“Money!” sneered Rubin.

  “Professional opportunity,” snapped Gonzalo. “If you can understand that. And sympathy for a fellow human being, if you can understand that.”

  Henry held up his hand. “Please, gentlemen! I told Mr. Gonzalo I could not help him but urged him, if he had not already arranged a guest, to bring the woman. I suggested that there might be no objection if she did not actually attend the banquet itself.”

  Rubin said, “And why couldn’t you help her otherwise?”

  Henry said, “Gentlemen, I lay no claims to superior insight. I do not compare myself, as Mr. Gonzalo occasionally does on my behalf, to Sherlock Holmes. It is only after you gentlemen have discussed a problem and eliminated what is extraneous that I seem to see what remains. Therefore—”

  Drake said, “Well, look, Manny, I’m the oldest member here, and the original reason for the prohibition. We might partially waive it just this once.”

  “No,” said Rubin, flatly.

  Henry said, “Mr. Rubin, it is often stated at these banquets that I am a member of the Black Widowers. If so, I wish to take the responsibility. I urged Mr. Gonzalo to do this and I spoke to the woman concerned and assured her that she would be welcomed to our deliberations after dinner. It was an impulsive act based on my estimate of the characters of the gentlemen of the club.

  “If the woman is now sent away, Mr. Rubin, you understand that my position here will be an impossible one and I will be forced to resign my position as waiter at these banquets. I would have no choice.”

  Almost imperceptibly the atmosphere had changed while Henry spoke and now it was Rubin who was standing at bay. He stared at the semicircle that now surrounded him and said, rather gratingly, “I appreciate your services to the club, Henry, and I do not wish to place you in a dishonorable position. Therefore, on the stipulation that this is not to set a precedent and reminding you that you must not do this again, I will withdraw my blackball.”

  The banquet was the least comfortable in the history of the Black Widowers. Conversation was desultory and dull and Rubin maintained a stony silence throughout.

  There was no need to clatter the water glass during the serving of the coffee, since there was no babble of conversation to override. Gonzalo simply said, “I’ll go down and see if she’s ready. Her name, by the way, is Mrs. Barbara Lindemann.”

  Rubin looked up and said, “Make sure she’s had her coffee, or tea, or whatever, downstairs. She can’t have anything up here.”

  Avalon looked disapproving, “The dictates of courtesy, my dear Manny—”

  “She’ll have all she wants downstairs at Mario’s expense. Up here, we’ll listen to her. What more can she want?”

  Gonzalo brought her up and led her to an armchair that Henry had obtained from the restaurant office and that he had placed well away from the table.

  She was a rather thin woman, with blunt good-natured features, well-dressed and with her white hair carefully set. She carried a black purse that looked new and she clutched it tightly. She glanced timidly at the faces of the Black Widowers and said, “Good evening.”

  There was a low chorused rumble in return and she said, “I apologize for coming here with my ridiculous story. Mr. Gonzalo explained that my appearance here is out of the ordinary and I have thought over my dinner that I should not disturb you. I will go if you like, and thank you for the dinner and for letting me come up here.”

  She made as though to rise and Avalon, looking remarkably shamefaced, said, “Madame, you are entirely welcome here and we would like very much to hear what you have to say. We cannot promise that we will be able to help you, but we can try. I’m sure that we all feel the same way about this. Don’t you agree, Manny?”

  Rubin shot a dark look at Avalon through his thick-lensed glasses. His sparse beard bristled and his chin lifted but he said in a remarkably mild tone, “Entirely, ma’am.”

  There was a short pause, and then Gonzalo said, “It’s our custom, Mrs. Lindemann, to question our guests and under the circumstances, I wonder if you would mind having Henry handle that. He is our waiter, but he is a member of our group.”

