“I must admit I’m not satisfied,” said Halsted. “Unanimous!” said Trumbull.

  “Veal parmesan!” said Rubin enthusiastically, for, with his usual agility, Henry was already placing the dishes before each.

  Colonel Davenheim said, after he had devoted considerable time to the veal, “You do yourselves well here, Jeff.”

  “Oh, we do our poor best,” said Avalon. “The restaurant charges in proportion, but it’s only once a month.”

  Davenheim plied his fork enthusiastically and said, “Dr. Halsted, you’re a mathematician—”

  “I teach mathematics to reluctant youngsters, which isn’t quite the same thing.”

  “But why, then, limericks on the epic poems?”

  “Precisely because it is not mathematics, Colonel. It’s a mistake to think that because a man has a profession that can be named, all his interests must bear that name.”

  “No offense,” said the Colonel.

  Avalon stared at a neatly cleaned plate and pushed thoughtfully at his untouched last half-glass of liquor. He said, “As a matter of fact, Sam knows what it is to have an intellectual hobby. He is an excellent phoneticist.”

  “Oh, well,” said Davenheim, with heavy modesty, “in an amateur way.”

  Rubin said, “Does that mean you can tell jokes in accent?”

  “In any accent you wish—within reason,” said Davenheim. “But I can’t tell jokes even in natural speech.”

  “That’s all right,” said Rubin, “I’d rather hear a bad joke in an authentic accent than a good one with a poor one.”

  Gonzalo said, “Then how do you account for the fact that you laugh only at your own jokes when they fail in both respects?”

  Davenheim spoke quickly to cut off Rubin’s rejoinder. He said, “You’ve got me off the subject.” He leaned to one side to allow Henry to place the rum cake before him. “I mean, Dr. Halsted—very well, Roger—that perhaps you switch to the classics to get your mind off some knotty mathematics problem. Then, while your conscious mind is permutating rhymes, your unconscious mind is—”

  “The funny thing about that,” said Rubin, seizing his own chance to cut in, “is that it works. I’ve never been so stymied by a plot that I couldn’t get it worked out by going to a movie. I don’t mean a good movie that really absorbs me. I mean a bad one that occupies my conscious mind just sufficiently to allow my unconscious free reign. A spy-action film is best.”

  Gonzalo said, “I can’t follow the plot of those things even when I’m paying attention.”

  “And yet they’re aimed at the twelve-year-old mind,” said Rubin, striking back at last.

  Henry poured the coffee, as Davenheim said, “I agree with what Manny says. I happen to think that a day spent on phonetics is sometimes the best way of contributing to a problem at work. But isn’t there another aspect to this? It’s easy to see that by keeping the conscious mind occupied, we leave the unconscious free to do as it wishes underground. But will it stay underground? Might it not obtrude above ground? Might it not make itself seen or heard, if not to the person himself—the person who is thinking—then to others?”

  “Exactly what do you mean, Colonel?” asked Trumbull.

  “Look,” said Davenheim, “if we’re on first-name terms, let it be first names all round. Call me Sam. What I mean is this. Suppose Manny is working on a plot involving an undetectable poison—”

  “Never!” said Rubin strenuously. “Tarantulas are out, too, and mystic Hindus, and the supernatural. That’s all nineteenth-century romanticism. I’m not sure that even the locked-room mystery hasn’t become a matter of—”

  “Just for example,” said Davenheim, who had momentary trouble breasting the tide. “You do other things to let your unconscious work and as far as you yourself are concerned you can swear that you have completely forgotten the mystery, that you’re not thinking about it, that it’s completely wiped out. Then, when you’re hailing a cab, you call, ‘Toxic! Toxic!’”

  Trumbull said thoughtfully, “That’s farfetched and I don’t accept it, but I’m beginning to get a notion. Jeff, did you bring Sam here because he has a problem on his mind?”

  Avalon cleared his throat. “Not really. I invited him last month for many reasons—the most important of which was that I thought you would all like him. But he stayed over at my house last night and—may I tell them, Sam?”

  Davenheim shrugged. “This place is as quiet as the grave, you say.”

