or Memphis, Tennessee, each ofwhich typifies the ancient Egyptian east?”“Because those cities aren't on the list,Jeff.” “No, but Athens, Georgia, is, and ifthere is one city in all the world that is theone and only east, it is Athens, Greece—the source and home of all the humanisticvalues we hold dear today, the school ofHellas and of all the west—”“Of all the west, you idiot,” said

Trumbull with sudden ferocity. “Athenswas never considered the east either byitself or by others. The first great battlebetween east and west was Marathon in490 B.C. and Athens represented thewest”Murdock interrupted. “Besides, my UncleHaskell could scarcely have thought Iwould consider Athens unique, when ithas purely secular value. Had he includedBethlehem, Pennsylvania, on his list, Imight have chosen it at once with nosense of gamble. As it is, however, I canonly thank you, gentlemen, for yourefforts. The mere fact that you come todifferent conclusions and argue over themshows that each of you must be wrong. If

one of you had the real answer it wouldbe compelling enough to convince theothers—and myself as well—at once. Itmay be, of course, that my Uncle Haskelldeliberately gave me a meaningless cluefor his own posthumous pleasure. If so,that does not of course, in the leastdiminish my gratitude to you all for yourhospitality, your company, and yourefforts.”He would have risen to leave but Avalon,on his left, put a courteous but nonethelessauthoritative hand on his shoulder. “Onemoment, Mr. Murdock, one member ofour little band has not yet spoken. —Henry, have you nothing to add?”Murdock looked surprised. “Your

waiter?”“A Black Widower, as we said earlier.Henry, can you shed any light on thispuzzle?”Henry said solemnly, “It may be that Ican, gentlemen. I was impressed by Mr.Murdock's earlier argument that reason issometimes inadequate to reach the truth.Nevertheless, suppose we start withreason. Not ours, however, but that of Mr.Murdock's uncle. I have no doubt that hedeliberately chose cities that eachrepresented the east in some ambiguousfashion, but where would he find in thatlist an unambiguous and compellingreference? Perhaps we would know theanswer if we remembered his special

interests—Mr. Murdock did say that atone time he was working on a bookconcerning Restoration England. I believethat is the latter half of the seventeenthcentury.”“Charles II,” said Rubin, “reigned from1660 to 1685.”“I'm sure you are correct, Mr. Rubin,”said Henry. “All the cities named are inthe United States, so I wondered whetherwe might find something of interest inAmerican history during the Restorationperiod.”“A number of colonies were founded inCharles II’s reign,” said Rubin.“Was not Carolina one of them, sir?”asked Henry.

“Sure. Carolina was named for him, infact Charles is Carolus in Latin.”“But later on Carolina proved unwieldyand was split into North Carolina andSouth Carolina.”“That's right. But what has that got to dowith the list? There are no cities in itfrom either Carolina.”“True enough, but the thought remindedme that there is also a North Dakota and aSouth Dakota, and for that matter a WestVirginia, but there is no American statethat has East in its title. Of course, wemight speak of East Texas or of EastKansas or East Tennessee but—”“More likely to say 'eastern,'“ mutteredHalsted.

“Either way, sir, there would not be a oneand only east, but—”Gonzalo exploded in sudden excitement“Wait a minute, Henry. I think I see whatyou're driving at If we have the state ofWest Virginia—the one and only west—then we can consider Virginia to be EastVirginia—the one and only east”“No, you can't” said Trumbull, with alook of disgust on his face. “Virginia hasbeen Virginia for three and a halfcenturies. Calling it East Virginia doesn'tmake it so.”“It would not matter if one did, Mr.Trumbull,” said Henry, “since there is noVirginian city on the list —But beforeabandoning that line of thought, however,

I remembered that Mr. Murdock's unclelived in New Jersey and that his ancestorshad lived there since colonial times.Memories of my grade school educationstirred, for half a century ago we weremuch more careful about studyingcolonial history than we are today.“It seems to me, and I'm sure Mr. Rubinwill correct me if I'm wrong, that at onetime in its early history New Jersey wasdivided into two parts—East Jersey andWest Jersey, the two being separatelygoverned. This did not last a long time, ageneration perhaps, and then the singlestate of New Jersey was reconstituted.East Jersey, however, is the only sectionof what are now the United States that had

'east' as part of its official name as colonyor state.”Murdock looked interested. His lips liftedin what was almost a smile. “The one andonly east. It could be,”'There is more to it than that” said Henry.“Perth Amboy was, in its time, the capitalof East Jersey.”Murdock's eyes opened wide. “Are youserious, Henry?”“I am quite certain of this and I think it isthe compelling factor. It was the capitalof the one and only east in the list ofcolonies and states. I do not think youwill lose the inheritance if you offer thatname on Monday; nor do I think you willbe gambling.”

Rubin said, scowling, “I said PerthAmboy.”“For a non-compelling reason,” saidDrake. “How do you do it, Henry?”Henry smiled slightly. “By abandoningreason for something more certain as Mr.Murdock suggested at the start.”“What are you talking about, Henry?”said Avalon. “You worked it out verynicely by a line of neat argument.”“After the fact, sir,” said Henry. “Whileall of you were applying reason, I tookthe liberty of seeking authority and turnedto the reference shelf we use to settlearguments. I looked up each city inWebster's Geographical Dictionary.Under Perth Amboy, it is clearly stated

that it was once the capital of EastJersey.”He held out the book and Rubin snatchedit from his hands, to check the matter forhimself.“It is easy to argue backward,gentlemen,” said Henry.8 Afterword“The One and Only East,” whichappeared in the March 1975 issue ofEllery Queen's Mystery Magazine, was,like 'The Iron Gem,” written on boardship, longhand. On this occasion I wasvisiting Great Britain for the first time inmy life—by ocean liner both ways, sinceI don't fly.

It was a little difficult in one way becauseI didn't have my reference library withme. (I must admit that one of the reasonsthat my Black Widowers sound so eruditeon so many different subjects is that theman who writes the words has puttogether a very good reference library inhis life-time.) The result was that I had toplay my cities back and forth out of whatknowledge I had in my head. As ithappened, though, I got it nearly allcorrect.To Table of Contents

9 Earthset and Evening Star

Emmanuel Rubin, whose latest mysterynovel was clearly proceeding smoothly,lifted his drink with satisfaction and lethis eyes gleam genially through his thick-lensed glasses.“The mystery story,” he pontificated, “hasits rules which, when broken, make it anartistic failure, whatever success it mayhave in the market place.”Mario Gonzalo, whose hair had beenrecently cut to allow a glimpse of theback of his neck, said, as though to noone, “It always amuses me to hear awriter describe something he scrawls onpaper as art.” He looked with some

complacency at the cartoon he wasmaking of the guest for that month'sbanquet session of the Black Widowers.“If what you do is the definition of art,”said Rubin, “I withdraw the term inconnection with the writer's craft. —Onething to avoid, for instance, is the idiotplot.”“In that case,” said Thomas Trumbull,helping himself to another roll andbuttering it lavishly, “aren't you at adisadvantage?”Rubin said loftily, “By 'an idiot plot,' Imean one in which the solution wouldcome at once if an idiot investigatorwould but ask a logical question, or inwhich an idiot witness would but tell

something he knows and which he has noreason to hide.”Geoffrey Avalon, who had left a neatlycleaned bone on his plate as the onlywitness of the slab of roast beef that hadonce rested there, said, “But no skilledpractitioner would do that, Manny. Whatyou do is set up some reason to preventthe asking or telling of the obvious.”“Exactly,” said Rubin. “For instance,what I've been writing is essentially ashort story if one moves in a straight line.The trouble is the line is so straight, thereader will see its end before I'mhalfway. So I have to hide one crucialpiece of evidence, and do it in such a waythat I don't make an idiot plot out of it. So

I invent a reason to hide that piece, and inorder to make the reason plausible I haveto build a supporting structure around it—and I end with a novel, and a damn goodone.” His sparse beard quivered withself-satisfaction.Henry, the perennial waiter at the BlackWidowers' banquets, removed the platefrom in front of Rubin with his usualdexterity. Rubin, without turning, said,“Am I right, Henry?”Henry said softly, “As a mystery reader,Mr. Rubin, I find it more satisfying tohave the piece of information delivered tome and to find that I have beeninsufficiently clever and did not notice.”“I just read a mystery,” said James Drake

in his softly hoarse smoker's voice, “inwhich the whole point rested on character1 being really character 2, because thereal character 1 was dead. I was put on toit at once because, in the list of charactersat the start, character 1 was not listed.Ruined the story for me.”“Yes,” said Rubin, “but that wasn't theauthor's fault Some flunky did that. I oncewrote a story which was accompanied byone illustration that no one thought toshow me in advance. It happened to giveaway the point.”The guest had been listening quietly to allthis. His hair was just light enough to beconsidered blond and it had a carefulwave in it that looked, somehow, as

though it belonged there. He turned hisrather narrow but clearly good-humoredface to Roger Halsted, his neighbor, andsaid, “Pardon me, but since Manny Rubinis my friend, I know he is a mysterywriter. Is this true of the rest of you aswell? Is this a mystery writerorganization?”Halsted, who had been looking withsomber approval at the generous slab ofBlack Forest torte that had been placedbefore him as dessert, withdrew hisattention with some difficulty and said,“Not at all. Rubin is the only mysterywriter here. I’m a mathematics teachermyself; Drake is a chemist; Avalon is alawyer; Gonzalo is an artist; and

Trumbull is a code expert with thegovernment“On the other hand,” he went on, “we dohave an interest in this sort of thing. Ourguests often have problems they bring upfor discussion, some sort of mystery, andwe've been rather lucky—”The guest leaned back with a small laugh.“Nothing of the sort here, alas. Of themystery, the murder, the fearful handclutching from behind the curtain, there isnothing in my life. It is all verystraightforward, alas; very dull. I am noteven married.” He laughed again.The guest had been introduced as JeanServais and Halsted, who had attackedthe torte with vigor, and who felt a

friendly glow filling him in consequence,said, “Does it matter to you if I call youJohn?”“I would not strike you, sir, if you did, butI pray you not to. It is not my name. Jean,please.”Halsted nodded. “I’ll try. I can managethat zh sound, but getting it properly nasalis another thing. Zhohng,” he said.“But that is excellent. Most formidable.”“You speak English very well,” saidHalsted, returning the politeness.“Europeans require linguistic talent,” saidServais. “Besides, I have lived in theUnited States for nearly ten years now.You are all Americans, I suppose. Mr.Avalon looks British somehow.”

“Yes, I think he likes to look British,”said Halsted. And with a certain hiddenpleasure he said, “And it's Avalon.Accent on the first syllable and nothingnasal at the end.”But Servais only laughed. “Ah yes, I willtry. When I first knew Manny, I calledhim 'roo-bang’ with the accent on the lastsyllable and a strong nasalization. Hecorrected me very vigorously and at greatlength. He is full of pepper, that one.”The conversation had grown rather heatedby this time over a general disputeconcerning the relative merits of AgathaChristie and Raymond Chandler, withRubin maintaining a rather lofty silence asthough he knew someone who was better

than either but would not mention thename out of modesty.Rubin seemed almost relieved when, withthe coffee well in progress and Henryready to supply the postprandial brandy,the time came for him to tap the waterglass with his spoon and say, “Cool it,cool it, gentlemen. We are coming now tothe time when our guest, Jean Servais, isto pay for his dinner. Tom, it's all yours.”Tom scowled and said, “If you don'tmind, Mr. Servais,'* giving the final s justenough of a hiss to make his point, “I'mnot going to try to display my Frenchaccent and make the kind of jackass ofmyself that my friend Manny Rubin does.—Tell me, sir, how do you justify your

existence?” . “Why, easily,” said Servaispleasantly. “Did I not exist, you would bewithout a guest today.”“Please leave us out of it. Answer inmore general terms.”“In general, then, I build dreams. I designthings that cannot be built, things I willnever see, things that may never be.”“All right,” said Trumbull, looking glum,“you're a science fiction writer likeManny's pal what's-his-name—uh—Asimov.”“No friend of mine,” said Rubin swiftly.“I just help him out now and then whenhe's stuck on some elementary scientificpoint.”Gonzalo said, “Is he the one you once

said carried the Columbia Encyclopediaaround with him because he was listedthere?”“It's worse now,” said Rubin. “He'sbribed someone at the Britannica to puthim into the new 15th edition and thesedays he drags the whole set with himwherever he goes.”'The new 15th edition—” began Avalon.“For God's sake,” said Trumbull, “willyou let our guest speak?”“No, Mr. Trumbull,” said Servais, asthough there had been no interruption atall, “I am no science fiction writer,though I read it sometimes. I read RayBradbury, for instance, and HarlanEllison.” (He nasalized both names.) “I

don't think I have ever read Asimov.”“I'll tell him that,” muttered Rubin, “he'lllove it.”“But,” continued Servais, “I suppose youmight call me a ‘science fictionengineer’.”“What does that mean?” asked Trumbull.“I do not write of Lunar colonies. I designthem.”“You design them!”“Oh yes, and not Lunar colonies only,though that is our major task right now.We work in every field of imaginativedesign for private industry, Hollywood,even NASA.”Gonzalo said, “Do you really thinkpeople can live on the Moon?”

“Why not? It depends on what mankind iswilling to do, how large an initialinvestment it is ready to make. Theenvironment on the Moon can beengineered to the precise equivalent ofEarth, over restricted underground areas,except for gravity. We must be contentwith a Lunar gravity that is one sixth ourown. Except for that, we need only allowfor original supplies from Earth and forclever engineering—and that is where wecome in, my partner and I.”“You're a two-man firm?”“Essentially. —While my partner remainsmy partner, of course.”“Are you breaking up?”“No, no. But we quarrel over small

points. It is not surprising. It is a bad timefor him. But no, we will not break up. Ihave made up my mind to give in to him,perhaps. Of course, I am entirely in theright and it is a pity to lose what I wouldhave.”Trumbull leaned back in his chair, foldedhis arms, and said, “Will you tell us whatthe argument is all about? We can thenstate our own preferences, “whether foryou or for your partner.”“It would not be a hard choice, Mr.Trumbull, for the sane,” said Servais. “Iswear it. —This is the way it is. We aredesigning a full Lunar colony, in completedetail. It is for a motion picture companyand it is for a good fee. They will make

use of some of it in a grand sciencefiction spectacle they are planning. Wenaturally supply far more than they canuse but the idea is that if they have atotally self-consistent picture of what maybe—and for a wonder they want it asscientifically accurate as possible—theycan choose what they wish of it for use.”“I'll bet they bollix it up,” said Drakepessimistically, “no matter how carefulyou are. They'll give the Moon anatmosphere.”“Oh, no,” said Servais, “not after sixLunar landings. That error we need notfear. Yet I have no doubt they will makemistakes. They will find it impossible tohandle low-gravity effects properly

throughout and the exigencies of the plotwill force some infelicities.“Still that cannot be helped and our job ismerely to supply them with material of themost imaginative possible. This is mypoint, as you will see in a moment. —Weplan a city, a small city, and it will beagainst the inner lip of a crater. This isunavoidable because the plot of the moviedemands it. However, we have ourchoice as to the identity and location ofthe crater, and my partner, perhapsbecause he is an American, goes for theobvious with an American directness. Hewishes to use the crater Copernicus.“He says that it is a name that is familiar;that if the city is called Camp Copernicus

that alone will breathe the Moon, exoticadventure, and so on. Everyone knows, hesays, the name of the astronomer who firstplaced the Sun at the center of theplanetary system and it is a name,moreover, that sounds impressive.“I, on the other hand, am not impressedwith this. As seen from Copernicus, theEarth is high in the sky and stays there. Asyou all know, the Moon faces one sidealways to the Earth, so that from any spoton the Moon's surface the Earth is alwaysmore or less in the same spot in the sky.”Gonzalo said suddenly, “If you want theLunar city to be on the other side of theMoon so that the Earth isn't in the sky,you're crazy. The audience will

absolutely want the Earth there.”Servais held up his hand in agreement.“Absolutely! I agree. But if it is alwaysthere, it is almost as though it is not there.One gets too used to it. No, I choose amore subtle approach. I wish the city tobe in a crater that is on the boundary ofthe visible side. From there, of course,you will see the Earth at the horizon.“Consider what this introduces. TheMoon does not keep the same side to theEarth exactly. It swings back and forth bya very small amount. For fourteen days itswings one way and then for fourteendays it swings back. This is called'libration'“—he paused here as though tomake sure he was pronouncing it

correctly in English—”and it comes aboutbecause the Moon does not move in aperfect circle about the Earth.“Now, you see, if we establish CampBahyee in the crater of that name, theEarth is not only at the horizon but itmoves up and down in a twenty-eight-daycycle. Properly “located, the Lunarcolonists will see the Earth rise and set,slowly, of course. This lends itself toimaginative exploitation. The characterscan arrange for some important action atEarthset, and the different positions of theEarth can indicate the passage of time andraise the suspense. Some terrific specialeffects are possible, too. If Venus is nearthe Earth and Earth is in a fat crescent

stage, Venus will then be at its brightest;and when Earth sets, we can show Venus,in the airless sky of the Moon, to be avery tiny crescent itself.”“Earthset and evening star, and one clearcall for me,” muttered Avalon.Gonzalo said, “Is there really a cratercalled Bahyee?”“Absolutely,” said Servais. “It is, in fact,the largest crater that can be seen from theEarth's surface. It is 290 kilometersacross—180 miles.”“It sounds like a Chinese name,” saidGonzalo.“French!” said Servais solemnly. “AFrench astronomer of that name wasmayor of Paris in 1789 at the time of the

Revolution.”'That wasn't a good time to be mayor,”said Gonzalo.“So he discovered,” said Servais. “Hewas guillotined in 1793.”Avalon said, “I am rather on your side,Mr. Servais. Your proposal lends scope.What was your partner's objection?”Servais shrugged in a gesture that wasmore Gallic than anything he had yet saidor done. “Foolish ones. He says that itwill be too complicated for the moviepeople. They will confuse things, he says.He also points out that the Earth movestoo slowly in the Moon's sky. It wouldtake days for the Earth to lift its entireglobe above the horizon, and days for it to

lower entirely below the horizon.”“Is that right?” asked Gonzalo.“It's right, but what of that? It will still beinteresting.”Halsted said, “They can fudge that. Makethe Earth move a little faster. So what?”Servais looked discontented. “That's nogood. My partner says this is preciselywhat the movie people will do and thisalteration of astronomical fact will bedisgraceful. He is very violent about it,finding fault with everything, even withthe name of the crater, which he says isridiculous and laughable so that he willnot endure it in our report. We have neverhad arguments like this. He is like amadman.”

