More Tales of the Black Widowers

by Isaac Asimov

“But what did he do in the restaurant? He ate a meal, I suppose?” said Gonzalo.

  “He ate a meal as he always did.”

  “Was it a fancy restaurant?”

  “A fairly elaborate one. He ate there regularly.”

  “I mean, there's nothing phony about the restaurant?”

  “Not as far as we know, although in general that is not enough to allow us to display a blind trust in it and, believe me, we don't.”

  “Who was with him at the meal?”

  “No one.” Bunsen shook his head gravely. “He ate alone. That was his custom. He signed the check when he was through, as he always did. He had an account in the restaurant, you see. Then he left, took a taxi, and after a while he was stopped and taken into custody. The object was no longer in his possession.”

  “Wait, now,” said Gonzalo, his eyes narrowing. “You say he signed the check. What was it he wrote? Would you know?”

  “We know quite well. We have the check. He added a tip —quite the normal amount and we could find nothing wrong with that—and signed his name. That's all. Nothing more. He used the waiter's pencil and returned that pencil. Nor did he pass along anything else, and the waiter did not escape scrutiny, I assure you.”

  Gonzalo said, “I pass.”

  Drake, stubbing out his cigarette, lifted a gray eyebrow as Trumbull's finger gestured at him. “I suppose Smith was kept under close surveillance while he was in the restaurant.”

  “As close as though he were a coat and we were the lining. We had two men in that restaurant, each at a table near him. They were trained men and capable ones and their entire task was to note every movement he made. He could not scratch himself without being noticed. He couldn't fumble at a button, crook a finger, shift a leg, or raise a buttock without being noted.”

  “Did he go to the men's room at any time?”

  “No, he did not. If he had, we would have managed to follow.”

  “Were you there yourself, Mr. Bunsen?”

  “I? No, I'm no good for that kind of surveillance. I'm too noticeable. What's needed to keep a man in view is a shadow with a good, gray face and an overwhelming lack of distinction in form and feature. I'm too big, too broad; I stand out.”

  Drake nodded. “Do you suppose Smith knew he was being watched?” .

  “He may have. People in his line of work don't last long if they don't assume at every moment that they might be watched. In fact, to be truthful, at one point I got a clear impression He felt he was being watched. I was across the street at a window, with a pair of binoculars. I could see him come out from the corner entrance of the restaurant.

  “The doorman held the taxi door open for him and Smith paused for just a minute. He looked about him as though trying to identify those who might be watching. And he smiled, a tight smile, not amusement, it seemed to me, as much as bravado. At that moment, I was sure we had lost And, as it turned out, we had.”

  “And you really are sure,” said Drake, “that he had it on him when he walked into the restaurant and that he didn't have it on him when he left.”

  “We really are sure. When he walked in, there was what amounted to a pickpocketing, an inspection, and a replacement. He had it; you can take that as given. When he left and took a taxi, that taxi driver was one of our men who came, when the doorman hailed him, in a completely natural manner. Smith got in with no hint of suspicion. We are positive about that. The driver, one of our best men, then— But never mind that. The point is that Smith found himself in a kind of minor trouble that had, apparently, nothing to do with us. He was arrested, taken to the police station, and searched. Later, when it became obvious that we couldn't find the object anywhere, he was searched more thoroughly. Eventually we used X rays.”

  Drake said, “He might have left the object in the taxi.”

  “I doubt he could have done that with our man driving, and in any case, the taxi was searched. See here,” said Bunsen heavily, “there's no point in thinking we are incompetent in our business. When I say we watched, I mean that we watched with professional attention. When I say we searched, I mean we searched with professional thoroughness. You won't catch us on details.”

  “All right,” said Drake, nodding, “but you missed, didn't you? The object was there and then it wasn't there, so either we call upon the supernatural or we must admit that somewhere you failed. Somewhere you blinked when you were watching or skipped when you were searching. Right?”

  Bunsen looked rather as though he had bitten into a lemon. “There's no way of avoiding that conclusion, I suppose.” Then, belligerently, “But show me where.”

