The Return of the Black Widowers (35 page)
Henry shook his head. "I cannot supply it. It had never occurred to me that I ought to come here with such proof, and even if I had, what could I have done but brought a letter, which you might have thought I had written myself, or brought Hester herself, whom you might have thought was playing some sort of game in cooperation with me? All I can do is ask once again, 'Yes, but why?' Suppose that, indeed, I hated Hester and wished to make her miserable out of malevolence of spirit. Why, then, should I come to you with a false story. Why?"
Rubin said, "I'm still following this hypothetical thread of argument.—You are doing it to face us with an insoluble problem for the fun of it."
"And, again, why? The pleasure of the warmth of my relationship with the Black Widowers would be at risk if I did such a thing. It is inconceivable to me that I would take such a risk."
"And to us," said Gonzalo, fiercely.
"And to me," said Rubin, "even though I played devil's advocate. Still, it means there is no solution."
Henry said, "On the contrary, Mr. Rubin, I am now quite certain I have the solution—thanks to the Black Widowers."
"What?" roared Rubin. "What solution?"
"As I said at the start, I may have been too close to the problem to see the matter clearly. The questions of the Black Widowers, particularly that of Mr. Rubin, delivered from a greater distance and with a greater detachment, put everything in a new light. I have learned from Mr. Rubin to think the unthinkable. After all, there is someone who knows more about Hester than even I know and who could have written the letters more easily than myself."
"And who would that be?" asked Trumbull.
"Why—Hester herself."
And if over the preceding five minutes the banquet of the Black Widowers had been noisier than ever before, it was now struck with dead silence.
Finally, Halsted said, "To ask you your question, Henry—yes, but why? If finding a motive for you is difficult, then how on Earth can we find a motive for her?"
"Somehow," said Henry, his face a trifle pink, "I think I see why, and it is somewhat embarrassing."
"Tell us," trumpeted Rubin.
"I have told you," said Henry, "that she is a reserved and independent woman; that we have had a cool and entirely intellectual companionship. It may be, perhaps," and here he grew a trifle pinker, "that she found herself dissatisfied with that companionship. She knew that I pride myself on being able to see into a complex situation, and it may be she plotted one in which I would fail."
"Yes, but why?" said Rubin.
"So that she would have a reasonable excuse to be distressed and weak for a considerable length of time. So that she would become dependent on me and cling to me. So that I would be concerned about her, and become more involved with her."
Rubin drew back in indignation. "Do you mean that this woman has been plotting to trap you into some kind of
love affair?*
"Or marriage. Yes. I rather admire her cleverness in doing this."
"Cleverness?" said Rubin. "Dirty tricks! You just tell her you're not to be snared in that fashion."
"Actually," said Henry, his face now quite red, "it's too late for that. I rather think she has succeeded."
"Henry!" came the universal cry.
"But even if worse comes to worst," said Henry, "I shall not leave my position with the Club. I promise you that."
E |
mmanuel Rubin, as far as it lay within him to do so, looked apprehensive. He fingered his straggly beard and glanced at his watch. It was well after seven in the evening and his guest had not yet arrived.
The other Black Widowers had all assembled for their monthly banquet at the Milano. Even Thomas Trumbull, the cryptologist, had scowled his way to the head of the stairs that led to the Widowers' private dining room and helped himself gratefully to the drink that Henry, that peerless waiter, had kept ready for him.
Geoffrey Avalon, the patent attorney, looked down at Rubin from his lordly six feet two inches (so that they were always the long and short of the Club when they stood together) and said, "I take it, Manny, that you made certain your guest knew where and when we were meeting and that dinner always begins precisely at seven-thirty."
"Absolutely," said Rubin explosively. "He got the usual card giving him the full details."
"I need not tell you," said Avalon, "that our postal service is not always to be relied on."
"Which is why I confirmed everything by phone yesterday," said Rubin. "I should," he added reflectively, "have called for him and brought him here bodily, but he said he had an afternoon date and would arrive on his own."
Mario Gonzalo drifted over, thumbs under his maroon-velvet lapels, and whispered, "Trouble, Manny?"
"As you see, Mario," said Avalon, "Manny's guest is late."
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"So he's late. Maybe he's always late. With some people, it's a habit. Look at Tom Trumbull."
"I'd rather not, ordinarily," said Rubin. "And I can't tell you if my guest is always late. I don't know him that well."
"Then why did you invite him?" asked Gonzalo.
"Because he's a promising young writer."
"Oh, Lord," said Trumbull, from some distance away, "another mystery-writing wacko."
"Not mysteries," said Rubin indignantly. "He does science fiction, and does it very well. Or so Asimov says. He recommended him as someone we would enjoy—though I admit I'm dubious about Asimov's taste in these matters."
Gonzalo said, "You mean Isaac Asimov, the well known science-fiction writer."
"I mean Isaac Asimov, the much talked-of science-fiction writer. He does the talking himself, of course."
Avalon smiled. "Why don't you ever bring
him
as a guest,
Manny?"