  “Absolutely,” said Avalon. “Sam knows my wife almost as long as he knows me, but twice he called her Farber instead of Florence.”

  Davenheim smiled dimly. “My unconscious forcing its way through. I could have sworn I had put it out of my mind.”

  “You weren’t aware of it,” said Avalon. He turned to the others. “I didn’t notice it. Florence did. The second time she said, ‘What are you calling me?’ and he said, ‘What?’ She said, ‘You keep calling me Farber.’ And he looked absolutely thunderstruck.”

  “Just the same,” said Davenheim, “it’s not my unconscious that’s bothering me. It’s his.”

  “Farber’s?” asked Drake, tamping out his cigarette with his stained fingers.

  “The other one’s,” said Davenheim.

  Trumbull said, “It’s about time for the brandy anyway, Jeff. Do you want to grill our esteemed guest, or ought someone else do so?”

  “I don’t know that he needs to be grilled,” said Avalon. “Perhaps he’ll simply tell us what’s occupying his unconscious when his conscious mind is being diverted.”

  “I don’t know that I want to do that,” said Davenheim grimly. “It’s rather a delicate matter.”

  “You have my word,” said Trumbull, “that everything said here is in strictest confidence. I’m sure Jeff has told you that already. And that includes our esteemed Henry. And, of course, you needn’t go into full detail.”

  “I can’t hide behind false names, though, can I?”

  “Not if Farber is one of the true ones,” said Gonzalo, grinning.

  “Well, what the devil,” sighed Davenheim. “Actually, it’s not much of a story as stories go, and it may be nothing; nothing at all. I may be so damned wrong. But if I’m not wrong it’s going to be embarrassing for the army, and expensive for the country. I could almost hope I was wrong, but I’ve committed myself so far that if I am wrong it may permanently—hamper my career. Yet I’m not so far away from retirement.”

  For a moment he seemed lost in thought, then he said fiercely, “No, I want to be right. However embarrassing, it’s got to be stopped.”

  “Is it treason you’re after?” asked Drake.

  “No, not in the narrow sense of the word. I almost wish it were. There can be a colossal dignity about treason. A traitor is sometimes only the other side of the patriot coin. One man’s traitor is another man’s martyr. I’m not talking about the penny-ante handyman for hire. I’m talking about the man who thinks he is serving a higher cause than his country and wouldn’t accept a penny for the risks he undergoes. We understand that quite well when it is the enemy’s traitors we are dealing with. The men, for instance, whom Hitler considered—”

  “It’s not treason, then?” said Trumbull, a bit impatiently.

  “No. Just corruption! Stinking, fetid corruption. A gang of men—soldiers, I’m sorry to say, officers, conceivably high officers—intent on bleeding Uncle Sam a bit.”

  “Why isn’t that treason?” snapped Rubin. “It weakens us and spreads decay in the army. Soldiers who think so little of their country as to steal from it are scarcely going to think so much of it as to die for it.”

  “If it comes to that,” said Avalon, “people put their emotions and actions in separate compartments. It’s quite possible to steal from Uncle Sam today and die for him tomorrow and be perfectly sincere about it both times. Many a man who routinely cheats the national treasury out of half his proper income tax considers himself a loyal American patriot.”

  Rubin said, “Leave the income tax out of it. Considering what consumes most of federal spending, you can make a good case for maintaining that the true patriot is he who goes to jail rather than pay his taxes.”

  Davenheim said, “It’s one thing not to pay your taxes out of principle, to admit it, and go to jail for it. It’s another thing to duck your share of the fair load for no other reason than to see others carry their own burden and yours to boot. Both actions are equally illegal, but I have some respect for the former. In the case I’m talking about the only motivation is simple greed. It is quite possible that millions of dollars of the taxpayers’ money are involved.”

  “Possible? Is that all?” asked Trumbull, his forehead wrinkling into a washboard.

  “That’s all. So far. I can’t prove it and it’s a difficult thing to track down without a damned good scent. If I push too hard and can’t back my suspicions all the way, I’ll be torn in half. Some big names might be involved—and might not.”

  “What’s Farber got to do with it?” asked Gonzalo.