“Remember,” said Avalon, “you said youwould give in.”“Well, I will have to,” said Servais, “butI am not pleased. Of course, it is a badtime for him.”Rubin said, “You've said that twice now,Jean. I've never met your partner, so Ican't judge the personalities involved.Why is it a bad time?”Servais shook his head. “A month ago, ora little more, his wife killed herself. Shetook sleeping pills. My partner was adevoted husband, most uxorious.Naturally, it is terrible for him and, justas naturally, he is not himself.”Drake coughed gently. “Should he beworking?”

“I would not dare suggest he not work.The work is keeping him sane.”Halsted said, “Why did she kill herself?”Servais didn't answer in words butgestured with his eyebrows in a fashionthat might be interpreted in almost anyway.Halsted persisted. “Was she incurablyill?”“Who can say?” said Servais, sighing.“For a while, poor Howard—” Hepaused in embarrassment. “It was not myintention to mention his name.”Trumbull said, “You can say anythinghere. Whatever is mentioned in this roomis completely confidential. —Our waiter,too, before you ask, is completely

trustworthy.”“Well,” said Servais, “his name doesn'tmatter in any case. It is Howard Kaufman.In a way, work has been very good forhim. Except at work, he is almost deadhimself. Nothing is any longer importantto him.”“Yes,” said Trumbull, “but nowsomething is important to him. He wantshis crater, not your crater.”“True,” said Servais. “I have thought ofthat. I have told myself it is a good sign.He throws himself into something. It is abeginning. And perhaps all the morereason, then, that I should give in. Yes, Iwill. —It's settled, I will. There's noreason for you gentlemen to try to decide

between us. The decision is made, and inhis favor.”Avalon was frowning. “I suppose weshould go on to question you further onthe work you do and I suppose, moreover,that we should not intrude on a privatemisfortune. Here at the Black Widowers,however, no questions are barred, andthere is no Fifth Amendment to plead. Iam dissatisfied, sir, with your remarksconcerning the unfortunate woman whocommitted suicide. As a happily marriedman, I am puzzled at the combination oflove and suicide. You said she wasn'till?”“Actually, I didn't,” said Servais, “and Iam uncomfortable at discussing the

matter.”Rubin struck the empty glass before himwith his spoon. “Host's privilege,” hesaid vigorously. There was silence.“Jean,” he said, “you are my guest and myfriend. We can't force you to answerquestions, but I made it clear that theprice of accepting our hospitality was thegrilling. If you have been guilty of acriminal act and don't wish to discuss it,leave now and we will say nothing. If youwill talk, then, whatever you say, we willstill say nothing.”“Though if it is indeed a criminal act,”said Avalon, “we would certainlystrongly advise confession.”Servais laughed rather shakily. He said,

“For one minute there, for one frightenedminute, I thought I had found myself in aKafka novel and would be tried andcondemned for some crime you woulddrag out of me against my will.Gentlemen, I have committed no crime ofimportance. A .speeding ticket, a bit ofcreative imagination on my tax return—all that is, so I hear it said, as Americanas apple pie. But if you're thinking I killedthat woman and made it look like suicide—please put it out of your heads at once.It was suicide. The police did notquestion it.”Halsted said, “Was she ill?”“All right, then, I will answer. She wasnot ill as far as I know. But after all, I am

not a doctor and I did not examine her.”Halsted said, “Did she have children?”“No. No children. —Ah, Mr. Halsted, Isuddenly remember that you spoke earlierthat your guests had problems which theybrought up for discussion, and I said I hadnone. I see you have found one anyway.”Trumbull said, “If you're so sure it wassuicide, I suppose she left a note.”“Yes,” said Servais, “she left one.”“What did it say?”“I couldn't quote it exactly. I did notmyself see it. According to Howard, itwas merely an apology for causingunhappiness but that she could not go on.It was quite banal and I assure you itsatisfied the police.”

Avalon said, “But if it was a happymarriage, and there was no illness and nocomplications with children, then— Orwere there complications with children?Did she want children badly and did herhusband refuse—”Gonzalo interposed. “No one killsthemselves because they don't have kids.”“People kill themselves for the stupidestreasons,” said Rubin. “I remember—”Trumbull cried out with stentorian rage,“Damn it, you guys, Jeff has the floor.”Avalon said, “Was the lack of children adisturbing influence?”“Not as far as I know,” said Servais.“Look, Mr. Avalon, I am careful in what Isay, and I did not say it was a happy

marriage.”“You said your partner was devoted tohis wife,” said Avalon gravely, “and youused that fine old word 'uxorious' todescribe him.”“Love,” said Servais, “is insufficient forhappiness if it flows but one way. I didnot say that she loved him”Drake lit another cigarette. “Ah,” he said,“the plot thickens.”Avalon said, “Then it is your opinion thatthat had something to do with thesuicide.”Servais looked harassed. “It is more thanmy opinion, sir. I know it had somethingto do with the suicide.”“Would you tell us the details?” asked

Avalon, unbending just slightly from hisusual stiff posture as though to convert hisquestion into a courtly invitation.Servais hesitated, then said, “I remindyou that you have promised me all isconfidential. Mary—Madame Kaufmanand my partner were married for sevenyears and it seemed a comfortablemarriage, but who can tell in affairs ofthis sort?“There was another man. He is older thanHoward and to my eyes not as good-looking—but again, who can tell inaffairs of this sort? What she found in himis not likely to be there on the surface forall to see.”Halsted said, “How did your partner take

that?”Servais looked up and flushed distinctly.“He never knew. Surely, you are not ofthe opinion that I told him this? I am notthe type, I assure you. It is not for me tointerfere between husband and wife. Andfrankly, if I had told Howard, he wouldnot have believed me. It is more likely hewould have attempted to strike me. Andthen what was I to do? Present proof?Was I to arrange matters so as to havethem caught under conditions that couldnot be mistaken? No, I said nothing.”“And he really didn't know?” askedAvalon, clearly embarrassed.“He did not. It had not been going onlong. The pair were excessively cautious.

The husband was blindly devoted. Whatwould you?”“The husband is always the last to know,”said Gonzalo sententiously.Drake said, “If the affair was so wellhidden, how did you find out, Mr.Servais?”“Purest accident, I assure you,” saidServais. “An incredible stroke ofmisfortune for her in a way. I had a datefor the evening. I did not know the girlwell and it did not, after all, work out. Iwas anxious to be rid of her, but first—what would you have, it would not begentlemanly to abandon her—I took herhome in an odd corner of the city. And,having said good-by in a most perfunctory

manner, I went into a nearby diner to havea cup of coffee and recover somewhat.And there I saw Mary Kaufman and aman.“Alas, it jumped to the eye. It was late;her husband, I remembered at once, wasout of town, her attitude toward the man— Accept my assurances that there is away a woman has of looking at a man thatis completely unmistakable, and I saw itthen. And if I were at all unsure, theexpression on her face, when she lookedup and saw me frozen in surprise, gave itall away.“I left at once, of course, with no greetingof any kind, but the damage was done.She called me the next day, in agony of

mind, the fool, fearful that I would carrystories to her husband, and gave me atotally unconvincing explanation. Iassured her that it was a matter in which Idid not interest myself in the least, that itwas something so unimportant that I hadalready forgotten it. —I am glad,however, I did not have to face the man.Him, I would have knocked down.”Drake said, “Did you know the man?**“Slightly,” said Servais. “He moved inour circles in a very distant way. I knewhis name; I could recognize him.“It didn't matter, for I never saw him afterthat. He was wise to stay away.”Avalon said, “But why did she commitsuicide? Was she afraid her husband

would find out?”“Is one ever afraid of that in such acase?” demanded Servais, with a slightlifting of his lip. “And if she were, surelyshe would end the affair. No, no, it wassomething far more common than thatSomething inevitable. In such an affair,gentlemen, there are strains and riskswhich are great and which actually add anelement of romance. I am not entirelyunaware of such things, I assure you.“But the romance does not continueforever, whatever the story books maysay, and it is bound to fade for one fasterthan for the other. Well then, it faded forthe man in this case before it did for thewoman—and the man took the kind of

action one sometimes does in such affairs.He left—went—disappeared. And so thelady killed herself.”Trumbull drew himself up and frownedferociously. “For what reason?”“I assume for that reason, sir. It has beenknown to happen. I did not know of theman's disappearance, you understand, tillafterward. After the suicide I went insearch of him, feeling he was in someway responsible, and rather promisingmyself to relieve my feelings bybloodying his nose—I have a strongaffection for my partner, you understand,and I felt his sufferings—but I discoveredthe fine lover had left two weeks beforeand left no forwarding address. He had no

family and it was easy for him to leave,that blackguard. I could have tracked himdown, I suppose, but my feelings were notstrong enough to push me that far. Andyet, I feel the guilt—”“What guilt?” asked Avalon.“It occurred to me that when I surprisedthem—quite unintentionally, of course—the element of risk to the man becameunacceptably high. He knew I knew him.He may have felt that sooner or later itwould come out and he did not wish toawait results. If I had not stumbled intothat diner they might still be together, shemight still be alive, who knows?”Rubin said, “That is farfetched, Jean. Youcan't deal rationally with the ifs of

history.—But I have a thought.”“Yes, Manny?”“After the suicide your partner was veryquiet, nothing is important to him. I thinkyou said that. But now he's quarrelingwith you violently, though he has neverdone that before, I gather. Something mayhave happened in addition to the suicide.Perhaps now he has discovered his wife'sinfidelity and the thought drives himmad.”Servais shook his head. “No, no. If youthink I have told him, you are quitewrong. I admit I think of telling him nowand then. It is difficult to see him, my dearfriend, wasting away over a woman who,after all, was not worthy of him. It is not

proper to pine away for one who was notfaithful to him in life. Ought I not tell himthis? Frequently, it seems to me that Ishould and even must. He will face thetruth and begin life anew. —But then Ithink and even know that he will notbelieve me, that our friendship will bebroken, and he will be worse off thanbefore.”Rubin said, “You don't understand me.Might it not be that someone else has toldhim? How do you know you were theonly one who knew?”Servais seemed a bit startled. Heconsidered it and said, “No. He would, inthat case, certainly have told me the news.And I assure you, he would have told it to

me with the highest degree of indignationand informed me that he at once attemptedto strike the villain who would so malignhis dead angel.”“Not,” said Rubin, “if he had been toldthat you were his wife's lover. Even if herefused to believe it, even if he beat theinformant to the ground, could he tell youthe tale under such circumstances? Andcould he be entirely certain? Would henot find it impossible to avoid pickingfights with you in such a case?”Servais seemed still more startled. Hesaid slowly, “It was, of course, not I. Noone could possibly have thought so.Howard's wife did not in the least appealto me, you understand.” He looked up and

said fiercely, “You must accept the factthat I am telling you the truth about this. Itwas not I, and I will not be suspected. Ifanyone had said it was I, it could only beout of deliberate malice.”“Maybe it was,” said Rubin. “Might it notbe the real lover who would make theaccusation—out of fear you would givehim away? By getting in his story first—”“Why should he do this? He is away. Noone suspects him. No one pursues him.”“He might not know that,” said Rubin.“Pardon me.” Henry's voice soundedsoftly from the direction of the sideboard.“May I ask a question?”“Certainly,” said Rubin, and the oddsilence fell that always did when the quiet

waiter, whose presence rarely obtrudedon the festivities, made himself heard.Servais looked startled, but his politenessheld. He said, “Can I do anything for you,waiter?”Henry said, “I'm not sure, sir, that I quiteunderstand the nature of the quarrelbetween yourself and your partner. Surelythere must have been decisions ofenormous complexity to make as far asthe technical details of the colony wereconcerned.”“You don't know even a small part of it,”said Servais indulgently.“Did your partner and you quarrel overall those details, sir?”“N-no,” said Servais. “We did not

quarrel. There were discussions, ofcourse. It is useless to believe that twomen, each with a strong will andpronounced opinions, will agreeeverywhere, or. even anywhere, but it allworked out reasonably. We discussed,and eventually we came to someconclusion. Sometimes I had the better ofit, sometimes he, sometimes neither orboth.”“But then,” said Henry, “there was thisone argument over the actual location ofthe colony, over the crater, and there itwas all different. He attacked even thename of the crater fiercely and, in this onecase, left no room for the slightestcompromise.”

“No room at all. And you are right. Onlyin this one case.”Henry said, “Then I am to understand thatat this time, when Mr. Rubin suspects thatyour partner is being irritated bysuspicion of you, he was completelyreasonable and civilized over everydelicate point of Lunar engineering, andwas wildly and unbearably stubborn onlyover the single matter of the site—overwhether Copernicus or the other craterwas to be the place where the colony wasto be built?”“Yes,” said Servais with satisfaction.“That is precisely how it was and I seethe point you are making, waiter. It isquite unbelievable to suppose that he

would quarrel with me over the site out ofill-humor over suspicion that I haveplaced horns on him, when he does notquarrel with me on any other point.Assuredly, he does not suspect me of ill-dealing. I thank you, waiter.”Henry said, “May I go a little further,sir?”“By all means,” said Servais.“Earlier in the evening,” said Henry, “Mr.Rubin was kind enough to ask my opinionover the techniques of his profession.There was the question of deliberateomission of details by witnesses.”“Yes,” said Servais, “I remember thediscussion. But I did not deliberately omitany details.”

“You did not mention the name of Mrs.Kaufman's lover.”Servais frowned. “I suppose I didn't, butit wasn't deliberate. It is entirelyirrelevant.”“Perhaps it is,” said Henry, “unless hisname happens to be Bailey.”Servais froze in his chair. Then he saidanxiously, “I don't recall mentioning it.Sacred— I see your point again, waiter. Ifit slips out now without my rememberingit, it is possible to suppose that, withoutquite realizing it, I may have saidsomething that led Howard to suspect—”Gonzalo said, “Hey, Henry, I don't recallJean giving us any name.”“Nor I,” said Henry. “You did not give

the name, sir.”Servais relaxed slowly and then said,frowning, “Then how did you know? Doyou know these people?”Henry shook his head. “No, sir, it wasjust a notion of mine that arose out of thestory-you told. From your reaction, I takeit his name is Bailey?”“Martin Bailey,” said Servais. “How didyou know?”'The name of the crater in which youwished to place the site is Bahyee; thename of the city would be Camp Bahyee.”“Yes.”“But that is the French pronunciation ofthe name of a French astronomer. How isit spelled?”

