“That doesn’t make me feel very good,” muttered Smith.

  Roger Halsted pushed his coffee cup out of the way and placed his elbows on the table. He said earnestly, “I’ve heard the bare bones of the story before and I’ve thought about it and think there’s more to it than that. Besides, if all five of you agree on something, that must be wrong.”

  He turned to Smith. “You told me, John, that this Vee was a young man.”

  “Well, he struck me as being in his early thirties.”

  “All right, then,” said Halsted, “if a youngish man is in the secret police, it must be out of conviction and he must plan to rise in the ranks. He isn’t going to run ridiculous risks for some nonentity. If he were an old man, he might remember an earlier regime and might be out of sympathy with the new government, but—”

  Gonzalo said, “How do you know this Vee wasn’t a double agent? Maybe that’s why our government doesn’t want Smith to be talking about the matter.”

  “If Vee were a double agent,” said Halsted, “then, considering his position in the government intelligence there, he would be enormously valuable to us. All the more reason that he wouldn’t risk anything for the sake of a nonentity. I suspect that there’s more than sympathy involved. He must have thought of something that authenticated John’s story.”

  “Sometimes I think that’s it,” said Smith, morosely. “I keep thinking of his remark after I came out of my faint to the effect that I was too stupid to be guilty. He never did explain that remark.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Rubin. “After you came out of your faint, you said you seemed to be in disarray. While you were out, they inspected your clothes closely, realized they were American make—”

  “What would that prove?” demanded Gonzalo, scornfully. “An American spy is as likely to wear American clothes as an American jerk is.—No offense, Mr. Smith.”

  “None taken,” said Smith. “Besides, I had bought the clothes I was then wearing in Paris.”

  Gonzalo said, “I guess you didn’t ask him why he thought you were stupid.”

  Smith snorted. “You mean did I say to him, ‘Hey, wise guy, who’re you calling stupid?’ No, I didn’t say that, or anything like it. I just held my breath.”

  Avalon said, “The comments on your stupidity, Mr. Smith, need not be taken to heart. You have said several times that you were not yourself at any time during that difficult time. After being drugged, you might well have seemed stupid. In any case, I don’t see that we’ll ever know the inwardness of Vee’s change of mind. It would be sufficient to accept it and not question the favors of fortune. It is enough that you emerged safely from the lion’s mouth.”

  “Well, wait,” said Gonzalo. “We haven’t asked Henry for his opinion yet.”

  Smith said, with astonishment, “The waiter?” Then, in a lower voice, “I didn’t realize he was listening. Does he understand this is all confidential?”

  Gonzalo said, “He’s a member of the club and the best man here.—Henry, can you understand Vee’s change of heart?”

  Henry hesitated. “I do not wish to offend Mr. Smith. I would not care to call him stupid, but I can see why this foreign official, Vee, thought so.”

  There was a general stir about the table. Smith said, stiffly, “What do you mean, Henry?”

  “You say the events of the nightmare took place some time last year.”

  “That’s right,” said Smith.

  “And you say your pockets were rifled. Were they completely emptied?”

  “Of course,” said Smith.

  “But that is clearly impossible. You’ve said you still carry the original vial of pills, and that you have carried it everywhere and at all times, so that I suppose you had it with you when you travelled abroad and that you had it with you when you entered the tavern—and therefore still had it with you when you left the tavern.”

  Smith said, “Well, yes, you’re right. It was in my shirt pocket as always. Either they missed it or decided they didn’t want it.”

  “You didn’t say anything about that in the course of the tale you have just told us.”

  “It never occurred to me.”

  “Nor did you tell Vee about them, I suppose?” said Henry.

  “Look here,” said Smith, angrily, “I didn’t think of them. But even if I did, I wouldn’t voluntarily bring up the matter. They would use it to place a trumped-up charge of carrying dope against me and in that way justify an imprisonment.”

  “You’d be right, if you thought of the pills only, sir,” said Henry.

  “What else is there to think of?”