  Henry stood motionless for a moment, then said, “I fear, Mr. Gonzalo, that—”

  Gonzalo said, “You have yourself claimed the privilege of membership earlier this evening, Henry. Privilege carries with it responsibility. Put down the brandy bottle, Henry, and sit down. Anyone who wants brandy can take his own. Here, Henry, take my seat.” Gonzalo rose resolutely and walked to the sideboard. Henry sat down.

  Henry said mildly to Mrs. Lindemann, “Madame, would you be willing to pretend you are on the witness stand?”

  The woman looked about and her look of uneasiness dissolved into a little laugh. “I never have been and I’m not sure I know how to behave on one. I hope you won’t mind if I’m nervous.”

  “We won’t, but you needn’t be. This will be very informal and we are anxious only to help you. The members of the club have a tendency to speak loudly and excitably at times, but if they do, that is merely their way and means nothing.—First, please tell us your name.”

  She said, with an anxious formality, “My name is Barbara Lindemann. Mrs. Barbara Lindemann.”

  “And do you have any particular line of work?”

  “No, sir, I am retired. I am sixty-seven years old as you can probably tell by looking at me—and a widow. I was once a schoolteacher at a junior high school.”

  Halsted stirred and said, “That’s my profession, Mrs. Lindemann. What subject did you teach?”

  “Mostly I taught American history.”

  Henry said, “Now from what Mr. Gonzalo has told me you suffered an unpleasant experience here in New York and—”

  “No, pardon me,” interposed Mrs. Lindemann, “it was, on the whole, a very pleasant experience. If that weren’t so, I would be only too glad to forget all about it.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Henry, “but I am under the impression that you have forgotten some key points and would like to remember them.”

  “Yes,” she said, earnestly. “I am so ashamed at not remembering. It must make me appear senile, but it was a very unusual and frightening thing in a way—at least parts of it were—and I suppose that’s my excuse.”

  Henry said, “I think it would be best, then, if you tell us what happened to you in as much detail as you can and, if it will not bother you, some of us may ask questions as you go along.”

  “It won’t bother me, I assure you,” said Mrs. Lindemann. “I’ll welcome it as a sign of interest.”

  She said, “I arrived in New York City nine days ago. I was going to visit my niece, among other things, but I didn’t want to stay with her. That would have been uncomfortable for her and confining for me, so I took a hotel room.

  “I got to the hotel at about 6 P.M. on Wednesday and after a small dinner, which was very pleasant, although the prices were simply awful, I phoned my niece and arranged to see her the next day when her husband would be at work and the children at school. That would give us some time to ourselves and then in the evening we could have a family outing.

  “Of course, I didn’t intend to hang about their necks the entire two weeks I was to be in New York. I fully intended to do things on my own. In fact, that first evening after dinner, I had nothing particular to do and I certainly didn’t want to sit in my room and watch television. So I thought—well, all of Manhattan is just outside, Barbara, and you’ve read about it all your life and seen it in the movies and now’s your chance to see it in real life.

  “I thought I’d just step out and wander about on my own and look at the elaborate buildings and the bright lights and the people hurrying past. I just wanted to get a feel of the city, before I started taking organized tours. I’ve done that in other cities in these recent years when I’ve been travelling and I’ve always so enjoyed it.”

  Trumbull said, “You weren’t afraid of getting lost, I suppose.”

  “Oh, no,” said Mrs. Lindemann, earnestly. “I have an excellent sense of direction and even if I were caught up in my sight-seeing and didn’t notice where I had gone, I had a map of Manhattan and the streets are all in a rectangular grid and numbered—not like Boston, London, or Paris, and I was never lost in those cities. Besides, I could always get in a taxi and give the driver the name of my hotel. In fact, I am sure anyone would give me directions if I asked.”

  Rubin emerged from his slough of despond to deliver himself of a ringing, “In Manhattan? Hah!”

  “Why, certainly,” said Mrs. Lindemann, with mild reproof. “I’ve always heard that Manhattanites are unfriendly, but I have not found it so. I have been the recipient of many kindnesses—not the least of which is the manner in which you gentlemen have welcomed me even though I am quite a stranger to you.”