Servais said, “B-a-i-l-l-y. —Great God,Bailly!”Henry said, “In English pronunciation,pronounced like the not uncommonsurname Bailey. I am quite certainAmerican astronomers use the Englishpronunciation, and that Mr. Kaufman doestoo. You hid that piece of informationfrom us, Mr. Servais, because you neverthought of the crater in any other way thanBahyee. Even looking at it, you wouldhear the French sound in your mind andmake no connection with Bailey, theAmerican surname.”Servais said, “But I still don'tunderstand.”“Would your partner wish to publicize the

name, and place the site of a Lunar colonyin Bailly? Would he want to have thecolony called Camp Bailly, after what aBailey has done to him?”“But he didn't know what Bailey had doneto him,” said Servais.“How do you know that? Because there'san old saw that says the husband isalways the last to know? How else canyou explain his utterly irrationalopposition to this one point, even hisinsistence that the name itself is horrible?It is too much to expect of coincidence.”“But if he knew—if he knew— He didn'ttell me. Why fight over it? Why notexplain?”“I assume,” said Henry, “he didn't know

you knew. Would he shame his dead wifeby telling you?”Servais clutched at his hair. “I neverthought— Not for a moment.”“There is more to think,” said Henrysadly.“What?”“One might wonder how Bailey came todisappear, if your partner knew the tale.One might wonder if Bailey is alive? Is itnot conceivable that Mr. Kaufman,placing all the blame on the other man,confronted his wife to tell her he haddriven her lover away, even killed him,perhaps, and asked her to come back tohim—and the response was suicide?”“No,” said Servais. “That is impossible.”

“It would be best, then, to find Mr. Baileyand make sure he is alive. It is the oneway of proving your partner's innocence.It may be a task for the police.”Servais had turned very pale. “I can't goto the police with a story like that.”“If you do not,” said Henry, “it may bethat your partner, brooding over what hehas done—if indeed he has done it— willeventually take justice into his ownhands.”“You mean kill himself?” whisperedServais. “Is that the choice you are facingme with: accuse him to the police or waitfor him to kill himself?”“Or both,” said Henry. “Life is cruel.”

9 AfterwordI got the idea for this one when I was inNewport, Rhode Island, attending aseminar on space and the future,sponsored by NASA. It got in the way,too.I was listening, in all good faith, tosomeone who was delivering aninteresting speech. Since I was slated togive a talk too, I had every reason forwanting to. listen. And yet, when thecraters of the Moon were mentioned, mybrain, quite involuntarily, began ticking,and after some fifteen minutes had passedI had “Earthset and Evening Star” in mymind in full detail and had missed the

entire last half of the speech.Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, alas,thought that the business with the craterswas a little too recondite to carry thestory and sent it back. I then took thechance that the craters might be justscience-fictionish enough to interest EdFerman. I sent it to him, he took it, and itappeared in the October 1975 issue of F& SF.To Table of Contents

10 Friday the Thirteenth

Mario Gonzalo unwound a long crimsonscarf and hung it up beside his coat withan air of discontent.“Friday the thirteenth,” he said, “is arotten day for the banquet and I'm cold.”Emmanuel Rubin, who had arrived earlierat the monthly banquet of the BlackWidowers, and who had had a chance towarm up both externally and internally,said, 'This isn't cold. When I was a kid inMinnesota, I used to go out and milk cowswhen I was eight years old—”“And by the time you got home the milkwas frozen in the pail. I've heard you tellthat one before,” said Thomas Trumbull.

“But what the devil, this was the onlyFriday we could use this month,considering that the Milano is closingdown for two weeks next Wednesday,and—”But Geoffrey Avalon, staring downausterely from his seventy-four inches ofheight, said in his deep voice, “Don'texplain, Tom. If anyone is such asuperstitious idiot as to think that Fridayis unluckier than any other day of theweek, or that thirteen is unluckier than anyother number, and that the combinationhas some maleficent influence on us all—then I say leave him in the outer darknessand let him gnash his teeth.” He was hostfor the banquet on this occasion and

undoubtedly felt a proprietary interest inthe day.Gonzalo shook back his long hair andseemed to have grown more content nowthat most of a very dry martini was insidehim. He said, “That stuff about Friday thethirteenth is common knowledge. If you'retoo ignorant to know that, Jeff, don'tblame me.”Avalon bent his formidable eyebrowstogether and said, To hear the ignorantspeak of ignorance is always amusing.Come, Mario, if you'll pretend to behuman for a moment, I'll introduce you tomy guest. You're the only one he hasn'tmet yet.”Speaking to James Drake and Roger

Halsted at the other end of the room was aslender gentleman with a large-bowledpipe, a weedy yellow mustache, thin hairthat was almost colorless, and faded blueeyes set deeply in his head. He wore atweed jacket and a pair of trousers thatseemed to have been comfortably free ofthe attentions of a pressing iron for sometime.“Evan,” said Avalon imperiously, “I wantyou to meet our resident artist, MarioGonzalo. He will make a caricature ofyou, after a fashion, in the course of ourmeal. Mario, this is Dr. Evan Fletcher, aneconomist at the University ofPennsylvania. There, Evan, you've met usall.”

And as though that were a signal, Henry,the perennial waiter at all the BlackWidowers' banquets, said softly,“Gentlemen,” and they seated themselves.“Actually,” said Rubin, attacking thestuffed cabbage with gusto, “this wholebusiness about Friday the thirteenth isquite modern and undoubtedly arose overthe matter of the Crucifixion. That tookplace on a Friday and the last Supper,which had taken place earlier, was, ofcourse, a case of thirteen at the table, thetwelve Apostles and—”Evan Fletcher was trying to stem the flowof words rather ineffectively and Avalonsaid loudly, “Hold on, Manny, I think Dr.Fletcher wishes to say something.”

Fletcher said, with a rather apologeticsmile, “I just wondered how the subjectof Friday the thirteenth arose.”“Today is Friday the thirteenth,” saidAvalon.“Yes, I know. When you invited me to thebanquet for this evening, it was the factthat it was Friday the thirteenth that mademe rather eager to attend. I would haveraised the point myself, and I amsurprised that it came up independently.”“Nothing to be astonished about,” saidAvalon. “Mario raised the point. He's atriskaidekaphobe.”“A what?” said Gonzalo in an outragedvoice.“You have a morbid fear of the number

thirteen.”“I do not” said Gonzalo. “I just believe inbeing cautious.**Trumbull helped himself to another rolland said, “What do you mean, Dr.Fletcher, in saying that you would haveraised the point yourself? Are you atriskai-whatever too?”“No, no,” said Fletcher, shaking his headgently, “but I have an interest in thesubject. A personal interest.”Halsted said in his soft, somewhathesitant voice, “Actually, there's a verygood reason why thirteen should beconsidered unlucky and it has nothing todo with the Last Supper. That explanationwas just invented after the fact.

“Consider that early, unsophisticatedpeople found the number twelve veryhandy because it could be divided evenlyby two, three, four, and six. If you soldobjects by the dozen, you could sell half adozen, a third, a fourth, or a sixth of adozen. We still sell by the dozen and thegross today for that very reason. Nowimagine some poor fellow counting hisstock and finding he has thirteen items ofsomething. You can't divide thirteen byanything. It just confuses his arithmeticand he says, 'Oh, damn, thirteen! Whatrotten. luck!'—and there you are.”Rubin's sparse beard seemed to stiffen,and he said, “Oh, that's a lot of junk,Roger. That sort of reasoning should

make thirteen a lucky number. Anytradesman would offer to throw in thethirteenth to sweeten the trade. —That'sgood steak, Henry.”“Baker's dozen,” said James Drake in hishoarse smoker's voice.“The baker,” said Avalon, “threw in athirteenth loaf to make up a baker's dozenin order to avoid the harsh penaltiesmeted out for short weight. By adding thethirteenth, he was sure to go over weighteven if any of the normal twelve loaveswere skimpy. He might consider thenecessity to be unlucky.”“The customer might consider it lucky,”muttered Rubin.“As for Friday,” said Halsted, “that is

named for the goddess of love, Freya inthe Norse myths. In the Romancelanguages the name of the day is derivedfrom Venus; it is vendredi in French, forinstance. I should think it would beconsidered a lucky day for that reason.Now you take Saturday, named for thedour old god, Saturn—”Gonzalo had completed his caricature andpassed it around the table to generalapproval and to a snicker from Fletcherhimself. He seized the opportunity tofinish his potato puffs and said, “All youguys are trying to reason out somethingthat lies beyond reason. The fact is thatpeople are afraid of Friday and are afraidof thirteen and are especially afraid of the

combination. The fear itself could makebad things happen. I might be soconcerned that this place will catch fire,for instance, because it's Friday thethirteenth, that I won't be thinking and I'llstick my fork in my cheek.”“If that would shut you up, it might be agood idea,” said Avalon.“But I won't,” said Gonzalo, “because Ihave my eye on my fork and I know thatHenry will get us all out if the placecatches on fire, even if it means stayingbehind himself and dying in agony. —Right, Henry?”“I hope that the contingency will notarise, sir,” said Henry, placing the dessertdishes dexterously before each diner.

“Will you be having coffee, sir?” heasked Fletcher.“May I have cocoa? Is that possible?”said Fletcher.“Certainly it is,” interposed Avalon. “Go,Henry, negotiate the matter with the chef.”And it was not long thereafter, with thecoffee (or cocoa, in Fletcher's case)steaming welcomely before them, thatAvalon tapped his water glass with hisspoon and said, “Gentlemen, it is time toturn our attention to our guest. Tom, willyou initiate the matter?”Trumbull put down his coffee cup,scowled his face into a cross-current ofwrinkles, and said, “Ordinarily, Dr.Fletcher, I would ask you to justify your

existence, but having sat through anextraordinarily foolish discussion ofsuperstition, I want to ask you whetheryou have anything to add to the matter.You implied early in the meal that youwould have raised the matter of Fridaythe thirteenth yourself if it had not comeup otherwise.”“Yes,” said Fletcher, holding his largeceramic cup of cocoa within theparentheses of his two hands, “but not asa matter of superstition. Rather it is aserious historic puzzle that concerns meand that hinges on Friday the thirteenth.Jeff said that the Black Widowers werefond of puzzles and this is the only one Ihave for you—with the warning, I'm

afraid, that there is no solution.”“As you all know,” said Avalon, withresignation, 'Tm against turning the clubinto a puzzle-solving organization, but Iseem to be a minority of one in thismatter, so I try to go along with theconsensus.” He accepted the small brandyglass from Henry with a lookcompounded of virtue and martyrdom.“May we have this puzzle?” said Halsted.“Yes, of course. I thought for a moment,when Jeff invited me to attend yourdinner, that it was to be held on Fridaythe thirteenth in my honor, but that was aflash of megalomania. I understand thatyou always hold your dinners on a Fridayevening and, of course, no one knows

about my work but myself and myimmediate family.”He paused to light his pipe, then, leaningback and puffing gently, he said, 'Thestory concerns Joseph Hennessy, whowas executed in 1925 for an attempt onthe life of President Coolidge.* He wastried on this charge, convicted, andhanged.

'To the end, Hennessy.[1] proclaimed hisinnocence and advanced a rather strongdefense, with a number of people givingevidence for his absence from the scene.However, the emotional currents againsthim were strong. He was an outspokenlabor leader, and a Socialist, at a time

when fear of Socialism ran high. He wasforeign-born, which didn't help. Andthose who gave evidence in his favorwere also foreign-born Socialists. Thetrial was a travesty and, once he washanged and passions had time to cool,many people realized this.“After the execution, however, long after,a letter was produced in Hennessy'shandwriting that seemed to make him amoving figure behind the assassinationplot beyond a doubt. This was seized onby all those who had been anxious to seehim hanged, and it was used to justify theverdict. Without the letter, the verdictmust still be seen as a miscarriage ofjustice.”

Drake squinted from behind the curlingsmoke of his cigarette and said, “Was theletter a forgery?”“No. Naturally, those who felt Hennessywas innocent thought it was at first. Theclosest study, however, seemed to showthat it was indeed in his handwriting, andthere were things about it that seemed tomark it his. He was a grandioselysuperstitious man, and the note was datedFriday the thirteenth and nothing more.”“Why 'grandiosely' superstitious?” askedTrumbull. “That's an odd adjective touse.”“He was a grandiose man,” said Fletcher,“given to doing everything in aflamboyant manner. He researched his

superstitions. In fact, the discussion at thetable as to the significance of Friday andof thirteen reminded me of the sort of manhe was. He probably would have knownmore about the matter than any of you.”“I should think,” said Avalon gravely,“that investigating superstitions wouldmilitate against his being victimized bythem.”“Not necessarily,” said Fletcher. “I havea good friend who drives a car frequentlybut won't take a plane because he's afraidof them. He has heard all the statistics thatshow that on a man-mile basis airplanetravel is safest and automobile travelmost dangerous, and when I reminded himof that, he replied, 'There is nothing either

in law or in psychology that commandsme to be rational at every point.' And yetin most things he is the most rational manI know.“As for Joe Hennessy, he was far from anentirely rational man and none of hiscareful studies of superstition preventedhim in the least from being victimized bythem. And his fear of Friday the thirteenthwas, perhaps, the strongest of all hissuperstitious fears.”Halsted said, “What did the note say? Doyou remember?”“I brought a copy,” said Fletcher. “It's notthe original, of course. The original is inthe Secret Service files, but in these daysof Xeroxing, that scarcely matters.”

He took a slip of paper out of his walletand passed it to Halsted, who sat on hisright. It made the rounds of the table andAvalon, who received it last,automatically passed it to Henry, whowas standing at the sideboard. Henry readit with an impassive countenance andhanded it back to Fletcher, who seemedslightly surprised at having the waitertake part, but said nothing.The note, in a bold and easily legiblehandwriting, read:Friday the 13th Dear Paddy,It's a fool I am to be writing you this daywhen I should be in bed in a dark room byrights. I must tell you, though, the plansare now completed and I dare not wait a

day to begin implementing them. Thefinger of God has touched that wickedman and we will surely finish the job nextmonth. You know what you must do, andit must be done even at the cost of everydrop of blood in our veins. I thank God'smercy for the forty-year miracle that willgive us no Friday the 13th next month.JoeAvalon said, “He doesn't really sayanything.”Fletcher shook his head. “On the contrary,he says too much. If this were the preludeto an assassination attempt, would hehave placed anything at all in writing? Orif he had, would the reference not havebeen much more dark and Aesopic?”

“What did the prosecution say it meant?”Fletcher put the note carefully back intohis wallet. “As I told you, the prosecutionnever saw it The note was uncoveredonly some ten years after the hanging,when Patrick Reilly, to whom the notewas addressed, died and left it among hiseffects. Reilly was not implicated in theassassination attempt, though of course hewould have been if the note had come tolight soon enough.“Those who maintain that Hennessy wasrightly executed say that the note waswritten on Friday, June 13, 1924. Theassassination attempt was carried throughon Friday, July 11, 1924. It would havemade Hennessy nervous to have made the

attempt on any Friday, but for variousreasons involving the presidentialschedule that was the only possible dayfor a considerable period of time, andHennessy would be understandablygrateful that it was not the thirteenth atleast.'The remark concerning the finger of Godtouching the wicked man is said to be areference to the death of PresidentWarren G. Harding, who died suddenlyon August 2, 1923, less than a year beforethe assassination attempt was to 'finish thejob' by getting rid of the Vice-Presidentwho had succeeded to the presidency.”Drake, with his head cocked to one side,said, “It sounds like a reasonable

interpretation. It seems to fit.”“No, it doesn't,” said Fletcher. “Theinterpretation is accepted only becauseanything else would highlight amiscarriage of justice. But to me—” Hepaused and said, “Gentlemen, I will notpretend to be free of bias. My wife isJoseph Hennessy's granddaughter. But ifthe relationship exposes me to bias, italso gives me considerable personalinformation concerning Hennessy by wayof my father-in-law, now dead.“Hennessy had no strong feelings againsteither Harding or Coolidge. He was notfor them, of course, for he was a fierySocialist, supporting Eugene Debs all theway—and that didn't help him at the trial,

by the way. There was no way in whichhe could feel that the assassination ofCoolidge would have accomplishedanything at all. Nor would he have feltHarding to be a ‘wicked man' since theevidence concerning the vast corruptionthat had taken place during hisadministration came to light onlygradually, and the worst of it well afterthe note was written.“In fact, if there was a President whomHennessy hated furiously, it wasWoodrow Wilson. Hennessy had beenborn in Ireland and had left the land a stepahead of English bayonets. He wasfuriously anti-British and therefore, in thecourse of World War I, was an emphatic

pacifist, opposing American entry on theside of Great Britain. —That didn't helphim at the trial either.”Rubin interposed, “Debs opposed entryalso, didn't he?”“That's right,” said Fletcher, “and in 1918Debs was jailed as a spy in consequence.Hennessy avoided prison, but he neverreferred to Wilson after American entryinto war by any term other than thatwicked man.' He had voted for Wilson in1916 as a result of the 'He-kept-us-out-of-war' campaign slogan, and he feltbetrayed, you understand, when theUnited States went to war the next year.”“Then you think he's referring to Wilsonin that note,” said Trumbull.