  “The container,” said Henry, mildly. “The pills were available only by prescription and you told us it was the original vial. May we see it, Mr. Smith?”

  Smith withdrew it from his shirt pocket, glanced at it and said, vehemently, “Hell!”

  “Exactly,” said Henry. “On the label placed on the vial by the pharmacist, there should be printed the pharmacist’s name and address, probably in Fairfield, and your name should be typed in as well, together with directions for use.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And after you had denied having any identification on you, even in the face of torture, Vee looked through your pockets while you were unconscious, and found exactly what he had been asking you to give him.”

  “No wonder he thought I was stupid,” said Smith, shaking his head. “I was stupid. Now I really feel rotten.”

  “And yet,” said Henry, “you have an explanation of something that has puzzled you for a year, and that should make you feel good.”

  15

  The Redhead

  I dreamed this one. Yes, I did. At least I dreamed the solution. There’s no point in going into the details of the dream, but the important thing is this: At the end when I discovered the answer to what (in the dream) was puzzling me, I said (in the dream), “What a terrific idea for a Black Widower story.”

  Then when I woke up I remembered the dream, the solution, and what I had said, and as soon as I could, I wrote the story.

  While I never suffer unduly in the process of getting an idea for a story, the quicker and more easily it comes, the better. I wish I could dream all my stories, but even if I can’t, one successful dream is one better than none.

  Mario Gonzalo, host of that evening’s meeting of the Black Widowers, had evidently decided to introduce his guest with éclat. At least he rattled his glass with a spoon and, when all had broken off their preprandial conversations and looked up from their cocktails, Mario made his introduction. He had even waited for Thomas Trumbull’s as-usual late arrival before doing so.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is my guest, John Anderssen—that’s an s-s-e-n at the end. You can discover anything you want about him in this evening’s grilling. One thing, however, I must tell you now because I know that this bunch of asexual loudmouths will never discover it on their own. John has a wife who is, absolutely, the most gorgeous specimen of femininity the world has ever seen. And I say this as an artist with an artist’s eye.”

  Anderssen reddened and looked uncomfortable. He was a blond young man, perhaps thirty, with a small mustache and a fair complexion. He was about five-ten in height and had rather chiseled features that came together to form a handsome face.

  Geoffrey Avalon, looking down from his stiff-backed seventy-four inches, said, “I must congratulate you, Mr. Anderssen, although you need not take seriously Mario’s characterization of ourselves as asexual. I’m sure that each of us is quite capable of appreciating a beautiful woman. I, myself, although I might be considered to be past the first flush of hot-blooded youth, can—”

  Trumbull said, “Spare us, Jeff, spare us. If you are going to give an embarrassing account of your prowess, you are better off being interrupted. From my point of view, the next best thing to having the young woman in our midst—if our customs allowed it—would be to see her photograph. I imagine, Mr. Anderssen, you carry a photo of your fair wife in your wallet. Would you consent to let us look at it?”

  “No,” said Anderssen, emphatically. Then, blushing furiously, he said, “I don’t mean you can’t look at it. I mean I don’t have a photograph of her with me. I’m sorry.” But he said it challengingly, and was clearly not sorry.

  Gonzalo, unabashed, said, “Well, that’s your loss, my friends. You should see her hair. It’s gloriously red, a live red that just about glows in the dark. And natural, totally natural—and no freckles.”

  “Well,” said Anderssen in half a mutter, “she stays out of the sun.—Her hair is her best feature.”

  Emmanuel Rubin, who had been standing on the outskirts, looking rather dour, said in a low voice, “And temper to match, I suppose.”

  Anderssen turned to him, and said, with an edge of bitterness, “She has a temper.” He did not elaborate.

  Rubin said, “I don’t suppose there’s a more durable myth than the one that redheads are hot-tempered. The redness of the hair is that of fire, and the principles of sympathetic magic lead people to suppose that the personality should match the hair.”

  James Drake, who shared, with Avalon, the dubious privilege of being the oldest of the Widowers, sighed reminiscently, and said, “I’ve known some very hot-blooded redheads.”

