The Union Club Mysteries

by Asimov, Isaac

  "To a certain extent, yes," said Jennings. "Let's say there's some movement for independence for Fairfield, Connecticut. A Fairfield Liberation Committee is established by five nuts. They call themselves the FLC and begin a campaign of tire slashing in Hartford, sending letters to the newspapers taking credit for it. As the tire slashings continue and as the media give it full exposure, not only does this make the five nuts feel powerful and important, but the publicity actually gets lots of weak-minded people to thinking that there may be something to the notion of making Fairfield independent. On the other hand, if the tire slashings are investigated under cover of a strict news blackout—"

  "It just isn't possible," I said, "for two reasons. First, the people whose tires are slashed are going to talk, and rumors will get around that will be worse than the truth. Second, once the principle is established that you can set up a news blackout over something like that, you can do it over anything you conceive as dangerous for people to know, and that means anything never in the United States, I hope. Sooner the occasional terrorism."

  "Besides," boomed out Griswold's voice suddenly, "there comes a time when the blackout may break down. How do you keep it secret when you have to evacuate a hotel in the evening rush hour and must send out every fire engine in the area."

  He had both eyes open, the blue of them blazing at us, and he sat erect. It was the widest-awake I'd seen him in years.

  "Something you were involved in, Griswold?" I asked.

  It began [said Griswold] when a reporter at one of the New York newspapers received a neatly typed, unsigned note, delivered through the mail, to the effect that a dummy bomb had been deposited in a particular room in a particular hotel. The number of the room was given.

  The reporter wondered what to do about it, decided it was some sort of gag being pulled on him by one of the jokers about the place, then, after a while, decided he couldn't take the chance. He fished the crumpled letter out of the wastebasket and took it to the police. It meant running the risk of making a fool of himself, but he felt he had no choice.

  The police were not in the least sympathetic. They thought it was a gag being pulled on the reporter, too, but they had no choice. They sent a member of the bomb squad to the hotel and he was gotten into the room in question. Fortunately, the occupant was not there at the time. Under the eyes of a disapproving hotel official, and feeling very much the jerk, the policeman searched the room rather perfunctorily and, in no time at all, found a box on the shelf in the closet where the extra blankets were stored. On the outside it said in straggly capital letters: BOMB. On the inside was excelsior. Nothing else.

  They checked the box for fingerprints, of course. Nothing. The letter was covered by the reporter's fingerprints. It still seemed like a gag of some sort, but more serious than it had been considered at first. The reporter was instructed to bring any further letter to the police forthwith and to try not to handle it. He took to opening his letters while wearing kid gloves.

  It turned out to be a useful precaution, because three days later he received another letter. It named another hotel and gave the room number again. He brought it in at once and a member of the bomb squad was sent out. A box filled with bits of cardboard was found in the bathroom, wedged behind the toilet seat. It also said: BOMB.

  No fingerprints anywhere.

  The police had informed all the general newspapers of the city of what had happened, had asked for no publicity to avert panic, and had urged them all to watch for the letters.

  A good thing, too, for the third letter came to a different reporter on a different paper. Same as the others except that this time there was an additional paragraph, which said, "I trust you understand all this is practice. One of these days, it will be the real thing. In that case, of course, I will not give you the room number!'

  By that time, the police called me in and showed me the letters.

  I said, "What has the lab found out?"

  My friend on the force, a police lieutenant named Cassidy, said, "It's an electric typewriter, undoubtedly an IBM product, and the fake bomber is a man of education and an accomplished typist. No fingerprints. Nothing distinctive about either paper or envelope, or about the fake bombs for that matter. The postmark indicates the letters were posted from different places, but all in Manhattan."

  "That doesn't seem particularly helpful." Cassidy curled his lip. "It sure doesn't. Do you know how many IBM electric typewriters there are in Manhattan? And how many good typists with some education there are? If he sends enough letters, though, we'll be able to gather more information, I hope."

  I could see nothing further to do, either. I may be extraordinarily good at understanding the trifles that escape others, uncanny even—but it is only everyone else who considers me a miracle man. I make no such claims on my own behalf. Still, I stayed in close touch for the duration of the case.

  Additional letters did come and they did contain more information, at least as to motive. The mysterious bomber began to express himself more freely. He was apparently sick and tired of our money-mad society and wanted a return to a purer, more spiritual day. Just how this would be affected by his antics, he didn't say.

  I said to Cassidy, "He clearly doesn't have any trouble getting into hotel rooms, but then there's no reason why he should."

  "Oh," said Cassidy, "skeleton keys?"

  "Simpler," I said. "Every room is cleaned every day. The cleaning women occasionally wander off on some errand while cleaning and leave doors open, especially if the room is between occupants and there are no personal items in it to be stolen. In fact, I have seen hotel-room doors open and cleaning women nowhere in sight, even when there is luggage and clothing in clear view. No one stops anyone from wandering about hotel corridors so all our bomber has to do is to find an open door."

  The word went out to every hotel in New York that cleaning women were on no account to leave room doors open. Some of the hotels instructed the women to keep an eye out for small boxes and to call anything that seemed suspicious to the attention of the management.