“I'm sure of it. The reference to the fingerof God touching the wicked man doesn'tsound like death to me, but something else—just the touch of the finger, you see. Asyou probably all know, Wilson suffered astroke on October 2, 1919, and wasincapacitated for the remainder of histerm. That was the finger of God, if youlike.”Gonzalo said, “Are you saying Hennessywas going to finish the job byassassinating Wilson?”“No, no, there was no assassinationattempt on Wilson.”“Then what does he mean, 'finish the job,'and doing it even at the cost of every dropof blood in our veins'?”

“That was his flamboyance,” saidFletcher. “If he was going out for a bucketof beer he would say, I’ll bring it back ifit costs me every drop of blood in myveins.'“Avalon leaned back in his chair, twirledhis empty brandy glass, and said, “I don'tblame you, Evan, for wanting to clearyour grandfather-in-law, but you'll needsomething better than what you've givenus. If you can find another Friday thethirteenth on which the letter could havebeen written, if you can figure out someway of pinpointing the date to somethingother than June 13, 1924—”“I realize that,” said Fletcher, ratherglumly, “and I’ve gone through his life.

I've worked with his correspondence andwith newspaper files and with my father-in-law's memory, until I think I could putmy finger on where he was and what hedid virtually every day of his life. I triedto find events that could be related tosome nearby Friday the thirteenth, and Ieven think I've found some—but how do Igo about, proving that any of them are theFriday the thirteenth? —If only he hadbeen less obsessed by the fact of Fridaythe thirteenth and had dated the letter inthe proper fashion.”“It wouldn't have saved his life,” saidGonzalo thoughtfully.“The letter couldn't then have been usedto besmirch his memory and give rise to

the pretense that the trial was fair. —As itis, I don't even* know that I've caughtevery Friday the thirteenth there might be.The calendar is so dreadfully irregularthat there's no way of knowing when thedate will spring out at you.”“Oh no,” said Halsted with a sudden softexplosiveness. “The calendar is irregular,but not as irregular as all that. You canfind every Friday the thirteenth withouttrouble as far back or as far forward asyou want to go.”“You can?” said Fletcher with someastonishment.“I don't believe that,” said Gonzalo,almost simultaneously.“It's very easy,” said Halsted, drawing a

ball-point pen out of his inner jacketpocket and opening a napkin on the tablebefore him.“Oh, no,” said Rubin, in mock terror.“Roger teaches math at a junior highschool, Dr. Fletcher, and you had betterbe ready for some complicatedequations.”“No equations at all necessary,” saidHalsted loftily. “I'll bring it down to yourlevel, Manny. —Look, there are 365 daysin a year, which comes out to fifty-twoweeks and one day. If the year were 364days long, it would be just fifty-twoweeks long, and the calendar wouldrepeat itself each year. If January 1 wereon a Sunday one year, it would be on a

Sunday the next year and every year.“That extra day, however, means thateach year the weekday on which aparticular date falls is shoved ahead byone. If January 1 is on a Sunday one year,it will fall on Monday the next year, andon Tuesday the year after.“The only complication is that every fouryears we have a leap year in which aFebruary 29 is added, making 366 days inall. That comes to fifty-two weeks andtwo days, so that a particular date isshoved ahead by two in the list ofweekdays. It leaps over one, so to speak,to land on the second, which is why it iscalled leap year. That means that ifJanuary 1 falls on, say, a Wednesday in

leap year, then the next year January 1falls on a Friday, having leaped over theThursday. And this goes for any day of theyear and not just January 1.“Of course, February 29 comes after twomonths of a year have passed so that datesin January and February make their leapthe year after leap year, while theremaining months make their leap in leapyear itself. In order to avoid thatcomplication, let's pretend that the yearbegins on March 1 of the year before thecalendar year and ends on February 28 ofthe calendar year—or February 29 in leapyear. In that way, we can arrange to haveevery date leap the weekday in the yearafter what we call leap year.

“Now let's imagine that the thirteenth ofsome month falls on a Friday—it doesn'tmatter which month—and that it happensto be a leap year. The date leaps andlands on Sunday the next year. That nextyear is a normal 365-day year and so arethe two following, so the thirteenthprogresses to Monday, Tuesday, andWednesday, but the year in which it isWednesday is a leap year again and thenext year it falls on a Friday. In otherwords, if the thirteenth of some months ison a Friday of leap year, by ourdefinition, then it is on a Friday again fiveyears later—” Gonzalo said, 'I’m notfollowing you at all.” Halsted said,“Okay, then, let's make a table. We can

list the years as L, 1, 2, 3, L, 1, 2, 3 andso on where L stands for leap year,coming every four years. We can label thedays of the week from A to G, A forSunday, B for Monday through to G forSaturday. That will, at least, give us thepattern. Here it is—”He scribbled furiously, then passed thenapkin round. On it was written:L123L123L123L123ACDEFABCDFGABDEFL123L123L123L GBCDEGABCEFGA“You see,' said Halsted, “on the twenty-ninth year after you start, A falls on leapyear again and the whole pattern startsover. That means that this year's calendarcan be used again twenty-eight years from

now and then again twenty-eight yearsafter that, and twenty-eight years afterthat, and so on.“Notice that each letter occurs four timesin the twenty-eight-year cycle, whichmeans that any date can fall on any day ofthe week with equal probability. Thatmeans that Friday the thirteenth mustcome every seven months on the average.Actually, it doesn't because the monthsare of different lengths, irregularlyspaced, so that there can be any number ofFriday the thirteenths in any given yearfrom 1 to 3. It is impossible to have ayear with no Friday the thirteenths at all,and equally impossible to have more thanthree.”

“Why is there a twenty-eight-year cycle?”asked Gonzalo.Halsted said, “There are seven days inthe week and a leap year every fourthyear and seven times four is twenty-eight.”“You mean that if there were a leap yearevery two years the cycle would lastfourteen years?”“That's right, and if it were every threeyears it would last twenty-one years andso on. As long as there are seven days aweek and a leap year every x years, withx and 7 mutually prime—”Avalon interrupted. “Never mind that,Roger. You've got your pattern. How doyou use it?”

'The easiest thing in the world. Say thethirteenth falls on a Friday in a leap year,where you remember to start the leap yearon March 1 before the actual leap year.Then you represent it by A, and you willsee that the thirteenth of that same monthwill fall whenever the A shows up, fiveyears later and six years after that, andthen eleven years after that.“Now this is December 13, 1974, and byour convention of leap years this is theyear before leap year. That means that itcan be represented by the letter E, whosefirst appearance is under 3, the yearbefore L. Well then, by following the E'swe see that there will be another Fridaythe thirteenth in December eleven years

from now, then in six more years, then infive years. That is, there will be a Fridaythe thirteenth in December 1985, inDecember 1991, and in December 1996.“You can do that for any date for anymonth, using that little series I've justwritten out, and make up a perpetualcalendar that runs for twenty-eight yearsand then repeats itself over and over. Youcan run it forward or backward and catchevery Friday the thirteenth as far as youlike in either direction, or at least as farback as 1752. In fact, you can find suchperpetual calendars in reference bookslike the World Almanac.”Gonzalo said, “Why 1752?”“That's an unusual year, at least for Great

Britain and what were then the Americancolonies. The old Julian calendar whichhad been used since Julius Caesar's timehad gained on the season because therewere a few too many leap years in it. TheGregorian calendar, named for PopeGregory XIII, was adopted in 1582 inmuch of Europe, and by that time thecalendar was ten days out ofsynchronization with the seasons, so thatten days were dropped from the calendar,and every once in a while thereafter aleap year was omitted to keep the samething from happening again. Great Britainand the colonies didn't go along till 1752,by which time another day had beenadded, so they had to drop eleven days.”

“That's right,” said Rubin. “And for awhile they used both calendars, referringto a particular date as O.S. or N.S. forOld Style and New Style. GeorgeWashington was born on February 11,1732 O.S., but instead of keeping thedate, as many people did, he switched toFebruary 22, 1732 N.S. I've wonconsiderable money by betting thatGeorge Washington wasn't born onWashington's birthday.”Halsted said, “The reason Great Britainhesitated so long was that the newcalendar was initiated by the papacy, andGreat Britain, being Protestant, preferredgoing against the Sun than along with thePope. Russia didn't switch till 1923, and

the Russian Orthodox Church is on theJulian calendar to this day, which is whythe Orthodox Christmas comes on January7 now, since the number of accumulateddays' difference is thirteen.“Great Britain went from September 2,1752, directly to September 14, droppingthe days in between. There were riotsagainst that, with people shouting, 'Giveus back our eleven days.'“Rubin said indignantly, “That wasn't ascrazy as you might think. Landlordscharged the full quarter's rent, withoutgiving an eleven-day rebate. I’d haverioted too.”“In any case,” said Halsted, “that's whythe perpetual calendar only goes back to

1752. Those eleven missing days messeverything up and you have to set up adifferent arrangement for days beforeSeptember 14, 1752.”Fletcher, who had listened to everythingwith evident interest, said, “I must say Ididn't know any of this, Mr. Halsted. Idon't pretend that I followed youperfectly, or that I can duplicate whatyou've just done, but I didn't know that Icould find a perpetual calendar in theWorld Almanac. It would have saved mea lot of trouble—but of course, knowingwhere all the Friday the thirteenths arewouldn't help me determine which Fridaythe thirteenth might be the Friday thethirteenth.”

Henry interposed suddenly and said in hissoft, polite voice, “I'm not sure of that,Mr. Fletcher. May I ask you a fewquestions?”Fletcher looked startled and, for a shortmoment, was silentAvalon said quickly, “Henry is a memberof the club, Evan. I hope you don't mind—”“Of course not,” said Fletcher at once.“Ask away, Henry.”'Thank you, sir. —What I want to know iswhether Mr. Hennessy knew of thispattern of date variations that Mr. Halstedhas so kindly outlined for us.”Fletcher looked thoughtful. “I can't say forcertain; I certainly haven't heard of it, if

he did. —Still, it's very likely he wouldhave. He prided himself, for instance, onbeing able to cast a horoscope and, for allthe nonsense there is in astrology, castinga proper horoscope takes a bit ofmathematics, I understand. Hennessy didnot have much of a formal education, buthe was fearfully intelligent, and he wasinterested in numbers. In fact, as I think ofit, I am sure he couldn't possibly havebeen as interested in Friday the thirteenthas he was, without being impelled towork out the pattern.”“In that case, sir,” said Henry, “if I askyou what Mr. Hennessy was doing on acertain day, could you call up someone tocheck your notes on the matter, and tell

us?”Fletcher looked uncertain. “I'm not sure.My wife is home, but she wouldn't knowwhere to look, and it's not likely I'll beable to give her adequate directions. —Icould try, I suppose.”“In that case, do you suppose you couldtell me what Mr. Hennessy was doing onFriday, March 12, 1920?”Fletcher's chair scraped backward andfor a long moment Fletcher staredopenmouthed. “What makes you askthat?”“It seems logical, sir,” said Henry softly.“But I do know what he was doing thatday. It was one of the important days ofhis life. He swung the labor organization

of which he was one of the leaders intosupporting Debs for the presidency. Debsran that year on the Socialist ticket eventhough he was still in jail, and he polledover 900,000 votes—the best theSocialists were ever able to do in theUnited States.”Henry said, “Might not the labororganization have ordinarily supportedthe Democratic candidate for that year?”“James M. Cox, yes. He was stronglysupported by Wilson.”“So to swing the vote away from Wilson'scandidate might be, in Mr. Hennessy'sflamboyant style, the finishing of the jobthat the finger of God had begun.”“I'm sure he would think of that in that

fashion.”“In which case the letter would have beenwritten on Friday, February 13, 1920.”“It's a possibility,” said Fletcher, “buthow can you prove it?”“Dr. Fletcher,” said Henry, “in Mr.Hennessy's note he thanks God that thereis no Friday the thirteenth the month afterand even considers it a miracle. If heknew the perpetual calendar pattern hecertainly wouldn't think it a miracle.There are seven months that have thirty-one days, and are therefore four weeksand three days long. If a particular datefalls on a particular weekday in such amonth, it falls on a weekday three past itthe next month. In other words, if the

thirteenth falls on a Friday in July, then itwill fall on a Monday in August. Is thatnot so, Mr. Halsted?”“You're perfectly right, Henry. And if themonth has thirty days it moves twoweekdays along, so that if the thirteenthfalls on a Friday in June it falls on aSunday in July,” said Halsted.“In that case, in any month that has thirtyor thirty-one days, there cannot possiblybe a Friday the thirteenth followed thenext month by another Friday thethirteenth, and Hennessy would know thatand not consider it a miracle at all.“But, Mr. Fletcher, there is one month thathas only twenty-eight days and that isFebruary. It is exactly four weeks long, so

that March begins on the same day of theweek that February does, and repeats theweekdays for every date, at least up to thetwenty-eighth. If there is a Friday thethirteenth in February, there must be aFriday the Thirteenth in March as well—unless it is leap year.“In leap year, February has twenty-ninedays and is four weeks and one day long.That means that every day in March fallsone weekday later. If the thirteenth fallson a Friday in February, it falls on aSaturday in March, so that, thoughFebruary has a Friday the thirteenth,March has a Friday the twelfth.“My new appointment book has calendarsfor both 1975 and 1976. The year 1976 is

a leap year and, in it, I can see that thereis a Friday, February 13, and a Friday,March 12. Mr. Halsted has pointed outthat calendars repeat every twenty-eightyears. That means that the 1976 calendarwould also hold for 1948 and for 1920.“It is clear that once every twenty-eightyears there is a Friday the thirteenth inFebruary that is not followed by one inMarch, and Mr. Hennessy, knowing thatthe meeting of his labor group wasscheduled for the second Friday inMarch, something perhaps maneuvered byhis opposition to keep him at home, wasdelighted and relieved at the fact that itwas at least not a second Friday thethirteenth.”