  “Sure you have,” said Rubin. “So has everyone. It’s a self-fulfilling assumption. Redheaded children, especially girls, are forgiven for being nasty and ill-behaved. Parents sigh fatuously and mutter that it goes with the hair, and the one with red hair in the family explains how Great-Uncle Joe would mop up the floor with anyone in the barroom who said anything that was less than a grovelling compliment. Boys usually grow up and have the stuffing knocked out of them by non-redheaded peers and that teaches them manners, but girls don’t. And, if they’re beautiful besides, they grow up knowing they can indulge their impoliteness to the hilt. An occasional judicious kick in the fanny would do them worlds of good.”

  Rubin carefully did not look at Anderssen in the course of his comment and Anderssen said nothing at all.

  Henry, the indispensable waiter at all the Black Widower functions, said quietly, “Gentlemen, you may be seated.”

  The chef at the Milano had clearly decided to be Russian for the evening, and an excellent hot borscht was followed by an even more delightful beef StroganofF on a bed of rice. Rubin, who usually endured the food with an expression of stoic disapproval, on principle, allowed a smile to play over his sparsely bearded face on this occasion, and helped himself lavishly to the dark pumpernickel.

  As for Roger Halsted, whose affection for a good meal was legendary, he quietly negotiated a second helping with Henry.

  The guest, John Anderssen, ate heartily, and participated eagerly in the conversation which, through a logical association, perhaps, dealt largely with the shooting down of the Korean jetliner by the Soviets. Anderssen pointed out that the ship had been widely referred to as “Right 007,” which was the number on the fuselage, during the first couple of weeks. Then someone must have remembered that 007 was the code number of James Bond, so when the Soviets insisted the liner had been a spy plane, it became “Flight 7” in the news media, and the “00” disappeared as though it had never been.

  He also maintained vigorously that the jetliner, having gone off course almost immediately after leaving Alaska, should not have been left uninformed of the fact. He was shouting, red-faced, that failure to do so, when the Soviet Union was known to be on the hair trigger with respect to American reconnaissance planes and to Reagan’s “evil empire” rhetoric, was indefensible.

  He paid no attention, in fact, to his dessert, a honey-drenched baklava; left his coffee half-finished; and totally ignored Henry’s soft request that he make his wishes known with respect to the brandy.

  He was actually pounding the table when Gonzalo rattled his spoon against his water glass. Avalon was forced to raise his baritone voice to a commanding, “Mr. Anderssen, if you please—”

  Anderssen subsided, looking vaguely confused, as though he were, with difficulty, remembering where he was.

  Gonzalo said, “It’s time for the grilling, and Jeff, since you seem to have the commanding presence needed in case John, here, gets excited, suppose you do the honors.”

  Avalon cleared his throat, gazed at Anderssen solemnly for a few moments, then said, “Mr. Anderssen, how do you justify your existence?”

  Anderssen said, “What?”

  “You exist, sir. Why?”

  “Oh,” said Anderssen, still collecting himself. Then, in a low harsh voice, he said, “To expiate my sins in an earlier existence, I should think.”

  Drake, who was at the moment accepting a refresher from Henry, muttered, “So are we all.—Don’t you think so, Henry?”

  And Henry’s sixtyish unlined face remained expressionless as he said, very softly, “A Black Widowers banquet is surely a reward for virtue rather than an expiation for sins.”

  Drake lifted his glass, “A palpable hit, Henry.”

  Trumbull growled, “Let’s cut out the private conversations.”

  Avalon raised his hand. “Gentlemen! As you all know, I do not entirely approve of our custom of grilling a guest in the hope of searching out problems that might interest us. Nevertheless, I wish to call your attention to a peculiar phenomenon. We have here a young man—young, certainly, by the standards of old mustaches such as ourselves—well-proportioned, of excellent appearance, seeming to exude good health and an air of success in life, though we have not yet ascertained what the nature of his work is—”

  “He’s in good health and is doing well at his work,” put in Gonzalo.