  Rubin found it necessary to stare intently at his fingernails.

  Mrs. Lindemann said, “In any case, I did go off on my little excursion and stayed out much longer than I had planned. Everything was so colorful and busy and the weather was so mild and pleasant. Eventually, I realized I was terribly tired and I had reached a rather quiet street and was ready to go back. I reached in one of the outer pockets of my purse for my map—”

  Halsted interrupted. “I take it, Mrs. Lindemann, you were alone on this excursion.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Lindemann, “I always travel alone since my husband died. To have a companion means a perpetual state of compromise as to when to arise, what to eat, where to go. No, no, I want to be my own woman.”

  “I didn’t quite mean that, Mrs. Lindemann,” said Halsted. “I mean to ask whether you were alone on this particular outing in a strange city—at night—with a purse.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid so.”

  Halsted said, “Had no one told you that the streets of New York aren’t always safe at night—particularly, excuse me, for older women with purses who look, as you do, gentle and harmless?”

  “Oh, dear, of course I’ve been told that. I’ve been told that of every city I’ve visited. My own town has districts that aren’t safe. I’ve always felt, though, that all life is a gamble, that a no-risk situation is an impossible dream, and I wasn’t going to deprive myself of pleasant experiences because of fear. And I’ve gone about in all sorts of places without harm.”

  Trumbull said, “Until that first evening in Manhattan, I take it.”

  Mrs. Lindemann’s lips tightened and she said, “Until then. It was an experience I remember only in flashes, so to speak. I suppose that because I was so tired, and then so frightened, and the surroundings were so new to me, much of what happened somehow didn’t register properly. Little things seem to have vanished forever. That’s the problem.” She bit her lips and looked as though she was battling to hold back the tears.

  Henry said softly, “Could you tell us what you remember?”

  “Well,” she said, clearing her throat and clutching at her purse, “as I said, the street was a quiet one. There were cars moving past, but no pedestrians, and I wasn’t sure where I was. I was reaching for the map and looking about for a street sign when a young man seemed to appear from nowhere and called out, ‘Got a dollar lady?’ He couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old—just a boy.

  “Well, I would have been perfectly willing to let him have a dollar if I thought he needed it, but really, he seemed perfectly fit and reasonably prosperous and I didn’t think it would be advisable to display my wallet, so I said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t, young man.’

  “Of course, he didn’t believe me. He came closer and said, ‘Sure you do, lady. Here, let me help you look,’ and he reached for my purse. Well, I wasn’t going to let him have it, of course—”

  Trumbull said, firmly, “No ‘of course’ about it, Mrs. Lindemann. If it ever happens again, you surrender your purse at once. You can’t save it in any case, and the hoodlums will think nothing of using force, and there is nothing in the purse that can possibly be worth your life.”

  Mrs. Lindemann sighed. “I suppose you’re right, but at the time I just wasn’t thinking clearly. I held on to my purse as a reflex action, I suppose, and that’s when I start failing to remember. I recall engaging in a tug-of-war and I seem to recall other young men approaching. I don’t know how many but I seemed surrounded.

  “Then I heard a shout and some very bad language and the loud noise of feet. There was nothing more for a while except that my purse was gone. Then there was an anxious voice, low and polite, ‘Are you hurt, madam?’

  “I said, ‘I don’t think so, but my purse is gone.’ I looked about vaguely. I think I was under the impression it had fallen to the street.

  “There was an older young man holding my elbow respectfully. He might have been twenty-five. He said, ‘They got that, ma’am, I’d better get you out of here before they come back for some more fun. They’ll probably have knives and I don’t.’

  “He was hurrying me away. I didn’t see him clearly in the dark but he was tall and wore a sweater. He said, ‘I live close by, ma’am. It’s either get to my place or we’ll have a battle.’ I think I was aware of other young men in the distance, but that may have been a delusion.