There was a silence all about the tableand then Avalon said, “That's very nicelyargued. It convinces me.”But Fletcher shook his head. “Nicelyargued, I admit, but I'm not sure—”Henry said, 'There is, possibly, more. Icouldn't help wonder why Mr. Hennessycalled it a 'forty-year miracle.'““Oh well,” said Fletcher indulgently,“there's no mystery about that, I'm sure.Forty is one of those mystic numbers thatcrops up in the Bible all the time. Youknow, the Flood rained down upon theEarth for forty days and forty nights.”“Yes,” said Rubin eagerly, “and Mosesremained forty days on Mount Sinai, andElijah was fed forty days by the ravens,

and Jesus fasted forty days in thewilderness, and so on. Talking aboutGod's mercy would just naturally bringthe number forty to mind.”“Perhaps that is so,” said Henry, “but Ihave a thought. Mr. Halsted, in talkingabout the conversion of the Julian to theGregorian calendar, said that the newGregorian calendar omitted a leap yearoccasionally.”Halsted brought his fist down on thetable. “Good God, I forgot. Manny, if youhadn't made that stupid joke aboutequations, I wouldn't have been soanxious to simplify and I wouldn't haveforgotten. —The Julian calendar had oneleap year every four years without fail,

which would have been correct if the yearwere exactly 365 1/4 days long, but it's atiny bit shorter than that. To make up forthat tiny falling-short, three leap yearshave to be omitted every four centuries,and by the Gregorian calendar thoseomissions come in any year ending in 00that is not divisible by 400, even thoughsuch a year would be leap in the Juliancalendar.“That means,” and he pounded his fist onthe table again, “that 1900 was not a leapyear. There was no leap year between1896 and 1904. There were sevenconsecutive years of 365 days each,instead of three.”Henry said, “Doesn't that upset the

perpetual calendar that you described?”“Yes, it does. The perpetual calendar forthe 1800s meets the one for the 1900s inthe middle, so to speak.”“In that case, what was the last yearbefore 1920 in which a Friday thethirteenth in February fell in a leap year?”“I’ll have to figure it out,” said Halsted,his pen racing over a new napkin. “Ah,ah,” he muttered, then threw his pen downon the table and said, “In 1880, by God.”“Forty years before 1920,” said Henry,“so that on the day that Hennessy wrotehis note, an unlucky day in February wasnot followed by an unlucky day in Marchfor the first time in forty years, and it wasquite fair for him to call it, flamboyantly,

a forty-year miracle. It seems to me thatFebruary 13, 1920, is the only possibleday in his entire lifetime on which thatnote could have been written.”“And so it does to me,” said Halsted.“And to me,” said Fletcher. “I thank you,gentlemen. And especially you, Henry. If Ican argue this out correctly now—”“I'm sure,” said Henry, “that Mr. Halstedwill be glad to help out.”10 AfterwordI had to write this one. On Friday,December 13, 1974, I was co-host forthat month's meeting of the Trap DoorSpiders. (The Trap Door Spiders havetwo hosts and twice the membership of

the Black Widowers, you see.) I hadpicked a new restaurant and wasparticularly anxious that everything gowell.I had guaranteed that twelve to fifteenmembers would show up and I feared thatwe might not make the number and that Iwould have a bad time with therestaurant. I counted them as they came inand when number twelve arrived I wasrelieved. (And the restaurant was pleasedtoo. We were served an excellent mealwith superb service— though, of course,no Henry.)Then, just as the cocktail hour was overand we sat down to dinner, in camemember number thirteen. Personally, I

think it's a credit to the membership thatnot one person present seemed the leastbit concerned that we were thirteen at thetable on Friday the thirteenth (and as faras I know, nothing has happened as aresult).I must admit I was concerned, because Icould not let such an event pass withoutbeginning to work on a Black Widowerplot at once. Again Ellery Queen'sMystery Magazine felt this to be toocomplicated a situation, and I passed it onto F & SF, which took it. It appeared inthe January 1976 issue.*Joseph Hennessy never existed and, asfar as I know, there was never anassassination attempt on Calvin Coolidge.

All other historical references in thestory, not involving Hennessy, areaccurate—IATo Table of Contents

11 The Unabridged

Roger Halsted, normally an equableperson (as one would have to be tosurvive the teaching of mathematics at ajunior high school), arrived at the monthlybanquet of the Black Widowers in ahighly apparent state of the sulks.'I’ll have a bloody Mary, Henry,” he said.“Light on the blood and an extra slug ofMary.”Silently and deftly, Henry produced thedrink, complete with slug, and JamesDrake, who was the host for the evening,stared at him over the smoke of hiscigarette and let his inconsiderable graymustache twitch. “What's the matter,

Rog?” he asked in his soft, hoarse voice.Roger said, Tm late.”“So?” said Drake, who had to come infrom New Jersey and had been known tobe late himself. “Drink fast and catch up.”“It's why I'm late that bothers me,” saidHalsted. His high forehead had turnedpink past the place where the vanishedhairline had once been. “I was looking formy cuff links. My favorite pair. —Myonly pair, actually. I spent twenty minutes.I looked everywhere.”“Did you find them?*'“No! Have you got any idea how manyhiding places there are in a two-storythree-bedroom house? I could have spenttwenty hours and ended with nothing.”

Geoffrey Avalon drifted over, with thesecond drink at the halfway mark. “Youdon't have to look through the wholehouse, Rog. You didn't paste them overthe molding or inside the drainpipe, didyou? Where do you usually keep them?”“In a little box I've got in the drawer. Ilooked there first. They weren't there.”His voice had risen past its usual quietpitch and Emmanuel Rubin called outfrom the other side of the banquet table,“You left them in your shirt the last timeyou wore them and they got sent to thelaundry and you'll never see them again.”“That's not so,” said Halsted, clenchinghis left hand into a fist and waving it.“This is the only darned shirt I've got with

French cuffs and I haven't worn it in threemonths and I saw the cuff links in the boxjust the other night when I was looking forsomething else.”“Then look for something else again,”said Rubin, “and they'll turn up.”“Ha-ha,” said Halsted grimly, andfinished his drink. Mario Gonzalo said,“Is that shirt you're wearing the one withthe French cuffs, Rog?” “Yes, it is.”“Well then, if that's the only shirt you'vegot with French cuffs, and you couldn'tfind your only pair of cuff links, what areyou using to hold the cuffs together?”“Thread,” said Halsted bitterly, shootinghis cuffs for inspection. “I had Alice tiethem with white thread.”

Gonzalo, himself an example of faultlesssartorial splendor, with a predominantbluish touch in shirt and jacket, shadinginto the darker tints of his tie, winced.“Why didn't you put on a different shirt?”“My blood was up,” said Halsted, “and Iwasn't going to be forced into changingthe shirt.”Drake said, “Well, if you'll cool down abit, Rog, I'll introduce my guest. JasonLeominster, this is Roger Halsted, andcoming up the stairs for a scotch and sodais the final member, Thomas Trumbull.”Leominster smiled dutifully. He was notquite as tall as Avalon's six feet two, buthe was thinner. He was clearly in hisforties though he looked younger, and

under his tan jacket he wore a blackturtleneck sweater which managed toseem not out of place. He had high andpronounced cheekbones over a narrowand pointed chin.He said, “I'm afraid you're not gettingmuch sympathy, Mr. Halsted, but you mayhave mine for what it's worth. When itcomes to not finding things, my heartbleeds.”Before Halsted could express whatgratitude he felt for that, Henry signaledthe beginning of dinner, the BlackWidowers took their seats, and Trumbullloudly and rapidly, proclaimed theritualistic toast to Old King Cole.Rubin, staring hard at what was before

him, lifted his straggly beard skyward inan access of indignation and said toHenry, “This thing looks like an egg roll.What is it, Henry?”“It's an egg roll, sir.”“What's it doing here?Henry said, The chef has put together aChinese meal for the club this month.”“In an Italian restaurant?”“I believe he considers it a challenge,sir.”Trumbull said, “Shut up and eat, Manny,will you? It's good.”Rubin bit into it, then reached for themustard. “It's all right,” he saiddiscontentedly, “for an egg roll.”Even Rubin melted with the birds' nest

soup, and when the first of the sevenplatters proved to be Peking duck, hegrew positively mellow.“Actually,” he said, “it's not that you losethings. You forget them. It's that way withme. It's that way with everyone. You'reholding something, and put it down withyour mind on something else. Twominutes later you can't for the life of youtell where that something you put down is.Even if, by sheer accident, you find it, youstill can't remember putting it down there.Roger hasn't lost his cuff links. He putthem somewhere and he doesn't rememberwhere.”Gonzalo, who was daintily picking out ablack mushroom in order to experience its

unaccompanied savor, said, “Much as itpains me to agree with Manny—”“Much as it pains you to be right for onerare occasion, you mean.”“—I've got to admit there's something towhat he has just said. By accident, I'msure. The worst thing anyone can do is toput something away where he knows itwill be safe from a burglar's hand. Theburglar will find it right away, but theowner will never see it again. I once put abankbook away and didn't find it for fiveyears.”“You hid it under the soap,” said Rubin.“Does that work with you?” askedGonzalo sweetly. “It doesn't with me.”“Where was it after you found it, Mario?”

asked Avalon.“I've forgotten again,” said Gonzalo.“Of course,” interposed Leominsteragreeably, “it is possible to put somethingin one place, shift it to another for stillsafer keeping, then remember only thefirst place— where it isn't.”“Has that happened to you, Mr.Leominster?” asked Trumbull.“In a manner of speaking,” saidLeominster, “but I don't really know if ithappened at all.”Henry arrived with the platter of fortunecookies and said in a low voice toHalsted, “Mrs. Halsted has just called,sir. She wants me to tell you that the cufflinks were found.”

Halsted turned sharply. “Found? Did shesay where?”“Under the bed, sir. She says they hadpresumably fallen there.”“I looked under the bed.”“Mrs. Halsted says they were near one ofthe feet of the bed. Quite invisible, sir.She had to feel around. She said to tellyou that it has happened before.”“Open your fortune cookie, Rog,” saidAvalon indulgently. “It will tell you thatyou are about to find something of greatimportance.”Halsted did so, and said, “It says, 'Let asmile be your umbrella,'“ and chafedvisibly.Rubin said, “I'm not sure that it's proper

for a Black Widower to be receiving amessage from a woman while a stagmeeting is actually in session.”Gonzalo said, “Electric impulses have nosex, though I don't suspect you wouldknow that* Manny, any more than youknow anything else about the subject.”But Henry was bringing the brandy andDrake headed off the inevitable furious(and possibly improper) response bytapping a rapid tattoo on his water glass.Drake said, “Let me introduce JasonLeominster, a somewhat distant neighborof mine. He's a genealogist and I don'tthink there's a single member of the BlackWidowers —always excepting Henry—with a genealogy that would bear

looking into, so let's be cautious.”Leominster said, “Not really. No one hasever been disappointed in a genealogy.The number of ancestors increasesgeometrically with each generation, minusthe effect of intermarriage. If we explorethe siblings, the parents and their siblings,the grandparents and their siblings; all theattachments by marriage and theirsiblings; and the parents and grandparentsthat enter in with the cases of remarriage,we have hundreds of individuals to playwith when we go back only a singlecentury.“By emphasizing the flatteringconnections and ignoring the others, wecan't lose. To the professional

genealogist, of course, there can be itemsof historic value uncovered, often minor,and sometimes surprisingly important. Idiscovered, for instance, a collateraldescendant of Martha Washington who—”Trumbull, having raised his handuselessly in the course of these remarks,now said, “Please, Mr. Leominster—Look, Jim, this is out of order. It's got tobe question-and-answer. Will youindicate a griller?”Drake stubbed out his cigarette and said,“It sounded interesting to me as it was.But go ahead. You be the griller.”Trumbull scowled. “I just wanteverything in order, Mr. Leominster, I

apologize for interrupting you. It wasinteresting, but we must proceedaccording to tradition. My first questionwould have been that of asking you tojustify your existence, but your remarkshave already indicated how your answerwould be framed. Let me, therefore, go onto the next question. Mr. Leominster, yousaid in the course of the dinner that aperson might hide something in one place,switch it to another, then remember onlythe first. You also said that it happened toyou only in a manner of speaking and maynever have happened at all. Could youelaborate on this? I am curious to knowwhat was in your mind.”“Nothing, really. My aunt died last

month,” and here Leominster raised hishand, “but spare me the formalities ofregrets. She was eighty-five andbedridden. The point is that she left meher house and its contents, which hadbeen her brother's till he died ten yearsago, and Mr. Halsted's affair with the cufflinks reminded me of what went on whenmy aunt inherited the house.”“Good,” said Trumbull, “what went onthen?”“Why, she was convinced something washidden in the house; something of value. Itwas never found and that's all there is toit.”Trumbull said, “Then whatever it is isstill there, isn't it?”

“If it was ever there in the first place,then I suppose so.”“And it's yours now?”“Yes.”“And what do you intend to do about it?”“I don't see that I can do anything. Wedidn't find it when we looked for it, and Iprobably won't find it now. Still—”“Yes?”“Well, I intend in time to put the house upfor sale and auction off its contents. Ihave no use for them as things and areasonable use for the cash equivalents. Itwould be, however, annoying to auctionoff something for a hundred dollars andfind that it contains an item worth, let ussay, twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Trumbull sat back and said, “With thehost's permission, Mr. Leominster, I'mgoing to ask you to tell the story in somereasonable order. What is the thing that islost? How did it come to be lost? And soon.”“Hear, hear!” said Gonzalo approvingly.He had finished his sketch, makingLeominster's face a triangle, point-down,without in the least losing its perfectrecognizability.Leominster looked at the sketch stoicallyand nodded, sipping at his brandy, whileHenry noiselessly cleared the table.Leominster said, “I am from what iscalled an old New England family. Thefamily made its money two centuries ago

in textile mills and, I believe, in some ofthe less cheerful aspects of trade in thosedays—slaves and rum. The family haskept its money since, investing itconservatively and so on. We're nottycoons, but we're all well off—those ofus who are left: myself and a cousin. I amdivorced, by the way, and have nochildren.“The family history is what makes meinterested in genealogy, and the familyfinances make it possible for me to humormyself in this respect. It is not exactly aremunerative pursuit—at least, not in thefashion in which I pursue it— but I canafford it, you see.“My Uncle Bryce—my father's older

brother—retired fairly early in life afterthe death of his wife. He built a ratherfussy house in Connecticut and involvedhimself in collecting things. I myself don'tsee the pleasure in accumulation, but Iimagine it gave rise in him to the samepleasures that are given me bygenealogical research.”“What did he collect?” asked Avalon.“Several types of items, but nothingunusual. He was a rather plodding sort offellow, without much imagination. Hecollected old books to begin with, thenold coins, and finally stamps. The fevernever got to him so badly that he wouldinvest really large sums, so that hiscollections are not what you might call

first class. They're the kind thatappraisers smile condescendingly over.Still, it gave him pleasure, and histhousand-book library isn't entirelyworthless. Nor is the rest. And of courseeven a minor collector may sometimes gethis hands on a good item.”“And your uncle had done so?” askedTrumbull.“My Aunt Hester—she was the thirdchild, two years younger than my UncleBryce and five years older than my father,who died fourteen years ago— My AuntHester said that my uncle had a valuableitem.”“How did she know?”“My Aunt Hester was always close to my

uncle. She lived in Florida, but after myuncle was widowed she took to spending.some of the summer months with him inConnecticut each year. She had nevermarried and they grew closer with age,since there was almost no one else. Myuncle had a son but he has been in SouthAmerica for a quarter century. He hasmarried a Brazilian girl and has threechildren. He and his father were not ongood terms at all, and neither seemed toexist as far as the other was concerned.There was myself, of course, and theyentertained me often out of a sense of dutyand distant liking; and I was rather fondof them.“Aunt Hester was a prim old lady,

terribly self-conscious about the familyposition; to a ridiculous and outmodedextent, of course. She was precise andstiff in her speech, and was convincedthat she was living in a hostile world ofthieves and Socialists. She never woreher jewelry, for instance. She kept it in asafe-deposit box at all times.“It was natural, then, that my uncle wouldleave the house to my aunt, and that shewould in turn leave it to me. I'mgenealogical enough, however, toremember that my Uncle Bryce has a sonwho is the direct heir and moredeserving, by ties of blood, to have thehouse. I've written to my cousin askinghim if he is satisfied with the will, and I

received a letter from him three days agotelling me I was welcome to the houseand contents. Actually, he said, ratherbitterly, that as far as he was concerned Icould burn the house and contents.”Trumbull said, “Mr. Leominster, Iwonder if you could get back to the lostobject.”“Ah, I'm sorry. I had forgotten. AuntHester, considering her views, was nothappy over my uncle's cavalier treatmentof his collection. Aunt Hester had atotally exaggerated idea of its value.'These items and sundries,' she would sayto me, 'are of peerless worth.'““Is that what she called them? Items andsundries?” asked Avalon, smiling.