  One box turned up and reached police headquarters before the letter announcing it arrived. The letter was delayed in the mail, which is not really surprising.

  "I hope," said Cassidy dolefully, "that when it's the real thing, he doesn't announce it by mail. It will never come in time to give us a chance."

  The precautions about leaving doors open slowed up the bomber. The letters were fewer, but they didn't stop altogether. Increasing difficulty seemed to make him more irritable. He denounced the banks and financiers generally. The police psychologists tried to work up a personality profile of the letter writer from what he said. Banks were asked whether anyone had been refused a loan who had reacted to that refusal with unusual bitterness or with threats. Continued analysis of the postmarks on the letters seemed to pinpoint some neighborhoods in preference to others as the bomber's home ground.

  Cassidy said, "If he keeps it up long enough, we'll get him."

  "But one of these days," I said, "it will be the real thing and very likely before we've managed to squeeze him out of the several million who live or work in Manhattan."

  - "This may go on quite awhile, though. He may be in no position to make or get a bomb. All this fake-bomb stuff is a way of blowing off steam and when he's blown off enough, he'll stop."

  "That would be nice," I said, "but these days I imagine anyone can manage to get an explosive device or learn to make one, if he tries long enough."

  And then one day, a police officer came hurriedly to Cassidy. He said, "A guy claiming to be the fake bomber was on the phone."

  Cassidy started to his feet, but the officer said, "He's off the phone. We couldn't hold him. He says he'll call again.—And he says it's the real thing, now."

  He called a half-dozen times, at intervals, from different public coin telephones. The bomb, he said, was placed. The real bomb. He named the hotel—only the newest in Manhattan. And he named the time for which it was se
t: 5 p.m. that day—only the peak of the rush hour.

  "You have time to evacuate the hotel," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I don't want anyone to die. I just want to strike at property to teach a lesson to those who place property before humanity."

  It was a little after 2 p.m. when he finally gave us the place and time. There was time to do the job, but considering not only the evacuation, but the cordoning-off of the area, and the gathering of fire engines, there would be an incredible tie-up of Manhattan traffic.

  Cassidy, on the phone, did his best. "Look," he said in as ingratiating a manner as he could manage. "You're an idealist. You're a man of honor. You want no one hurt. Suppose we don't manage to get everyone out. Suppose we leave a child behind despite all we can do. Would you want that on your conscience? Just let us have the room number. Do that and I will guarantee you a fair hearing on your grievances."

  The bomber wasn't buying that. He said, "I'll call back."

  Fifteen interminable minutes later, during which the police and the bomb squad were making for the spot, we got the call.

  "All right," he said. "Dollars and cents. That's all people think about. Dollars and cents. If you're too dumb to understand that, then I'm not responsible. You are." He hung up.

  Cassidy stared at the dead phone. "What the devil did he mean by that?"

  But I had heard the conversation on the conference-call tie-in and said urgently, "Hold off on the evacuation just a few minutes. The bomb squad is on the scene by now. Get in touch with them. I think I've got the room number, and they may be able to handle the bomb on the spot."

  I was right. The bomb, a simple but real one, was easily dismantled without disturbing anyone in the hotel. We didn't get the bomber, but he's never tried again. He'd apparently had enough, and since no one was hurt—

  Griswold's words trailed off into a soft snore, and Jennings called out, "Don't go to sleep, damn it. Where did you get the room number from? What was the clue?" I followed my usual practice of stamping on Griswold's nearer foot, but he was prepared for me this time and kicked my ankle rather sharply.

  He said, "I told you the clue. The bomber said 'dollars and cents' and said if we were too dumb to understand that, we were responsible."

  "That's a clue?" said Baranov. "That's just his standard complaint about the money-mad society."

  "It could be that, too, but I felt it to be the clue. I told you the man was an expert typist, and a typist tends to think of words in terms of typewriter keys."

  I said, "I'm an expert typist, and the phrase means nothing to me."

  "I'm not surprised about that," said Griswold rather nastily. "But if you type 'dollars and cents,' and are pressed for time, you are quite likely to type the symbols '$&¢' and he made the signs in the air.

  "You can do that by tapping three typewriter keys on the IBM electrics with the shift key depressed. If you don't depress the shift key, those same keys give you the number 476. Try it and see. So I thought we might gamble on Room 476, and that was it."

  To Contents

  Friends and Allies

  "Did you watch the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana?" I asked, with my legs stretched out in comfort, something the atmosphere of the Union library didn't ordinarily encourage.

  "Yes," said Jennings enthusiastically. "What a fairytale princess! Young! Blond! Beautiful!"

  "And at the same time," I said, "Britain's cities are torn by riots. Northern Ireland is aflame. Inflation and unemployment are both unbearably high."

  "All the more reason," said Baranov with a touch of antagonism in his voice, "for the spectacle. The British gathered in hordes to watch. If the Royal Family had said the marriage would take place at City Hall and the money saved would be donated to the poor, there would have been a fire storm of protest."

  I sighed. "You're probably right. The human race has an enormous irrationality about it; or perhaps it's just the British."