Rubin's eyes opened wide and glared through the thick lenses of his spectacles. "Are you mad? There isn't a person here who could endure him for five minutes. Insufferable, conceited—
"Talking about yourself again, Manny?" said Roger Halsted, who joined the group.
Rubin swelled visibly, but at that moment there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and, as a head rose into view, Rubin's expression lightened.
"Ah," he said, "Gary! I'd almost given up on you."
Rubin's guest made his full appearance. He looked young and was rather slight in build, with a prominent chin and a lowering glance. He was carrying an umbrella that looked large, cheap, and insubstantial.
Rubin took him around with delighted relief—"This is Gary Nemerson"—and the young man shook hands one by one as each Black Widower was introduced. "Geoffrey Avalon—Mario
Gonzalo—Thomas Trumbull—James Drake—Roger Halsted. First names all around," Rubin added almost jovially.
Avalon said, "Is it raining, Gary?" He stumbled slightly over the first name, since formality was mother's milk to him.
"No," said Nemerson brusquely. "It's been threatening all day, but it hasn't rained. I should think it would have, after I lost my umbrella—or mislaid it—or something."
Drake cleared his throat. "If you'll look at your fist, Gary, you'll find your umbrella."
Nemerson stared down at the umbrella and shook it aggrievedly. "This isn't it. I just bought it as an emergency measure on my way here." And he placed it in the umbrella stand where several other Black Widower umbrellas of varying vintage were standing.
Henry said, "May I serve you something to drink, sir?"
Nemerson looked at Henry absently. "A little white wine."
He hadn't yet finished it when Henry announced that dinner was being served.
Gonzalo managed to find a seat next to Nemerson. "Do you know Isaac Asimov?" he asked.
"Certainly," said Nemerson. "He's a big name in our field."
"What kind of guy is he? Manny considers him a monster of vanity and arrogance."
Nemerson relaxed into a smile. "He always says things like that. Actually, Rubin and Asimov are good friends. They'd give each other anything they have—except a good word. The trouble with Asimov is he's passé."
"Passé?"
"Absolutely. He still writes the same stuff he wrote forty years ago. He doesn't know any better. It keeps him popular with the younger readers and I suppose that's all he cares about."
Drake said, "I read science fiction now and then, and I consider Asimov a fair writer—though not as good as Clarke, of course. But I'll tell you what I find a bit annoying about science fiction." He
coughed at this point, looked at his half-finished cigarette, muttered, "I've got to cut down on these," and stubbed it out. "What I don't like is the antiscientific conventions it makes use of."
Nemerson said coldly, "What anti-scientific conventions are you talking about?"
Drake shrugged, reached for another cigarette, and stopped himself. "Time-travel, faster-than-light velocities, antigravity, telepathy, and so on. Those things are included routinely in four-fifths of the stories that are written, and all are impossible. How many science-fictional characters have slipped through a space warp, for instance, and found themselves in a different universe? Quite impossible."
Nemerson said, "The skill of the science-fiction writer lies in making all these impossibilities seem plausible. He deals, after all, with the consequences of technological change—the
human
consequences, not with the change itself. Who cares if a particular change isn't likely if the consequences are interesting?"
"Besides," put in Halsted, "every form of literature has its conventions. In the mystery field, how likely is it that an amateur sleuth will bump into a mysterious murder wherever he goes? Or that a private eye can consume a gallon of scotch every day and be knocked out by a blow on the head every other day without pickling his liver and scrambling his brain?"
Trumbull added acidly, "And romance writers find all the heroes handsome and all the heroines beautiful and no one ever has a wart or burps at an embarrassing moment."
Avalon said, "Conventions are the behavioral shortcuts of a culture."
Nemerson said, "And what makes a space warp so impossible, anyway? I could swear I've just experienced one."
But Rubin was trumpeting over his shrimp scampi, "What makes all you nonwriter types such experts on literature? Why don't you wait for the grilling and talk to Nemerson instead of to each other? I've given up expecting you to listen to me."
By the time the coffee was served and Henry had placed the brandy bottles on the sideboard, the Black Widowers were in their customary state of benign repletion and even Rubin was almost benevolent as he rattled his spoon against the water glass and said, "Roger, will you do the honors and grill our guest?"
"Wait—I want to ask a question!" said Mario.
"Later," thundered Rubin. "Go ahead, Roger."
"Very well," said Halsted in his quiet voice, as he licked the last of his
coupe aux marrons
off his spoon. "How do you justify your existence, Gary?"
"By being a science-fiction writer," said Nemerson with a snap.
"You consider that important, do you?"
"Yes, I do," said Nemerson, offering no details.
Halsted asked for none. He said, "And how long have you been writing science fiction?"
"I made my first sale five years ago."
"A novel?"
"No, my first novel is now in press, and I've got a contract, for a second one. Till now, my appearances have been in the magazines."
"Do they pay much?"
"No, but I get along."
Again there were no details, and Halsted asked for none. "Are you married, Gary?"
"No." An internal struggle seemed to twist Nemerson's facial expression. Then he said, "I've been contemplating it."
"When?"
"When my novel is published and does reasonably well. Then I can justify the economic risk of marriage—I think."
"You think?"