“That was a pet phrase of hers. I assureyou I remember it correctly. She had anarchaic way of speaking—a deliberatelycultivated one, I'm sure. She felt thatlanguage was a great mark of social status—”“Shaw thought so too,” interrupted Rubin.“Pygmalion.”“Never mind, Manny,” said Trumbull.“Won't you please proceed, Mr.Leominster?”“I was just going to say that Aunt Hester'sfetish of verbal complication wassomething which she felt, I think, set heroff from the lower classes. If I were totell her that she ought to ask someoneabout something, she was quite certain to

say something like, 'But of whom, exactly,dear, ought I to inquire?' She would neversay 'ask' if she could say 'inquire'; shenever ended a sentence with a prepositionor split an infinitive. In fact, she was theonly person I ever met who consistentlyused the subjunctive mood. She once saidto me, 'Would you be so gracious, mydear Jason, as to ascertain whether it beraining or no,' and I almost failed tounderstand her.“But I am wandering from the point again.As I said, she had an exaggerated idea ofthe value of my uncle's collection and shewas always after him to do somethingabout it. At her insistence, he put in anelaborate burglar alarm system and had a

special signal installed that would soundin the local police station.”“Was it ever used?” asked Halsted.“Not as far as I know,” said Leominster.“There was never any burglary. My uncledidn't exactly live in a high-crime area—though you could never convince my auntof that— and I wouldn't be surprised ifprospective burglars had a moreaccurately disappointing notion of theworth of my uncle's collection than myaunt had. After my uncle's death, AuntHester had some of his belongingsappraised. When they told her that hisstamp collection was worth, perhaps, tenthousand dollars, she was horrified. 'Theyare thieves,’ she told me. 'Having

remitted ten thousand dollars, they wouldthen certainly proceed to retail thecollection for a million at the very least.'She would allow no further appraisals,and held onto everything with anunbreakable* clutch. Fortunately, she hadplenty to live on and didn't have to sellanything. To her dying day, though, I amsure she was convinced that she wasleaving me possessions equivalent to anenormous fortune. —No such thing,unfortunately.“My Uncle Bryce was hardheaded enoughin this respect. He knew that thecollections were of only moderate value.He said so to me on several occasions,though he also said he had a few items

that were worthwhile. He did not specify.According to Aunt Hester, he went intomore detail with her. When she urged himto put his stamp collection in a vault hesaid, 'What, and never be able to look atit? It would have no value to me at all,then. Besides, it isn't worth much, exceptfor one item, and I've taken care of that.'“Avalon said, 'That one item in the stampcollection that your uncle said he hadtaken care of—is that what is now lost?Was it some stamp or other?”“Yes, so Aunt Hester said at the time ofmy uncle's death. He had left her thehouse and its contents, which meant thatstamp too. She called me soon after thefuneral to say that she could not find the

stamp and was convinced it had beenstolen. I had attended the funeral, ofcourse, and was still in Connecticut,having taken the occasion to track downsome old gravestones, and I came overfor dinner the day after she called me.“It was a hectic meal, for Aunt Hesterwas furious over not having found thestamp. She was convinced it was worthmillions and that the servants had taken it—or perhaps the funeral people had. Sheeven had a little suspicion left over forme. She said to me over dessert, ‘YourUncle, I presume, never discoursed on thematter of its location with you, did he?'“I said he did not—which was true. Hehad never done so.”

Trumbull said, “Did she have any idea atall where he hid it?”“Yes, indeed. That was one of hergrounds for annoyance. He had told her,but had not been specific enough, and shehad not thought to pin him down exactly. Isuppose she was satisfied that he hadtaken care of it and didn't think further. Hetold her he had placed it in one of hisunabridged volumes, where he could getit easily enough to look at it whenever hewished, but where no casual thief wouldthink to find it.”“In one of his unabridged volumes?” saidAvalon in astonishment. “Did he mean inhis collection?”“Aunt Hester quoted him as saying 'one of

my unabridged volumes.' We assumed hemeant in his collection.”Rubin said, “It's a foolish place to put it.A book can be stolen as easily as a stamp.It can be stolen for itself and the stampwould go along as a side reward.”Leominster said, “I don't suppose myuncle seriously thought of it as a place ofsafety; merely as a way of satisfying myaunt. In fact, if she had not nagged him,I'm sure that Uncle Bryce would have leftit right in the collection, which is, was,and has always been safe and sound. Ofcourse, I never said this to my aunt.”Rubin said, “When people speak of 'theUnabridged,' they usually mean Webster'sUnabridged Dictionary. Did your uncle

have one?”“Of course. On a small stand of its own.My aunt had thought of that and hadlooked there and hadn't found it. That waswhen she called me. We went into thelibrary after dinner and I went over theUnabridged again. My uncle kept hisbetter stamps in small, transparentenvelopes and one of them might havebeen placed among the pages. Still, itwould have been quite noticeable. It wasan onionskin edition, and there wouldcertainly have been a tendency for thedictionary to open to that page. AuntHester said it would be just like UncleBryce to hide it in such a foolish manneras to make it easily stolen.

'That was quite impossible, however. Ihad used the Unabridged myself now andthen in my uncle's last years and I'm surethere was nothing in it. I inspected thebinding to make sure he hadn't hid itbehind the back strip. I was even temptedto pull the entire volume apart, but itdidn't seem likely that Uncle Bryce hadgone to elaborate lengths. He had slippedit between the pages of a book—but notthe Unabridged.“I said as much to Aunt Hester. I told herthat it might be among the pages ofanother book. I pointed out that the factthat he had referred to 'one of theunabridged volumes' was a sure sign thatit was not in the Unabridged.”

“I agree,” said Rubin, “but how manyunabridged volumes did he have?”Leominster shook his head. “I don't know.I know nothing about books—at leastfrom a collector's point of view. I askedAunt Hester if she knew whether he hadany items that were unabridged—anunabridged Boswell, for instance, or anunabridged Boccaccio—but she knewless about such matters than I did.”Gonzalo said, “Maybe ‘unabridged’means something special to a bookcollector. Maybe it means having a bookjacket—just as an example—and it'sbetween the book and its jacket.”Avalon said, “No, Mario. I knowsomething about books, and unabridged

has no meaning but the usual one of acomplete version.”“In any case,” said Leominster, “it doesn'tmatter, for I suggested that we ought to gothrough all the books.”“A thousand of them?” asked Halsteddoubtfully.“As it turned out there were well over athousand and it was a task indeed. I mustsay that Aunt Hester went about itproperly. She hired half a dozen childrenfrom town—all girls, because she saidgirls were quieter and more reliable thanboys. They were each between ten andtwelve, old enough to work carefully andyoung enough to be honest. They came ineach day for weeks and worked for four

or five hours.“Aunt Hester remained in the library atall times, handing out the books insystematic order, receiving them back,handing out another, and so on. Sheallowed no short cuts; no shaking thebooks to see if anything fell out, orflipping the pages, either. She made themturn each page individually.”“Did they find anything?” asked Avalon.“Numerous things. Aunt Hester was tooshrewd to tell them exactly what she waslooking for. She just asked them to turnevery single page and bring her any littlething they found, any scrap of paper, shesaid, or anything. She promised them aquarter for anything they found, in

addition to a dollar for every hour theyworked, and fed them all the milk andcake they could hold. Before it was over,each girl had gained five pounds, I'msure. They located dozens ofmiscellaneous items. There werebookmarks, for instance, though I'm surethey were not my uncle's, for he was noreader; postcards, pressed leaves, evenan occasional naughty photograph that Isuspect my uncle had hidden foroccasional study. They shocked my auntbut seemed to delight the little girls. Inany case they did not find any stamp.”“Which must have been a greatdisappointment to your aunt,” saidTrumbull.

“It certainly was. She had immediate darksuspicions that one of the little girls hadwalked off with it, but even she couldn'tmaintain that for long. They wereperfectly unsophisticated creatures andthere was no reason to suppose that theywould have thought a stamp was any morevaluable than a bookmark. Besides, AuntHester had had her eye on them at everypoint.”“Then she never found it?” askedGonzalo.“No, she never did. She kept on lookingthrough books for a while—you know,those that weren't in the library. She evenwent up into the attic to find some oldbooks and magazines, but it wasn't there.

It occurred to me that Uncle Bryce mayhave changed the hiding place in his lateryears and had told her of the new one—and that she had forgotten the new placeand remembered only the old one. That'swhy I said what I did during dinner abouttwo hiding places. You see, if that weretrue, and I have a nagging suspicion that itis, then the stamp could be anywhere inthe house— or out of it, for that matter—and frankly, a search is hopeless in myopinion.“I think Aunt Hester gave up too. Theselast couple of years, when her arthritishad made it almost impossible for her tomove around, she never mentioned it. Iwas afraid that when she left the house to

me, as he had made it quite plain shewould, it would be on condition that Ifind the stamp—but no such thing wasmentioned in her will.”Avalon twirled the brandy glass by itsstem and said rather portentously, “Seehere, there's no real reason to think thatthere was such a stamp at all, is there? Itmay be that your uncle amused himselfwith the belief he had a valuable item, ormay just have been teasing your aunt. Washe the kind of man capable of working upa rather malicious practical joke?”“No, no,” said Leominster, with a definiteshake of his head. “He did not have thatturn of mind at all. Besides, Aunt Hestersaid she had seen the stamp. On one

occasion, he had been looking at it and hecalled in Hester and showed it to her. Hesaid, 'You are looking at thousands ofdollars, dear.' But she did not knowwhere he had gotten it, or to what hidingplace he had returned it. All she hadthought at the time was that it wasunutterably foolish for grown men to payso much money for a silly bit of paper—and I rather agreed with her when she toldme. She said there wasn't anythingattractive about it.”“Does she remember what it looked like?Could you recognize it if you found it?”asked Avalon. “For instance, suppose thatshortly before the time of your uncle'sdeath he had placed the stamp with the

rest of his collection for some reason—perhaps because your aunt was in Floridaand could not nag him, if he wanted itavailable for frequent gloating. —Wasshe in Florida at the time of his death, bythe way?”Leominster looked thoughtful. “Yes, shewas, as a matter of fact.”“Well then,” said Avalon. “The stampmay have been in the collection all along.It may still be. Naturally, you wouldn'tfind it anywhere else.”Trumbull said, 'That can't be, Jeff.Leominster has already told us that thestamp collection was appraised at tenthousand dollars, total, and I gather thatthis one stamp would have raised that

mark considerably higher.”Leominster said, “According to AuntHester, Uncle Bryce once told her that thestamp in question was worth his entireremaining collection twice, over.”Avalon said, “Uncle Bryce may havebeen kidding himself or the appraisersmay have made a mistake.”“No,” said Leominster, “it was not in thecollection. My aunt remembered itsappearance and it was unusual enough tobe identifiable. She said it was atriangular stamp, with the narrow edgedownward—something like my face asdrawn by Mr. Gonzalo.”Gonzalo cleared his throat and looked atthe ceiling, but Leominster, smiling

genially, went on. “She said it had theface of a man on it, and a bright orangeborder and that my uncle referred to it asa New Guinea Orange. That is a 202 More Tales of the Black Widowersdistinctive stamp, you must admit, andwhile it never occurred to me that it mightbe in the collection itself, so that I did notsearch for it specifically, I did go throughthe collection out of curiosity, and Iassure you I didn't see the New GuineaOrange. In fact, I saw no triangularstamps at all—merely versions of theusual rectangle.“Of course, I did wonder whether myuncle was wrong about the stamp's value,and whether he might not have found out

he was wrong toward the end and sold thestamp or otherwise disposed of it. Iconsulted a stamp dealer and he saidthere were indeed such things as NewGuinea Orange. He said some of themwere very valuable and that one of them,which might be in my uncle's collectionbecause it was not recorded elsewhere,was worth twenty-five thousand dollars.”“Well, look,” said Drake. “I have an idea.You've mentioned your cousin, the one inBrazil. He was your uncle's son, and hewas disinherited. Isn't it possible that hewasn't entirely disinherited; that youruncle mailed him the stamp, told him itsvalue, and let that be his inheritance? Hecould then leave the house and its

contents to his sister with a clearconscience, along with whatever else hehad in his estate.”Leominster thought for a while. He said,“That never occurred to me. I don't thinkit's likely, though. After all, his son wasin no way in financial trouble and I wasalways given to understand he was verywell to do. And there was hard feelingsbetween father and son, too; very hard.It's a family scandal of which I do nothave the details. I don't think Uncle Brycewould have mailed him the stamp.”Gonzalo said eagerly, “Could your cousinhave come back to the United States and—”“And stolen the stamp? How could he

have known where it was? Besides, I'msure my cousin has not been out of Brazilin years. No, heaven only knows wherethe stamp is, or whether it exists at all. Iwish I could get a phone call, as Mr.Halsted did, that would tell me it's beenlocated under the bed, but there's nochance of that.”Leominster's eye fell to his still unopenedChinese fortune cookie and he addedwhimsically, “Unless this can help me.”He cracked it open, withdrew the slip ofpaper, looked at it, and laughed.“What does it say?” asked Drake.“It says, ‘You will come into money,'“said Leominster. “It doesn't say how.”Gonzalo sat back in his chair and said,

“Well then, Henry will tell you how.”Leominster smiled like one going alongwith a joke. “If you could bring me thestamp on your tray, Henry, I'd appreciateit.”'I’m not joking,” said Gonzalo. 'Tell him,Henry.”Henry, who had been listening quietlyfrom his place at the sideboard, said, “Iam flattered by your confidence, Mr.Gonzalo, but of course I cannot locate thestamp for Mr. Leominster. I might ask afew questions, however, if Mr.Leominster doesn't mind.”Leominster raised his eyebrows and said,“Not at all, if you think it will help.”“I cannot say as to that, sir,” said Henry,

“but you said your uncle was no reader.Does that mean he did not read the booksin his library?”“He didn't read much of anything, Henry,and certainly not the books in his library.They weren't meant to be read, onlycollected. Dry, impossible stuff.”“Did your uncle do anything to them—rebind them, or in any way modify them?Did he paste pages together, forinstance?”“To hide the stamp? Bite your tongue,Henry. If you do anything to any of thosebooks, you reduce their value. No, no,your collector always leaves hiscollection exactly as he receives it.”Henry thought a moment, then said, “You

told us your aunt affected an elegantvocabulary.”“Yes, she did.”“And that if you said 'ask,' for instance,she would change it to 'inquire.' ““Yes.”“Would she have been aware of havingmade the change? —I mean, if she hadbeen asked under oath to repeat yourexact words, would she have said'inquire' and honestly have thought youhad said it?”Leominster laughed. “I wouldn't besurprised if she would. She took her falseelegance with enormous seriousness.”“And you only know of your uncle'shiding place by your aunt's report. He

never told you, personally, of his hidingplace, did he?”“He never told me, but I'm bound to saythat I don't for a minute believe AuntHester would lie. If she said he told her,then he did.”“She said that your uncle said he hadhidden it in one of his unabridgedvolumes. That was exactly what shesaid?”“Yes. Exactly. In one of his unabridgedvolumes.”Henry said, “But might not your aunt havetranslated his actual statement into herown notion of elegance, a short word intoa long one? Isn't that possible?”Leominster hesitated. “I suppose so, but

what short word?”. “I cannot say withabsolute certainty,” said Henry, “but isnot an abridged volume one that has beencut, and is not an unabridged volumetherefore one that is uncut. If your .—uncle had said 'in one of my uncutvolumes,' might not that have beentranslated in your aunt's mind to 'in one ofmy unabridged volumes'?” “And if so,Henry?”“Then we must remember that 'uncut' hasa secondary meaning with respect tobooks that 'unabridged' does not. An uncutvolume may be one with its pages uncut,rather than its contents. If your unclecollected books which he did not read,and with which he did not tamper, some

of them may have been bought with theirpages uncut and would have kept theirpages still uncut to this day. Does he, infact, have uncut books in his library?”Leominster frowned and said hesitantly,“I think I remember one definitely, andthere may have been others.”Henry said, “Every pair of adjacent pagesin such a book would be connected at themargin, and perhaps at the top, but wouldbe open at the bottom, so that they wouldform little bags. And if that is so, sir, thenthe young girls who went through thebooks would have turned the pageswithout paying any attention to the factthat some of them might be uncut, andinside the little bag—one of them—a

stamp in its transparent envelope mayeasily have been affixed with a bit oftransparent tape. The pages would havebellied slightly as they were turned andwould have given no signs of the contents.Nor would the girls think to look inside iftheir specific instructions were merely toturn the pages.”Leominster rose and looked at his watch.“It sounds good to me. I'll go toConnecticut tomorrow.” He almoststuttered as he spoke. “Gentlemen, this isvery exciting and I hope that once I amsettled you will all come and have dinnerwith me to celebrate. —You especially,Henry. The reasoning was so simple thatI'm amazed none of the rest of us saw it.”

“Reasoning is always simple,” saidHenry, “and also always incomplete. Letus see if you really find your stamp.Without that, of what use is reason?”11 AfterwordI sometimes feel faintly embarrassed overthe slightness of the points on which thesolution to a Black Widowers story rests,but that's silly. These are, frankly, puzzlestories, and the size of the puzzle doesn'tmatter as long as it's a sufficient challengeto the mind.And as for myself, I have the doublepleasure of thinking of the puzzle pointfirst, and then of hiding it under layers ofplot without being unfair to the reader.