  Drake shook his head, but Halsted intervened rapidly, his high forehead pink with excitement. “Now wait, the hand is quicker than the eye. The thing you're looking for was shiny and heavy, but did it have to stay that way? Smith might have pushed it into a lump of clay. Then he had something dull and shapeless which he could push against the bottom of the table or drop on the floor. It might still be there.”

  Bunsen said, “The hand is quicker than the eye when you have an audience that doesn't know what to watch for. We know all the tricks and we know what to expect. Smith couldn't have put the object into clay without our men knowing he was doing something. He couldn't have placed it under the table or on the floor without our men knowing he was doing something.”

  “Yes,” said Halsted, “but in these quicker-than-the-eye things, a diversion is usually created. Your men were looking somewhere else.”

  'There was no diversion, and in any case the restaurant was searched quite thoroughly as soon as he left.”

  “You couldn't have searched it thoroughly,” protested Halsted. “There were still people eating there. Did you make them all leave?”

  “We searched his table, his area, and eventually all the restaurant. We are quite certain that he did not leave the object behind anywhere. He did not leave anything behind anywhere.”

  Avalon had been sitting stiffly in his chair, his arms folded, his forehead creased in a portentous frown. His voice boomed out now. “Mr. Bunsen,” he said, “I am not at all comfortable with this account of yours. I recognize the fact that you have told us very little and that neither places, names, occasions, nor identifications have been given.

  “Nevertheless, you are telling me more than I want to know. Have you permission from your superiors to tell us this? Are you quite certain in your mind that each one of us is to be trusted? You might get into trouble as a result and that would be regrettable, but I must admit that that is not the point I am most concerned with at the moment. What is important is that I do not wish to become the object of questioning and investigation because you have seen fit to honor me with confidences I have not asked for.”

  Trumbull had vainly tried to break in and managed to say finally, “Come on, Jeff. Don't act like the rear end of a horse.”

  Bunsen raised a massive and pudgy hand. “That's all right, Tom. I see Mr. Avalon's point and, in a way, he's right. I am exceeding my authority and things will be sticky for me if some people decide they need a scapegoat. This little exercise of mine tonight, however, may get me off the hook if it works. To my way of thinking, it's worth the gamble. Tom assured me it would be.”

  “What you're saying,” said Trumbull, forcing a smile, “is that if the department jumps on you, you'll jump on me.”

  “Yes,” said Bunsen, “and I weigh a lot.” He picked up a breadstick and munched on it. “One more point. Mr. Avalon asked if I were sure you could each be trusted. Aside from the fact that Tom assured me you could be—not that I consider it safe to trust to personal assurances from close friends—there has been a little bit of investigation. Nothing like a full-scale affair, you understand, but enough to give me some confidence.”

  It was at this point that Henry cleared his throat gently, and at once every face but that of Bunsen turned toward him. Bunsen turned only after he was aware of the shift of attention.

  Trumbull said, “Have you got something
, Henry?”

  Bunsen turned a clearly astonished look in Trumbull's direction, but Trumbull said urgently, “Have you, Henry?”

  “I only want to know,” said Henry softly, “if I have been cleared also. I suspect I have not and that I should retire.”

  But Trumbull said, “For God's sake, nothing critical is being said.”

  Bunsen said, “Besides, the damage is done. Let him stay.”

  “It seems to me,” said Henry, “that the damage is indeed done. Surely there is no longer any purpose to the investigation. The man you call Smith must know he is being watched. By the time you began to use X rays on him, he must have guessed that he had been set up for a kill. —Is he still in custody, by the way?”

  “No, we had no grounds to keep him. He's released.”

  “Then the organization of which he is a part must undoubtedly know what has happened, and they will change their modus operandi. He will not be used further, perhaps; others involved will disappear. Things will be entirely rearranged.”