  “I went with the new young man quite docilely. He seemed earnest and polite and I’ve gotten too old to feel that I am in danger of—uh—personal harm. Besides, I was so confused and light-headed that I lacked any will to resist.

  “The next thing I remember is being at his apartment door. I remember that it was apartment 4-F. I suppose that remains in my mind because it was such a familiar combination during World War II. Then I was inside his apartment and sitting in an upholstered armchair. It was a rather run-down apartment, I noticed, but I don’t remember getting to it at all.

  “The man who had rescued me had put a glass into my hand and I sipped at it. It was some kind of wine, I think. I did not particularly like the taste, but it warmed me and it seemed to make me less dizzy—rather than more dizzy, as one would suppose.

  “The man seemed anxious about my possibly being hurt, but I reassured him. I said if he would just help me get a taxi I would get back to my hotel. He said I had better rest a while.

  “He offered to call the police to report the incident, but I was adamant against that. That’s one of the things I remember very clearly. I knew the police could not recover my purse and I did not want to become a newspaper item.

  “I think I must have explained that I was from out of town because he lectured me, quite gently, on the dangers of walking on the streets of Manhattan.—I’ve heard so much on the subject in the last week. You should hear my niece go on and on about it.

  “I remember other bits of the conversation. He wanted to know whether I’d lost much cash and I said, well, about thirty or forty dollars, but that I had traveller’s checks which could, of course, be replaced. I think I had to spend some time reassuring him that I knew how to do that, and that I knew how to report my missing credit card. I had only had one in my purse.

  “Finally, I asked him his name so that I could speak to him properly and he laughed and said, ‘Oh, first names will do for that.’ He told me his and I told him mine. And I said, ‘Isn’t it astonishing how it all fits together, your name, and your address, and what you said back there.’ I explained and he laughed and said he would never have thought of that.—So you see I knew his address.

  “Then we went downstairs and it was quite late by then, at least by the clock, though, of course, it wasn’t really very late by my insides. He made sure the streets were clear, then made me wait in the vestibule while he went out to get a cab. He told me he had paid the driver to take me wherever I wanted to go and then before I could stop him he put a twenty-dollar bill in my hand because he said I mustn’t be left with no money at all.

  “I tried to object, but he said he loved New York, and since I had been so mistreated on my first evening there by New Yorkers, it had to be made up for by New Yorkers. So I took it—because I knew I would pay it back.

  “The driver took me back to the hotel and he didn’t try to collect any money. He even tried to give me change because he said the young man had given him a five-dollar bill but I was pleased with his honesty and I wouldn’t take the change.

  “So you see although the incident began very painfully, there was the extreme kindness of the Good Samaritan young man and of the taxi driver. It was as though an act of unkindness was introduced into my life in order that I might experience other acts of kindness that would more than redress the balance.—And I still experience them; yours, I mean.

  “Of course, it was quite obvious that the young man was not well off and I strongly suspected that the twenty-five dollars he had expended on me was far more than he could afford to throw away. Nor did he ask my last name or what my hotel was. It was as though he knew I would pay it back without having to be reminded. Naturally, I would.

  “You see, I’m quite well-to-do really, and it’s not just a matter of paying it back. The Bible says that if you cast your bread upon the waters it will be returned tenfold, so I think it’s only fair that if he put out twenty-five dollars, he ought to get two hundred fifty back and I can afford it.

  “I got back to my room and slept so soundly after all that; it was quite refreshing. The next morning, I arranged my affairs with respect to the credit card and the traveller’s checks and then I called my niece and spent the day with her.

  “I told her what had happened, but just the bare essentials. After all, I had to explain why I had no bag and why I was temporarily short of cash. She went on and on about it. I bought a new purse—this one—and it wasn’t till the end of the day when I was in bed again that I realized that I had not made it my business to repay the young man first thing. Being with family had just preoccupied me. And then the real tragedy struck me.”

  Mrs. Lindemann stopped and tried to keep her face from crumpling but failed. She began to weep quietly and to reach desperately into her bag for a handkerchief.