  Jennings said, "Listen! Back in 1940, we were delighted that the British were irrational. Every rational consideration would have said: give up and make a compromise peace with Hitler. Instead, they let London burn, and risked total destruction and enslavement."

  Well, there was nothing to say to that. I just nodded.

  "And," Jennings said, pursuing his advantage, "they're our friends and allies."

  I nodded again.

  Griswold took this moment to open the blue icicles he called his eyes and gazed at us bleakly. He cleared his throat, brought his scotch and soda to his lips and said, "There are no such things as friends and allies. Just temporary accommodations.

  "You mean the British—" began Jennings hotly.

  "I mean they have their interests," said Griswold, "and we have ours, and though they might run on parallel paths, those paths are never quite identical. For that matter, there are no such things as enemies and opponents. Just temporary divergences."

  "That is so cynical," said Baranov.

  The truth [said Griswold] sounds cynical so often that people prefer to believe lies. That's the source of much of the trouble in the world. I remember a time, back in 1956, when the Cold War was at its height and the Soviet Union was experiencing revolts in Eastern Europe. We were reasonably concerned, at that time, to keep the whole thing as mild as possible and avoid a nuclear showdown—in other words, to weaken the Soviet Union, but not to drive them insane.

  So were the British, but they were afraid we might react with a touch of insanity, and we were concerned lest their fears weaken the united front of Western resolution.

  This created difficulties for us. The British and we each have our own intelligence operations. The two are completely independent. Because the British are our friends and allies, we tell them everything we know— provided we feel they ought to know it. And the same is true the other way around.

  The trouble is that they always feel they should know everything we know, and we don't think so at all. And that's true the other way around, too.

  You see the tangle.

  John Foster Dulles was Secretary of State at the time and he believed in brinkmanship and eyeballing, and that made the British nervous. What they desperately didn't want to do was to give him any ammunition that would send him flying off the handle. Then, too, Great Britain had plans of its own for the Middle East at the time, plans they didn't want us to know. On the other hand, the professionals in the State Department always took the position that Dulles was most unpredictable and therefore most dangerous when he didn't have the facts and had to guess, for he tended to guess a worst-case scenario.

  So among other ways of gathering information, we managed to infiltrate British intelligence. We knew the Soviets had probably done so, and why shouldn't we? No doubt the British tried to infiltrate our intelligence and had, perhaps, succeeded.

  Infiltrating the British was a super-delicate job. The British expected the Soviets to attempt the job and they accepted that fact philosophically and harbored no ill feelings. They wouldn't accept the same from us, however. We were friends and allies. So we had to work a lot harder to keep the British unsuspecting than ever the Soviets had to.

  In any case, the information reached our people in a very roundabout way. It was just a date—June 8. It doesn't matter what it meant exactly, and I won't tell you, because even today it would be improper to do so. Too many secrets are involved that are still secrets.

  However, the British were going to do something on June 8, and when they did, it would give us a handle for our proper response to Soviet action in Eastern Europe. If the British action had remained unknown to us, we would have been reacting to the Soviets with key information missing.

  I'm sorry if this all sounds complicated, but nothing is straightforward in the labyrinth of spy and counterspy.

  Anyway, we thought we had the date. We made preparations in the more or less secure knowledge that we knew what was on the minds of the people in London, and on June 8, what we were sure would happen didn't happen!

&nbs
p; Did that mean that the British had changed their plan? Or did it mean that our leak in the British Intelligence had been plugged and that false information had been deliberately fed us to teach us a lesson?

  Or that someone had simply made a mistake?

  A few days passed with tension rising in Washington till you could feel it vibrate in the air. Everyone in our own Intelligence was wondering how long it could all be kept from Dulles.

  Finally, they called me in. They usually get to me when they run out of everything else.

  I would rather have stayed out. I felt Dulles's policy in the Middle East was disastrous, and I had been given my walking papers—for the fifteenth time, I think— because I said so openly. An old friend of mine, however, called me in, so I had to oblige him.

  That's always been my weakness. Soft as butter. Besides, it was clear to me that the Middle East would soon boil over with incalculable consequences, so I had to help out.

  My old friend—I'll call him Jim, just to give him a handle—explained the situation to me, without giving me any of the real details. Dulles would have been furious if he had found out I had been made privy to anything really delicate, and Jim had to keep that in mind.

  I said, "It seems to me then, Jim, that you've got a date and it's the wrong date. How the devil can I help you?"

  "Well," said Jim, who was sweating profusely, "I'm convinced our man in London is still in the clear, and the British aren't showing any of the excitement you would expect if they had done anything like switching dates, or misleading us on purpose. My feeling is that, somehow, someone has made a mistake. We have ended up with the wrong date and the right date is still out there somewhere."

  I said, "All right, get to your man in London and ask him to give you the date again."

  "We can't," said Jim. "He's out of reach right now. The British have just given him an assignment he couldn't duck.—After all, he is an Englishman, even if he does work for us. We don't know where he is, and since he doesn't know we're in a jam, there's no reason for him to be trying to reach us."