  Bunsen said impatiently, “Yes, yes. Nevertheless, knowledge is important in itself. If we find out exactly how he transferred the object, we will know something about a mode of operation we didn't know before. We will, at the least, get an insight into a system of thought —It is always important to know.”

  Henry said, “I see.”

  Trumbull said, “Is that all you see, Henry? Do you have any ideas?”

  Henry shook his head. “It may be, Mr. Trumbull, that what has happened is complex and subtle. That would not be for me.”

  “Bull, Henry,” said Trumbull.

  “But it might be for Mr. Rubin,” said Henry gravely. “I believe he is anxious to speak.”

  “Darn right,” said Rubin loudly, “because I'm annoyed. Now, Mr. Bunsen, you talk about watching carefully and searching thoroughly, but I think you'll agree with me when I say that it is very easy to overlook something which becomes obvious only after the fact I can describe a way in which Smith could have transferred the object without any trouble and no matter how many people were watching him.”

  “I would love to hear that description,” said Bunsen.

  “Okay, then, I will describe exactly what might have happened. I don't say it did happen, but it could have happened. Let me begin by asking a question—” Rubin pushed his chair away from the table and, though he was short and small-boned, he seemed to tower.

  “Mr. Bunsen,” he said, “since your men watched everything, I presume they took note of the details of the meal he ordered. Was it lunch or dinner, by the way?”

  “It was lunch and you are right. We did notice the details.”

  “Then isn't it a fact that he ordered a thick soup?”

  Bunsen's eyebrows raised. “A-score for you, Mr. Rubin. It was cream of mushroom soup. If you want the rest of the menu, it consisted of a roast beef sandwich with a side order of French fried potatoes, a piece of apple pie with a slice of .cheese, and coffee.”

  “Well,” muttered Drake, “we can't all be gourmets.”

  Rubin said, “Next, I would suggest that he finished only about half his soup.”

  Bunsen thought for a while, then smiled. It was the first time he had smiled that evening and he revealed white and even teeth that gave a clear indication that there was a handsome man beneath the layers of fat.

  “You know,” he said, “I wouldn't have thought you could ask me a single question of fact concerning that episode that I could not instantly have answered, but you've managed. I don't know, offhand, if he finished his soup or not, but I'm sure that detail is on record. But let's pretend you are right and he only finished half his soup. Go on.”

  “All right,” said Rubin, “we begin. Smith walks into the restaurant with the object. Where does he have it, by the way?”

  “Left pants pocket, when he walked in. We saw no signs whatever of his changing its position.”

  “Good,” said Rubin. “He walks in, sits down at the table, orders his meal, reads his newspaper—was he reading a newspaper, Mr. Bunsen?”

  “No,” said Bunsen, “he wasn't reading anything; not even the menu. He knows the place and what it has to offer.”

  “Then once the first course was placed before him, he sneezed. A sneeze, after all is a diversion. Roger mentioned a diversion, but I guess he thought of someone rushing in with a gun, or a fire starting in the kitchen. But a sneeze is a diversion, too, and is natural enough to go unnoticed.”

  “It would not have gone unnoticed,” said Bunsen calmly. “He didn't sneeze.”

  “Or coughed, or hiccupped, what's the difference?” said Rubin. “The point is that something happened that made it natural for him to pull out a handkerchief—from the left pants pocket, I'm sure—and put it to his mouth.”

  “He did no such thing,” said Bunsen.

  “When he took away his hand,” said Rubin, overriding the other's remark, “the object that had been in the left pants pocket was in the mouth.”

  Bunsen said, “I don't think it would have been possible for him to place the object in his mouth without our seeing him do so, or keep it there without distorting his face-noticeably, but go ahead— What next?”

  “The soup is before him and he eats it. You certainly won't tell me he pushed it away un-tasted.”

  “No, I'm quite certain he didn't do that”

  “Or that he drank it from the bowl.”

  Bunsen smiled. “No, I'm quite sure he didn't do that”

  “Then there was only one thing he could do. He placed a tablespoon in the soup, brought it to his mouth, brought it back to the soup, brought it to his mouth, and so on. Correct?”