The Unabridged” I didn't submitanywhere, but saved it for this collection.To Table of Contents

12 The Ultimate Crime

“The Baker Street Irregulars,” said RogerHalsted, “is an organization of SherlockHolmes enthusiasts. If you don't knowthat, you don't know anything.”He grinned over his drink at ThomasTrumbull with an air of the only kind ofsuperiority there is—insufferable.The level of conversation during thecocktail hour that preceded the monthlyBlack Widowers' banquet had remainedat the level of a civilized murmur, butTrumbull, scowling, raised his voice atthis point and restored matters to the moreusual unseemliness that characterizedsuch occasions.

He said, “When I was an adolescent Iread Sherlock Holmes stories with acertain primitive enjoyment, but I'm not anadolescent any more. The same, Iperceive, cannot be said for everyone.”Emmanuel Rubin, staring owlishlythrough his thick glasses, shook his head.“There's no adolescence to it, Tom. TheSherlock Holmes stories marked theoccasion on which the mystery story cameto be recognized as a major branch ofliterature. It took what had until then beensomething that had been confined toadolescents and their dime novels andmade of it adult entertainment.”Geoffrey Avalon, looking down austerelyfrom his seventy-four inches to Rubin's

sixty-four, said, “Actually, Sir ArthurConan Doyle was not, in my opinion, anexceedingly good mystery writer. AgathaChristie is far better.”“That's a matter of opinion,” said Rubin,who, as a mystery writer himself, was farless opinionated and didactic in that onefield than in all the other myriad branchesof human endeavor in which heconsidered himself an authority. “Christiehad the advantage of reading Doyle andlearning from him. Don't forget, too, thatChristie's early works were pretty awful.Then, too”—he was warming up now—”Agatha Christie never got over herconservative, xenophobic prejudices. HerAmericans are ridiculous. They were all

named Hiram and all spoke a variety ofEnglish unknown to mankind. She wasopenly anti-Semitic and through themouths of her characters unceasingly casther doubts on anyone who was foreign.”Halsted said, “Yet her detective was aBelgian.”“Don't get me wrong,” said Rubin. “I loveHercule Poirot. I think he's worth a dozenSherlock Holmeses. I'm just pointing outthat we can pick flaws in anyone. In fact,all the English mystery writers of thetwenties and thirties were conservativesand upper-class-oriented. You can tellfrom the type of puzzles they presented—baronets stabbed in the libraries of theirmanor houses—landed estates—

independent wealth. Even the detectiveswere often gentlemen—Peter Wimsey,Roderick Alleyn, Albert Campion—”“In that case,” said Mario Gonzalo, whohad just arrived and had been listeningfrom the stairs, “the mystery story hasdeveloped in the direction of democracy.Now we deal with ordinary cops, anddrunken private eyes and pimps andfloozies and all the other leading lights ofmodern society.” He helped himself to adrink and said, “Thanks, Henry. How didthey get started on this?”Henry said, “Sherlock Holmes wasmentioned, sir.”“In connection with you, Henry?”Gonzalo looked pleased.

“No, sir. In connection with the BakerStreet Irregulars.”Gonzalo looked blank. “What are—”Halsted said, “Let me introduce you to myguest of the evening, Mario. He'll tell you.—Ronald Mason, Mario Gonzalo.Ronald's a member of BSI, and so am I,for that matter. Go ahead, Ron, tell himabout it.”Ronald Mason was a fat man, distinctlyfat, with a glistening bald head and abushy black mustache. He said, “TheBaker Street Irregulars is a group ofSherlock Holmes enthusiasts. They meetonce a year in January, on a Friday nearthe great man's birthday, and through therest of the year engage in other

Sherlockian activities.”“Like what?”“Well, they—”Henry announced dinner, and Masonhesitated. “Is there some special seat I'msupposed to take?”“No, no,” said Gonzalo. “Sit next to meand we can talk.”“Fine.” Mason's broad face split in awide smile. “That's exactly what I'm herefor. Rog Halsted said that you guys wouldcome up with something for me.”“In connection with what?”“Sherlockian activities.” Mason tore aroll in two and buttered it with strenuousstrokes of his knife. “You see, the thing isthat Conan Doyle wrote numerous

Sherlock Holmes stories as quickly as hecould because he hated them—”“He did? In that case, why—”“Why did he write them? Money, that'swhy. From the very first story, 'A Study inScarlet,' the world caught on fire withSherlock Holmes. He became a world-renowned figure and there is no tellinghow many people the world over thoughthe really lived. Innumerable letters wereaddressed to him at his address in 221bBaker Street, and thousands came to himwith problems to be solved.“Conan Doyle was surprised, as no doubtanyone would be under the circumstances.He wrote additional stories and the pricesthey commanded rose steadily. He was

not pleased. He fancied himself as awriter of great historical romances and tohave himself become world-famous as amystery writer was displeasing—particularly when the fictional detectivewas. far the more famous of the two.After six years of it he wrote The FinalProblem,' in which he deliberately killedHolmes. There was a world outcry at thisand after several more years Doyle wasforced to reason out a method forresuscitating the detective, and then wenton writing further stories.“Aside from the value of the sales asmysteries, and from the fascinatingcharacter of Sherlock Holmes himself, thestories are a diversified picture of Great

Britain in the late Victorian era. Toimmerse oneself in the sacred writings isto live in a world where it is always1895.”Gonzalo said, “And what's a Sherlockianactivity?”“Oh well. I told you that Doyle didn'tparticularly Iike writing about Holmes.When he did write the various stories hewrote them quickly and he troubledhimself very little about mutualconsistency. There are many odd points,therefore, unknotted threads, small holes,and so on, and the game is never to admitthat anything is just a mistake or error. Infact, to a true Sherlockian, Doyle scarcelyexists— it was Dr. John H. Watson who

wrote the stories.”James Drake, who had been quietlylistening from the other side of Mason,said, “I know what you mean. I once meta Holmes fan—he may even have been aBaker Street Irregular—who told me hewas working on a paper that would provethat both Sherlock Holmes and Dr.Watson were fervent Catholics and I said,'Well, wasn't Doyle himself a Catholic?*which he was, of course. My friendturned a very cold eye on me and said,'What has that to do with it?'““Exactly,” said Mason, “exactly. Themost highly regarded of all Sherlockianactivities is to prove your point byquotations from the stories and by careful

reasoning. People have written articles,for instance, that are supposed to provethat Watson was a woman, or thatSherlock Holmes had an affair with hislandlady. Or else they try to work outdetails concerning Holmes's early life, orexactly where Watson received his warwound, and so on.“Ideally, every member of the BakerStreet Irregulars should write aSherlockian article as a condition ofmembership, but that's clung to in only aslipshod fashion. I haven't written such anarticle yet, though I'd like to.” Masonlooked a bit wistful. “I can't reallyconsider myself a true Irregular till I do.”Trumbull leaned over from across the

table. He said, “I've been trying to catchwhat you've been saying over Rubin'smonologue here. You mentioned 221bBaker Street”“Yes,” said Mason, “that's where Holmeslived.”“And is that why the club is the BakerStreet Irregulars?'*Mason said, “That was the name Holmesgave to a group of street urchins whoacted as spies and sources of information.They were his irregular troops asdistinguished from the police.”“Oh well,” said Trumbull, “I suppose it'sall harmless.”“And it gives us great pleasure,” saidMason seriously. “Except that right now

it's inflicting agony on me.”It was at this point, shortly after Henryhad brought in the veal cordon bleu, thatRubin's voice rose a notch. “Of course,”he said, “there's no way of denying thatSherlock Holmes was derivative. Thewhole Holmesian technique of detectionwas invented by Edgar Allen Poe; and hisdetective, Auguste Dupin, is the originalSherlock. However, Poe only wrote threestories about Dupin and it was Holmeswho really caught the imagination of theworld.“In fact, my own feeling is that SherlockHolmes performed the remarkable feat ofbeing the first human being, either real orfictional, ever to become a world idol

entirely because of his character as areasoning being. It was not his militaryvictories, his political charisma, hisspiritual leadership—but simply his coldbrain power. There was nothing mysticalabout Holmes. He gathered facts anddeduced from them. His deductionsweren't always fair; Doyle consistentlystacked the deck in his favor, but everymystery writer does that. I do it myself.”Trumbull said, “What you do provesnothing.”Rubin was not to be distracted. “He wasalso the first believable super-hero inmodern literature. He was alwaysdescribed as thin and aesthetic, but thefact that he achieved his triumphs through

the use of brain power mustn't mask thefact that he is also described as being ofvirtually superhuman strength. When avisitor, in an implicit threat to Holmes,bends a poker to demonstrate his strength,Holmes casually straightens it again—themore difficult task. Then, too—”Mason nodded his head in Rubin'sdirection and said to Gonzalo, “Mr.Rubin sounds like a Baker Street Irregularhimself—”Gonzalo said, “I don't think so. He justknows everything —but don't tell him Isaid so.”“Maybe he can give me some Sherlockianpointers, then.”“Maybe, but if you're in trouble, the real

person to help you is Henry.”“Henry?” Mason's eye wandered aroundthe table as though trying to recall firstnames.“Our waiter,” said Gonzalo. “He's ourSherlock Holmes.”“I don't think—” began Mason doubtfully.“Wait till dinner is over. You'll see.”Halsted tapped his water glass and said,“Gentlemen, we're going to try somethingdifferent this evening. Mr. Mason has aproblem that involves the preparation of aSherlockian article, and that means hewould like to present us with a purelyliterary puzzle, one that has no connectionwith real life at all. —Ron, explain.”Mason scooped up some of the melted ice

cream in his dessert plate with histeaspoon, put it in his mouth as though in afinal farewell to the dinner, then said,“I've got to prepare this paper because it'sa matter of self-respect. I love being aBaker Street Irregular, but it's difficult tohold my head up when every person thereknows more about the canon than I do andwhen thirteen-year-old boys write papersthat meet with applause for theiringenuity.“The trouble is that I don't have much inthe way of imagination, or the kind ofwhimsy needed for the task. But I knowwhat I want to do. I want to do a paper onDr. Moriarty.”“Ah, yes,” said Avalon. “The villain in

the case.”Mason nodded. “He doesn't appear inmany of the tales, but he is the counterpartof Holmes. He is the Napoleon of crime,the intellectual rival of Holmes and thegreat detective's most dangerousantagonist. Just as Holmes is the popularprototype of the fictional detective, so isMoriarty the popular prototype of themaster villain. In fact, it was Moriartywho killed Holmes, and was killedhimself, in the final struggle in The FinalProblem.' Moriarty was not brought backto life.”Avalon said, “And on what aspect ofMoriarty did you wish to do a paper?” Hesipped thoughtfully at his brandy.

Mason waited for Henry to refill his cupand said, “Well, it's his role as amathematician that intrigues me. You see,it is only Moriarty's diseased moral sensethat makes him a master criminal. Hedelights in manipulating human lives andin serving as the agent for destruction. Ifhe wished to bend his great talent tolegitimate issues, however, he could beworld famous—indeed, he was worldfamous, in the Sherlockian world—as amathematician.“Only two of his mathematical feats arespecifically mentioned in the canon. Hewas the author of an extension of thebinomial theorem, for one thing. Then, inthe novel, The Valley of Fear, Holmes

mentions that Moriarty had written athesis entitled The Dynamics of anAsteroid, which was filled withmathematics so rarefied that there wasn'ta scientist in Europe capable of debatingthe matter.”“As it happened,” said Rubin, “one of thegreatest mathematicians alive at the timewas an American, Josiah Willard Gibbs,who—”“That doesn't matter,” said Mason hastily.“In the Sherlockian world only Europecounts when it comes to matters ofscience. The point is this, nothing is saidabout the contents of The Dynamics of anAsteroid', nothing at all; and noSherlockian has ever written an article

taking up the matter. I've checked into itand I know that.”Drake said, “And you want to do such anarticle?”“I want to very much,” said Mason, “butI'm not up to it. I have a layman'sknowledge of astronomy. I know what anasteroid is. It's one of the small bodiesthat circles the Sun between the orbits ofMars and Jupiter. I know what dynamicsis; it's the study of the motion of a bodyand of the changes in its motion whenforces are applied. But that doesn't get meanywhere. What is The Dynamics of anAsteroid about?”Drake said thoughtfully, “Is that all youhave to go by, Mason? Just the title? Isn't

there any passing reference to anythingthat is in the paper itself?”“Not one reference anywhere. There's justthe title, plus the indication that it is amatter of a highly advancedmathematics.”Gonzalo put his sketch of a jolly, smilingMason—with the face drawn as ageometrically perfect circle—on the wallnext to the others and said, “If you'regoing to write about how planets move,you need a lot of fancy math, I shouldthink.”“No, you don't,” said Drake abruptly.“Let me handle this, Mario. I may be onlya lowly organic chemist, but I knowsomething about astronomy too. The fact

of the matter is that all the mathematicsneeded to handle the dynamics of theasteroids was worked out in the 1680s byIsaac Newton.“An asteroid's motion depends entirelyupon the gravitational influences to whichit is subjected and Newton's equationmakes it possible to calculate the strengthof that influence between any two bodiesif the mass of each body is known and ifthe distance between them is also known.Of course, when many bodies areinvolved and when the distances amongthem are constantly changing, then themathematics gets tedious—not difficult,just tedious.'The chief gravitational influence on any

asteroid is that originating in the Sun, ofcourse. Each asteroid moves around theSun in an elliptical orbit, and if the Sunand asteroids were all that existed, theorbit could be calculated, exactly byNewton's equation. Since other bodiesalso exist, the gravitational influences,much smaller than that of the Sun, must betaken into account as producing muchsmaller effects. In general, we get veryclose to the truth if we just consider theSun.”Avalon said, “I think you'reoversimplifying, Jim. To duplicate yourhumility, I may be only a lowly patentlawyer, and I won't pretend to know anyastronomy at all, but haven't I heard that

there's no way of solving the gravitationalequation for more than two bodies?”“That's right,*” said Drake, “if you meanby that, a general solution for all casesinvolving more than two bodies. Therejust isn't one. Newton worked out thegeneral solution for the two-bodyproblem but no one, to this day, hassucceeded in working out one for thethree-body problem, let alone for morebodies than that. The point is, though, thatonly theoreticians are interested in thethree-body problem. Astronomers workout the motion of a body by firstcalculating the dominant gravitationalinfluence, then correcting it one step at atime with the introduction of other lesser

gravitational influences. It works wellenough.” He sat back and looked smug.Gonzalo said, “Well, if only theoreticiansare interested in the three-body problemand if Moriarty was a high-poweredmathematician, then that must be just whatthe treatise is about.”Drake lit a new cigarette and paused tocough over it. Then he said, “It couldhave been about the love life of giraffes,if you like, but we've got to go by the title.If Moriarty had solved the three-bodyproblem, he would have called thetreatise something like, An Analysis ofthe Three-Body Problem, or TheGeneralization of the Law of UniversalGravitation. He would not have called it

The Dynamics of an Asteroid.”Halsted said, “What about the planetaryeffects? I've heard something about that.Aren't there gaps in space where therearen't any asteroids?”“Oh, sure,” said Drake. “We can find thedates in the Columbia Encyclopedia, ifHenry will bring it over.”“Never mind,” said Halsted. “You justtell us what you know about it and we cancheck the dates later, if we have to.”Drake said, “Let's see now.” He wasvisibly enjoying his domination of theproceedings. His insignificant graymustache twitched and his eyes, nested infinely wrinkled skin, seemed to sparkle.He said, “There was an American

astronomer named. Kirkwood and I thinkDaniel was his first name. Sometimearound the middle 1800s he pointed outthat the asteroids' orbits seemed to clusterin groups. There were a couple of dozenknown by then, all between the orbits ofMars and Jupiter, but they weren't spreadout evenly, as Kirkwood pointed out. Heshowed there were gaps in which noasteroids circled.“By 1866 or thereabouts—I'm pretty sureit was 1866— he worked out the reason.Any asteroid that would have had its orbitin those gaps would have circled the Sunin a period equal to a simple fraction ofthat of Jupiter.”“If there's no asteroid there,” said

Gonzalo, “how can you tell how long itwould take it to go around the Sun?”“Actually, it's very simple. Keplerworked that out in 1619 and it's calledKepler's Third Law. May I continue?”“That's just syllables,” said Gonzalo.“What's Kepler's Third Law?”But Avalon said, “Let's take Jim's wordfor it, Mario. I can't quote it either, but I'msure astronomers have it down cold. Goahead, Jim.”Drake said, “An asteroid in a gap mighthave an orbital period of six years or fouryears, let us say, where Jupiter has aperiod of twelve years. That means anasteroid, every two or three revolutions,passes Jupiter under the same relative

conditions of position. Jupiter's pull is insome particular direction each time,always the same, either forward orbackward, and the effect mounts up.“If the pull is backward, the asteroidalmotion is gradually slowed so that theasteroid drops in closer toward the Sunand moves out of the gap. If the pull isforward, the asteroidal motion isquickened and the asteroid swings awayfrom the Sun, again moving out of the gap.Either way nothing stays in the gaps,which are now called 'Kirkwood gaps.'You get the same effect in Saturn's rings.There are gaps there too.”Trumbull said, “You say Kirkwood didthis in 1866?” “Yes.”