  “I am glad to hear it,” said Avalon, gravely. “In addition, he is married to a young and beautiful woman, so that one can’t help but wonder why he should feel life to be such a burden as to lead him to believe that he exists only in order to expiate past sins. Consider, too, that during the meal just concluded, Mr. Anderssen was animated and vivacious, not in the least abashed by our older and wiser heads. I believe he shouted down even Manny, who is not one to be shouted down with impunity—”

  “Anderssen was making a good point,” said Rubin, indignantly.

  “I think he was, too,” said Avalon, “but what I wish to stress is that he is voluble, articulate, and not backward at expressing his views. Yet during the cocktail period, when the conversation dealt with his wife, he seemed to speak most reluctantly. From this, I infer that the source of Mr. Anderssen’s unhappiness may be Mrs. Anderssen.—Is that so, Mr. Anderssen?”

  Anderssen seemed stricken and remained silent.

  Gonzalo said, “John, I explained the terms. You must answer.”

  Anderssen said, “I’m not sure how to answer.”

  Avalon said, “Let me be indirect. After all, sir, there is no intention to humiliate you. And please be aware that nothing said in this room is ever repeated by any of us elsewhere. That includes our esteemed waiter, Henry. Please feel that you can speak freely.—Mr. Anderssen, how long have you been married?”

  “Two years. Actually, closer to two and a half.”

  “Any children, sir?”

  “Not yet. We hope to have some one day.”

  “For that hope to exist, the marriage must not be foundering. I take it you are not contemplating divorce.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I take it then that you love your wife?”

  “Yes. And before you ask, I am quite satisfied she loves me.”

  “There is, of course, a certain problem in being married to a beautiful woman,” said Avalon. “Men will flock about beauty. Are you plagued by jealousy, sir?”

  “No,” said Anderssen. “I’ve no cause for it. Helen—that’s my wife—has no great interest in men—”

  “Ah,” said Halsted, as though a great light had dawned.

  “Except for myself,” said Anderssen, indignantly. “She’s not in the least bit asexual. Besides,” he went on, “Mario exaggerates. She does have this luxuriant head of remarkable red hair, but aside from that she is not really spectacular. Her looks, I would say, are average—though I must rely now on your assurance that all said here is confidential. I would not want that assessment to be repeated. Her figure is good, and I find her beautiful, but there are no men caught helplessly in her toils, and I am not plagued by jealousy.”

  “What about her temper?” put in Drake, suddenly. “That’s been mentioned and you’ve admitted she had one. I presume there’s lots of fighting and dish throwing?”

  “Some fights, sure,” said Anderssen, “but no more than is par for the course. And no dish throwing. As Mr. Avalon has pointed out, I’m articulate, and so is she, and we’re both pretty good at shouting, but after we work off our steam, we can be just as good at kissing and hugging.”

  “Then am I to take it, sir, that your wife is not the source of your troubles?” said Avalon. Anderssen fell silent again.

  “I must ask you to answer, Mr. Anderssen,” said Avalon.

  Anderssen said, “She is the problem. Just now, anyway. But it’s too silly to talk about.”

  Rubin sat up at that and said, “On the contrary. Till now, I felt that Jeff was just wasting our time over the kind of domestic irritations that we attend these dinners, in part, to escape. But if there’s something silly involved, then we want to hear it.”

  “If you must know,” said Anderssen. “Helen says she’s a witch.”

  “Oh?” said Rubin. “Has she always claimed this, or just recently?”

  “Always. We joke about it. She would say she put me under enchantment to get me to marry her, and that she would cast spells and get me a promotion or a raise. Sometimes, when she is furious, she’ll say, ‘Well, don’t blame me if you blotch out in pimples just because you’re going to be that stupid and mean.’ That sort of thing.”

  Rubin said, “It sounds harmless to me. She probably did put you under enchantment. You fell in love with her and any woman of reasonable intelligence and looks can make a young man fall in love with her if she works hard enough being charming. You can call that enchantment if you wish.”