  “I must agree with that.”

  “And on one of the occasions during which the tablespoon passed from mouth to bowl, the object was in it. It was placed in the soup and, since cream of mushroom soup is not transparent, it would not be seen there. He then drank no more of the soup and someone in the kitchen picked up the object.” Rubin looked about at the others triumphantly.

  There was a short silence. Bunsen said, “That is all you have to say, sir?”

  “Don't you agree that's a possible modus operandi?”

  “No, I don't.” Bunsen sighed heavily. “Quite impossible. The hand is not quicker than the trained eye— and the object is large enough to be an uncomfortable fit in the tablespoon bowl. —Furthermore, you again underestimate our experience and our thoroughness. We had a man in the kitchen and no item came back from our man's table without being thoroughly examined. If the soup bowl came back with soup in it, you can be sure it was carefully emptied by a most careful man.”

  “How about the waiter?” interposed Avalon, forced into interest clearly against his will.

  Bunsen said, “The waiter was not one of us. He was an old employee, and besides, he was watched too.”

  Rubin snorted and said, “You might have told us you had a man in the kitchen.”

  “I might have,” said Bunsen, “but Tom told me it would be best to tell you as little as possible and let you think from scratch.”

  Avalon said, “If you had incorporated a tiny radio transmitter in the object—”

  “Then we would have been characters in a James Bond movie. Unfortunately, we must allow for expertise on the other side as well. If we had tried any such thing, they would have tumbled to it. No, the trap had to be absolutely clean.” Bunsen looked depressed. “I put a hell of a lot of time and effort into it.” He looked about and the depression on his face deepened. “Well, Tom, are we through here?”

  Trumbull said unhappily, “Wait a minute, Bob. Damn it, Henry—”

  Bunsen said, “What do you want the waiter to do?”

  Trumbull said, “Come on, Henry. Doesn't anything occur to you?”

  Henry sighed gently. “Something did, quite a while back, but I was hoping it would be eliminated.”

  “Something quite plain and simple, Henry?” said Avalon.

  “I'm afraid so, sir.”


  Avalon said, turning to Bunsen, “Henry is an honest man and lacks all trace of the devious mind. When we are through making fools of ourselves over complexities, he picks up the one straight thread we have overlooked.”

  Henry said thoughtfully, “Are you sure you wish me to speak, Mr. Bunsen?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “Well then, when your Mr. Smith left the restaurant, I assume that your men inside did not follow him out.”

  “No, of course not. They had their own work inside. They had to make sure he had left nothing behind that was significant.”

  “And the man in the kitchen stayed there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, outside the restaurant, the taxi driver was your man; but it would seem fair to suppose that he had to keep his eye on the traffic so as to be able to be in a position where he could maneuver himself to the curb just in time to pick up Smith; no sooner, no later.”

  “And a very good job he did. In fact, when the doorman hailed him, he neatly cut out another cab.” Bunsen chuckled softly.

  “Was the doorman one of your men?” asked Henry.

  “No, he was a regular employee of the restaurant.”

  “Did you have a man on the street at all?”

  “If you mean actually standing on the street, no.”

  “Then surely there was a moment or two after Smith had left the restaurant, and before he had entered the taxi, when he was not being watched—if I may call it so—professionally.”

  Bunsen said with a trace of contempt, “You forget that I was across the street, at a window, with a pair of binoculars. I saw him quite well. I saw the taxi man pick him up. From the door of the restaurant to the door of the taxi took, I should say, not more than fifteen seconds, and I had him in view at every moment.”

  Rubin suddenly interrupted. “Even when you were distracted watching the taxi man maneuver to the curb?” He was universally shushed, but Bunsen said, “Even then.” Henry said, “I don’t forget that you were watching, Mr. Bunsen, but you have said you do not have the proper appearance for that kind of work. You do not watch, professionally.”

  “I have eyes,” said Bunsen, and there was more than merely a trace of contempt now. “Or will you tell me the hand is quicker than the eye?”