“And when did Moriarty write his thesis,supposedly?” Mason interposed. “About1875, if we work out the internalconsistency of the Sherlockian canon.”Trumbull said, “Maybe Doyle wasinspired by the new: of the Kirkwoodgaps, and thought of the title because of it.In which case, we can imagine Moriartyplaying the role of Kirkwood and you canwrite an article on the Moriarty gaps.”Mason said uneasily, “Would that beenough? How important was Kirkwood'swork? How difficult?”Drake shrugged. “It was a respectablecontribution, but it was just an applicationof Newtonian physics. Good second-classwork; not first class.”

Mason shook his head. “For Moriarty, itwould have to be first class.”“Wait, wait!” Rubin's sparse beardquivered with growing excitement.“Maybe Moriarty got away from Newtonaltogether. Maybe he got onto Einstein.Einstein revised the theory of gravity.”“He extended it,” said Drake, “in theGeneral Theory of Relativity in 1916.”“Right. Forty years after Moriarty'spaper. That's got to be it. SupposeMoriarty had anticipated Einstein—”Drake said, “In 1875? That would bebefore the Michel-son-Morleyexperiment. I don't think it could havebeen done.”“Sure it could,” said Rubin, “if Moriarty

were bright enough—and he was.”Mason said, “Oh yes. In the Sherlockianuniverse, Professor Moriarty wasbrilliant enough for anything. Sure hewould anticipate Einstein. The only thingis that, if he had done so, would he nothave changed scientific history allaround?”“Not if the paper were suppressed,” saidRubin, almost chattering with excitement.“It all fits in. The paper was suppressedand the great advance was lost tillEinstein rediscovered it.”“What makes you say the paper wassuppressed?” demanded Gonzalo.“It doesn't exist, does it?” said Rubin. “Ifwe go along with the Baker Street

Irregular view of the universe, thenProfessor Moriarty did exist and thetreatise was written, and it did anticipateGeneral Relativity. Yet we can't find itanywhere in the scientific literature andthere is no sign of the relativistic viewpenetrating scientific thought prior toEinstein's time. The only explanation isthat the treatise was suppressed becauseof Moriarty's evil character.”Drake snickered. “There'd be a lot ofscientific papers suppressed if evilcharacter were cause enough. But yoursuggestion is out anyway, Manny. Thetreatise couldn't possibly involve GeneralRelativity; not with that title.”“Why not?” demanded Rubin.

“Because revising the gravitationalcalculations in order to take relativity intoaccount wouldn't do much as far as as-teroidal dynamics are concerned,” saidDrake. “In fact, there was only one itemknown to astronomers in 1875 that couldbe considered, in any way, a gravitationalpuzzle.”“Uh-oh,” said Rubin, “I'm beginning tosee your point.”“Well, I don't,” said Avalon. “Keep ongoing, Jim. What was the puzzle?”Drake said, “It involved the planetMercury, which revolves about the Sun ina pretty lopsided orbit At one point in itsorbit it is at its closest to the Sun (closerthan any other planet, of course, since it is

nearer to the Sun in general than theothers are) and that point is the'perihelion.' Each time Mercurycompletes a revolution about the Sun, thatperihelion has shifted very slightlyforward.“The reason for the shift is to be found inthe small gravitational effects, orperturbations, of the other planets onMercury. But after all the knowngravitational effects are taken intoaccount, the perihelion shift isn'tcompletely explained. This wasdiscovered in 1843. There is a very tinyresidual shift forward that can't beexplained by gravitational theory. It isn'tmuch—only about 43 seconds of arc per

century, which means the perihelionwould move an unexplained distanceequal to the diameter of the full Moon inabout forty-two hundred years, or make acomplete circle of the sky”—he did somemental calculations—”in about threemillion years.“It's not much of a motion, but it wasenough to threaten Newton's theory. Someastronomers felt that there must be anunknown planet on the other side ofMercury, very close to the Sun. Its pullwas not taken into account, since it wasunknown, but it was possible to calculatehow large a planet would have to exist,and what kind of an orbit it must have, toaccount for the anomalous motion of

Mercury's perihelion. The only troublewas that they could never find that planet.“Then Einstein modified Newton's theoryof gravitation, made it more general, andshowed that when the new, modifiedequations were used the motion ofMercury's perihelion was exactlyaccounted for. It also did a few otherthings, but never mind that.”Gonzalo said, “Why couldn't Moriartyhave figured that out?”Drake said, “Because then he would havecalled his treatise, On the Dynamics ofMercury. He couldn't possibly havediscovered something that solved thisprime astronomical paradox that had beenpuzzling astronomers for thirty years and

have called it anything else.”Mason looked dissatisfied. “Then whatyou're saying is that there isn't anythingthat Moriarty could have written thatwould have had the title On the Dynamicsof an Asteroid and still have representeda first-class piece of mathematicalwork?”Drake blew a smoke ring. “I guess that'swhat I'm saying. What I'm also saying, Isuppose, is that Sir Arthur Conan Doyledidn't know enough astronomy to stuff apig's ear, and that he didn't know what hewas saying when he invented the title. ButI suppose that sort of thing is notpermitted to be said.”“No,” said Mason, his round face sunk in

misery. “Not in the Sherlockian universe.There goes my paper, then.”“Pardon me,” said Henry, from his post atthe sideboard. “May I ask a question?”Drake said, “You know you can, Henry.Don't tell me you're an astronomer.”“No, sir. At least, not beyond the averageknowledge of an educated American.Still, am I correct in supposing that thereare a large number of asteroids known?”“Over seventeen hundred have had theirorbits calculated, Henry,” said Drake.“And there were a number known inProfessor Moriarty's time, too, weren'tthere?”“Sure. Several dozen.”“In that case, sir,” said Henry, “why does

the title of the treatise read The Dynamicsof an Asteroid! Why an asteroid?”Drake thought a moment, then said,“That's a good point. I don't know—unless it's another indication that Doyledidn't know enough—”“Don't say that,” said Mason.“Well—leave it at I don't know, then.”Gonzalo said, “Maybe Moriarty justworked it out for one asteroid, and that'sall.”Drake said, “Then he would have namedit The Dynamics of Ceres or whateverasteroid he worked on.”Gonzalo said stubbornly, “No, that's notwhat I mean. I don't mean he worked itout for one particular asteroid. I mean he

picked an asteroid at random, or just anideal asteroid, maybe not one that reallyexists. Then he worked out its dynamics.”Drake said, “That's not a bad notion,Mario. The only trouble is that ifMoriarty worked out the dynamics of anasteroid, the basic mathematical system, itwould hold for all of them, and the title ofthe paper would be The Dynamics ofAsteroids. And besides, whatever heworked out in that respect would be onlyNewtonian and not of prime value.”“Do you mean to say,” said Gonzalo,reluctant to let go, “that not one of theasteroids had something special about itsorbit?”“None known in 1875 did,” said Drake.

“They all had orbits between those ofMars and Jupiter and they all followedgravitational theory with considerableexactness. We know some asteroids withunusual orbits now. The first unusualasteroid to be discovered was Eros,which has an orbit that takes it closer tothe Sun than Mars ever goes and brings it,on occasion, to within fourteen millionmiles of Earth, closer to Earth than anyother body its size or larger, except forthe Moon.“That, however, wasn't discovered till1898. Then, in 1906, Achilles wasdiscovered. It was the first of the Trojanasteroids and they are unusual becausethey move around the Sun in Jupiter's

orbit though well before or behind thatplanet.”Gonzalo said, “Couldn't Moriarty haveanticipated those discoveries, andworked out the unusual orbits?”“Even if he had anticipated them, theorbits are unusual only in their position,not in their dynamics. The Trojanasteroids did offer some interestingtheoretical aspects, but that had alreadybeen worked out by Lagrange a centurybefore.”There was a short silence and then Henrysaid, “The title is, however, so definite,sir. If we accept the Sherlockian premisethat it must make sense, can it possiblyhave referred to some time when there

was only a single body orbiting betweenMars and Jupiter?”Drake grinned. “Don't try to act ignorant,Henry. You're talking about the explosiontheory of the origin of the asteroids.”For a moment, it seemed as though Henrymight smile. If the impulse existed, heconquered it, however, and said, “I havecome across, in my reading, thesuggestion that there had once been aplanet between Mars and Jupiter and thatit had exploded.”Drake said, “That's not a popular theoryany more, but it certainly had its day. In1801, when the first asteroid, Ceres, wasdiscovered, it turned out to be only about450 miles across, astonishingly small.

What was far more astonishing, though,was that over the next three years threeother asteroids were discovered, withvery similar orbits. The notion of anexploded planet was brought up at once.”Henry said, “Couldn't Professor Moriartyhave been referring to that planet beforeits explosion, when speaking of anasteroid?”Drake said, “I suppose he could have, butwhy not call it a planet?”“Would it have been a large planet?” ,“No, Henry. If all the asteroids arelumped together, they would make up aplanet scarcely a thousand miles indiameter.”“Might it not be closer to what we now

consider an asteroid, then, rather than towhat we consider a planet? Mightn't thathave been even more true in 1875 whenfewer asteroids were known and theoriginal body would have seemed smallerstill?”Drake said, “Maybe. But why not call itthe asteroid, then?”“Perhaps Professor Moriarty felt that tocall the paper The Dynamics of theAsteroid was too definite. Perhaps he feltthe explosion theory was not certainenough to make it possible to speak ofanything more than an asteroid. Howeverunscrupulous Professor Moriarty mighthave been in the world outside science,we must suppose that he was a most

careful and rigidly precisemathematician.”Mason was smiling again. “I like that,Henry. It's a great idea.” He said toGonzalo, “You were right”“I told you,” said Gonzalo.Drake said, “Hold on, let's see where ittakes us. Moriarty can't be just talkingabout the dynamics of the originalasteroid as a world orbiting about theSun, because it would be followinggravitational theory just as all itsdescendants are.“He would have to be talking about theexplosion. He would have to be analyzingthe forces in planetary structure thatwould make an explosion conceivable.

He would have to discuss theconsequences of the explosion, and allthat would not lie within the bounds ofgravitational theory. He would have tocalculate the events in such a way that theexplosive forces would give way togravitational effects and leave theasteroidal fragments in the orbits theyhave today.”Drake considered, then nodded, and wenton. “That would not be bad. It would be amathematical problem worthy ofMoriarty's brain, and we might consider itto have represented the first attempt ofany mathematician to take up socomplicated an astronomical problem.Yes, I like it.”

Mason said, “I like it too. If I canremember everything you've all said, Ihave my article. Good Lord, this iswonderful.”Henry said, “As a matter of fact,gentlemen, I think this hypothesis is evenbetter than Dr. Drake has made it sound. Ibelieve that Mr. Rubin said earlier thatwe must assume that Professor Moriarty'streatise was suppressed, since it cannotbe located in the scientific annals. Well,it seems to me that if our theory can alsoexplain that suppression, it becomes muchmore forceful.”“Quite so,” said Avalon, “but can it?”“Consider,” said Henry, and a trace ofwarmth entered his quiet voice, “that over

and above the difficulty of the problem,and of the credit therefore to be gained insolving it, there is a peculiar appeal in theproblem to Professor Moriarty in view ofhis known character.“After all, we are dealing with thedestruction of a world. To a mastercriminal such as Professor Moriarty,whose diseased genius strove to producechaos on Earth, to disrupt and corrupt theworld's economy and society, there musthave been something utterly fascinating inthe vision of the actual physicaldestruction of a world.“Might not Moriarty have imagined thaton that original asteroid another likehimself had existed, one who had not only

tapped the vicious currents of the humansoul but had even tampered with thedangerous forces of a planet's interior?Moriarty might have imagined that thissuper-Moriarty of the original asteroidhad deliberately destroyed his world, andall life on it, including his own, out ofsheer joy in malignancy, leaving theasteroids that now exist as the varioustombstones that commemorate the action.“Could Moriarty even have envied thedeed and tried to work out the necessaryaction that would have done the same onEarth? Might not those few Europeanmathematicians who could catch even aglimpse of what Moriarty was saying inhis treatise have understood that what it

described was not only a mathematicaldescription of the origin of the asteroidsbut the beginning of a recipe for theultimate crime—that of the destruction ofEarth itself, of all life, and Of the creationof a much larger asteroid belt?“It is no wonder, if that were so, that ahorrified scientific community suppressedthe work.”And when Henry was done, there was amoment of silence and then Drakeapplauded. The others quickly joined in.Henry reddened. “I'm sorry,” hemurmured when the applause died. “I'mafraid I allowed myself to be carriedaway.”“Not at all,” said Avalon. “It was a

surprising burst of poetry that I was gladto have heard.”Halsted said, “Frankly, I think that'sperfect. It's exactly what Moriarty woulddo and it explains everything. Wouldn'tyou say so, Ron?”“I will say so,” said Mason, “as soon as Iget over being speechless. I ask nothingbetter than to prepare a Sherlockian paperbased on Henry's analysis. How can Isquare it with my conscience, however, toappropriate his ideas?”Henry said, “It is yours, Mr. Mason, myfree gift, for initiating a very gratifyingsession. You see, I have been a devoteeof Sherlock Holmes for many years,myself.”

12 AfterwordLet me confess.I am a member of Baker Street Irregulars./ got in despite the fact that I had neverwritten a Sherlockian article. / was theone who thought it would be easy to writeone if I had to and then found to my horrorthat every member of the Baker StreetIrregulars was infinitely moreknowledgeable in the sacred writings thanI was and that I couldn't possiblycompete. (Nevertheless, Ronald Mason inthis story is not I and does not lookanything like me.)It was only under the urgings of fellowBSI-ers Michael Harrison and Banesh

Hoffman that I finally stirred out of myparalysis, and then only after Harrisonhad suggested I take up the matter of TheDynamics of an Asteroid. I wrote a1,600-word article with great enthusiasmand fell so deeply in love with my ownclever analysis of the situation that Icould not bear to think that only a fewhundred other BSI-ers would ever see it.I therefore converted it into “The UltimateCrime” and made a Black Widowersstory out of it for a wider audience.And at last I feel like a real Baker StreetIrregular.And once again, now that I have come tothe conclusion of the book, I will have torepeat what I said at the end of the first

book. I will write more Black Widowers.For one thing, I have fallen in love withall the characters. For another, I can't helpmyself. It's gotten to the point wherealmost everything I see or do gets runthrough some special pipeline in mymind, quite automatically andinvoluntarily, to see if a Black Widowersplot might not come out the other end.To Table of Contents

Isaac Asimovn BEFORE THE GOLDENAGE, Book 1 C2913 1.95

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¡ THE CAVES OF STEEL Q2858 1.50¡ THE CURRENTS OFSPACE P2495 1.25

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¡ THE END OF ETERNITY Q2832 1.50¡ THE GODSTHEMSELVES X2883 1.75

¡ I, ROBOT Q2829 1.50

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Buy them at your local bookstores or usethis handy coupon for ordering:FAWCETT PUBLICATIONS, P.O. Box1014, Greenwich Conn. 06830Please send me the books I have checkedabove. Orders for less than 5 books mustinclude 60c for the first book and 25c foreach additional book to cover mailing andhandling. Orders of 5 or more bookspostage is Free. I enclose $ incheck or money order.Mr/Mrs/Miss ''Address City: .

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*Joseph Hennessy never existed and, as far as I know,there was never an assassination attempt on CalvinCoolidge. All other historical references in the story, notinvolving Hennessy, are accurate—IA.