  “So far we have two men, a sergeant and a private. The sergeant is Farber; Robert J. Farber. The other is Orin Klotz. We’ve got nothing on them really.”

  “Nothing at all?” asked Avalon.

  “Not really. As a result of the action of Farber and Klotz, thousands of dollars of army equipment have evaporated but we cannot show that their actions were illegal. They were covered in every case.”

  “You mean because higher-ups were involved?” Gonzalo smiled slowly. “Officers? With brains?”

  “Unlikely as it seems,” said Davenheim dryly. “That may be so. But I have no proof.”

  “Can’t you question the two men you have?” said Gonzalo.

  “I have,” said Davenheim. “And with Farber I can get nothing. He is that most dangerous of men, the honest tool. I believe he was too stupid to know the significance of what he did, and that if he did know, he wouldn’t have done it.”

  “Confront him with the truth,” said Avalon.

  “What is the truth?” asked Davenheim. “And I’m not ready to put my guesses on the table. If I tell what I know now, it will be dishonorable discharge for the two, at best, and the rest of the ring will pull in its horns for a breathing space and then start in again. No, I’d like to cover my hand until such time as I can get a lead, some lead I can be sufficiently sure of to run the risk I’m going to have to run.”

  “You mean a lead to someone higher up?” asked Rubin.

  “Exactly.”

  “What about the other fellow?” asked Gonzalo.

  Davenheim nodded. “He’s the one. He knows. He’s the brains of that pair. But I can’t break his story. I’ve been over and over it with him and he’s covered.”

  Halsted said, “If it’s only a guess that there’s something more to this than those two guys, why do you take it so seriously? Aren’t the chances actually very good that you’re wrong?”

  “To other people it would seem so,” said Davenheim. “And there’s no way in which I could explain why I know I’m not wrong except by pleading experience. After all, Roger, an experienced mathematician can be quite certain that a particular conjecture is true and yet be unable to prove it by the strict rules of mathematical demonstration. Right?”

  “I’m not sure that that’s a good analogy,” said Halsted.

  “It seems a good one to me. I’ve talked to men who were guilty beyond a doubt and to men who were innocent beyond a doubt and the attitude of each under accusation is different and I can sense that difference. The trouble is that that sense I have is not admissible as evidence. Farber I can dismiss, but Klotz is just a shade too wary, just a shade too unconfused. He plays games with me and enjoys it, too, and that’s one thing I can’t possibly miss.”

  “If you insist that you can sense such things,” said Halsted, dissatisfied, “there’s no arguing about it, is there? You put it outside the rational.”

  “There’s just no mistake in it,” said Davenheim, unheeding, as though he were now caught up in the fury of his thoughts to the point where what Halsted said was just an outer sound that didn’t impinge. “Klotz smiles just a little bit whenever I’m after him hotly. It’s as though I’m a bull and he’s a matador, and when I’m beginning to lunge at close quarters, he stands there rigidly with his cape flirting negligently to one side, daring me to gore him. And when I try, he’s not there and the cape flips over my head.”

  “I’m afraid he’s got you, Sam,” said Avalon, shaking his head. “If you feel as though he’s playing you for a fool, you’ve reached the point where you can’t trust your judgment. Let someone else take over.”

  Davenheim shook his head. “No, if it’s what I think it is, and I know it’s what I think it is, I want to be the one to smash it.”

  “Look,” said Trumbull. “I have a little experience in such things. Do you suppose Klotz can break the case wide open for you? He’s only a private, and I suspect that even if there is some sort of conspiracy, he knows very little about it.”

  “All right. I’ll accept that,” said Davenheim. “I don’t expect Klotz to hand me the moon. Yet he’s got to know one other man, one man higher up. He’s got to know some one fact, some one fact closer to the center than he himself is. It’s that one man and that one fact I’m after. It’s all I ask. And the thing that breaks me in two is that he’s giving it away and I still don’t get it.”

  “What do you mean, giving it away?” asked Trumbull.

  “That’s where the unconscious comes in. When he and I are sparring, he’s entirely occupied with me, entirely engaged in stopping me, heading me off, stymying me, putting me behind the eight ball. It’s a game he plays well, damn him. The last thing he’s going to do is to give me the information I want, but it’s in him just the same and when he’s busy thinking of everything else but, that information bubbles out of him. Every time I’m close upon him and backing and maneuvering him into a corner—butting my horns against his damned cape just this far from his groin—he sings.”

  “He what?” exploded Gonzalo, and there was a general stir among the Black Widowers. Only Henry showed no trace of emotion as he refilled several of the coffee cups.

  “He sings,” said Davenheim. “Well, not quite—he hums. And it’s always the same tune.”

  “What tune is that? Anything you know?”

  “Of course I know it. Everyone knows it. It’s ‘Yankee Doodle.’”

  Avalon said heavily, “Even President Grant, who had no ear for music, knew that one. He said he knew only two tunes. One was ‘Yankee Doodle’ and the other wasn’t.”

  “And it’s ‘Yankee Doodle’ that’s giving the whole thing away?” asked Drake, with that look in his weary chemist’s eyes that came when he began to suspect the rationality of another person.

  “Somehow. He’s masking the truth as cleverly as he can, but it emerges from his unconscious, just a bit; just the tip of the iceberg. And ‘Yankee Doodle’ is that tip. I don’t get it. There’s just not enough for me to grab hold of. But it’s there! I’m sure of that.”

  “You mean there’s a solution to your problem somewhere in ‘Yankee Doodle’?” said Rubin.

  “Yes!” said Davenheim emphatically. “I’m positive of that. The thing is he’s not aware he’s humming it. At one point I said, ‘What’s that?’ and he was blank. I said, ‘What are you humming?’ and he just stared at me in what I could swear was honest amazement.”

  “As when you called Florence Farber,” said Avalon.

  Halsted shook his head. “I don’t see where you can attach much importance to that. We all experience times when tunes run through our minds and we can’t get rid of them for a while. I’m sure we’re bound to hum them under our breath at times.”

  Davenheim said, “At random times, perhaps. But Klotz hums only ‘Yankee Doodle’ and only at the specific times when I’m pressing him. When things get tense in connection with my probing for the truth about the corruption conspiracy I am sure exists, that tune surfaces. It must have meaning.”

  “Yankee Doodle,” said Rubin thoughtfully, half to himself. For a moment he looked at Henry, who was standing near the sideboard, a small vertical crease between his eyebrows. Henry caught Rubin’s eye but did not respond.

  There was a ruminating silence for a few moments and all the Black Widowers seemed to be, to one degree or another, unhappy. Finally, Trumbull said, “You may be all wrong, Sam. What you may be needing here is psychiatry. This guy Klotz may hum ‘Yankee Doodle’ at all moments of tension. All it may mean is that he heard his grandfather sing it when he was six years old or that his mother sang him to sleep with it.”

  Davenheim lifted his upper lip in mild derision. “Can you believe I didn’t think of that? I had a dozen of his close friends in. Nobody had ever heard him hum anything!”

  “They might be lying,” said Gonzalo. “I wouldn’t tell an officer anything if I could avoid it.”

  “They might never have noticed,” said Avalon. “Few people are good observers.”

  “Maybe they lied, maybe they didn’t know,” said Davenheim, “but, taken at face value, their testimony, all of it, would make me think that the humming of ‘Yankee Doodle’ is specifically associated with my investigation and nothing else.”

  “Maybe it’s just associated with army life. It’s a march associated with the Revolutionary War,” said Drake.

  “Then why only with me, not with anyone else in the army?”

  Rubin said, “Okay, let’s pretend ‘Yankee Doodle’ means something in this connection. What can we lose? So let’s consider how it goes…For God’s sake, Jeff, don’t sing it.”

  Avalon, who had opened his mouth with the clear intention of singing, closed it with a snap. His ability to hold a true note rivaled that of an oyster and in his saner moments he knew it. He said, with a trace of hauteur, “I will recite the words!”

  “Good,” said Rubin, “but no singing.”

  Avalon, looking stern, struck an attitude and began declaiming in his most resonant baritone:

  “Yankee Doodle went to town

  A-riding on a pony.