by Isaac Asimov
Henry said, "There is much in what you say, Mr. Avalon."
"Well, then," said Avalon, "the bit about the stamp-use sounds as though it comes from a fellow employee. Where does Mrs. Amberley work and what does she do?"
"She's a midlevel executive at one of the city's department stores, Mr. Avalon."
"Is she in a position to have fired someone who might be taking revenge? Has she—I don't say she has, and I use it only as an example—snatched up someone's boyfriend or done something else that may have earned her a virulent disregard?"
"No, I'm sure nothing of this sort can be true. It did occur to me, as a matter of fact, that a particular hatred must be at the bottom of this and I questioned her thoroughly on all her coworkers. She denies absolutely that any of them could possibly dislike her enough, or have characters sufficiently psychotic, to do this. It is my experience that people who feel ill-used are quite ready to find other people they know who they feel might be responsible and to blacken their reputations freely. Hester is not likely to do so simply as a matter of course, but she is human enough not to spare someone that she honestly thought would entertain feelings of anger toward her. She says emphatically that no one she knows is likely to choose this course of action-—to send her repeated, anonymous letters outlining the shady patches of her life."
"You know," said Halsted, "we're being entirely too rational about this. In the first place, we're assuming people send anonymous letters only out of dreadful hatred, but actually, there can be no logic to it at all. Someone has time hanging heavy on her—or his—hands, and this seems like an interesting game to play, so it's done. No real reason is involved and therefore we can't really expect to work it out by logic. It's just a matter of impulse and a warped notion of fun."
"And how does impulse and fun explain knowing all the intimate details of Mrs. Amberley's life?" asked Avalon, with a touch of sarcasm.
"That's not so hard either," said Halsted. "People are always talking to each other and reminiscing and telling funny stories. Afterward you're not even likely to remember what you said. It's quite possible, for instance, that Hester might have told somebody some story that seemed apropos at the time; a story about the first time she bought lipstick and used it, and put it on all wrong, or forgot to wipe all of it off when she came home and got into trouble, or who knows what. All of these things where you wonder, 'Now how could they possibly know that?' are known because you talk about it to everyone. I know something Manny did at a Bouchercon about eight years ago, for instance, that he probably forgot he told me."
"No, I haven't," said Rubin, hastily, "but I deny it absolutely, Roger, and I'll kill you positively, if you say another word on the subject."
"I have no intention of doing so," said Halsted, haughtily. "I'm merely making a point."
"It's a valid point, Mr. Halsted," said Henry, "but that sort of thing had occurred to me, and I questioned Hester on the matter and she's sure she never talked about these things to her friends at work."
"She can be sure all she wants," said Halsted. "My point is she wouldn't even remember doing so."
"Perhaps you are right," said Henry, "but I have always found Hester to be a reserved individual who talks very little about her private life. In fact, the qualities of reserve and privacy that both she and I exhibit are among the common factors that draw us together and make our friendship a good one."
Gonzalo shook his head. "What's the use of coming to us with this problem, Henry? You've thought of everything we've thought of. You've probably thought of a few things we haven't thought of, and aren't likely to think of."
"It's true that I've expended some time on considering the various possibilities concerning the identity of the writer of these letters, but that is not the thing that really bothers me. Even though I have not come to any conclusion as to the identity of the writer, there's something else that puzzles me more."
"What is that?" asked Rubin.
"By a curious coincidence, Mr. Rubin," said Henry, "you spoke at length, during dinner, concerning the problem of motivation in the stories you write, and it is precisely the problem of motivation that most concerns me in this matter. It has left mc so thoroughly at sea that I determined to throw myself on the mercy and minds of the Black Widowers. After all, no matter what any of you might suggest as to the writer of the letters, I would have to answer, 'Yes, but why?' Regardless of who is sending these letters, why are they being sent?"
The Black Widowers stared at Henry wordlessly.
Henry went on. "You see, it is natural to assume that anonymous letters are sent for a purpose. They may be setting the stage for blackmail or demands for money. They may be aimed at creating a sense of power in the writer and helplessness in the recipient that feeds the sadism of the former. The writer may be trying to make the recipient of the letters feel that, at any moment, the writer will reveal the nature of the accusations to a husband, to a wife, to leaders of the community. The letters would seem to threaten the blasting of the family life of the recipient, the social life, the political or commercial ambitions, or whatever.
"But none of this is true in Hester's case. There is no suggestion of any payoff, and if there were, Hester is not in a position to pay a large sum of money. Whoever writes these letters obviously knows her well enough to know that. Furthermore, there is no one she need fear. She has no husband, no family, no ambitions to smash. And the missteps of which she is accused—they can scarcely be taken seriously. Even if, for instance, it came to be known that she helped herself to the corporate postage, she would get no more than a head-shake as a result."
"But the letters do make her feel rotten just the same, don't they?" said Gonzalo.
"Well, yes, they do," said Henry. "It goes beyond logic, as so many things do. She feels humiliated that someone—anyone— should know so much about her and should take such delight in displaying the knowledge to her. A few of the letters which I did not see were apparently intensely embarrassing in revealing some of her more intimate faux pas. She did not tell me what they were and I did not press her, of course. In fact—"
He paused a moment, and Trumbull said, encouragingly, "Yes, Henry?"
"It has bothered her enough to induce what is almost a personality change. Hester has, all the time I have known her, been proud and independent, and now she has become tearful and weak. She almost clings to me. It bothers me that I'm not of more use to her. Especially since I had told her—" He paused again.
Drake cleared his throat and stubbed out his cigarette. "Did you tell her that you solved problems for us, Henry?"
Henry did not meet his eyes. "No, Dr. Drake. Not in so many words, and, of course, never—not at any time—did I mention specifically anything that has gone on within this room. Somehow, though, I did manage to get across the notion that I was rather good at solving problems. I couldn't tell you exactly how I did it, but I see now, looking back upon it, that I have been vain about my abilities, improperly so, and I am justly punished. I don't remember when I fell prey, in this fashion, to my own vainglory; but when, after that, this problem of the anonymous letters arose, she naturally turned to me. I can’t blame her for that. Now I have failed, and while that serves me right, I am distressed that she is suffering as a result of my incapacity as well. Somehow her misery has had a powerful effect on me. I want, almost excessively, to help her, and I have become greatly diminished in my own eyes at not being able to "
Halsted said, "Don't put yourself on the rack for this, Henry. I said earlier that people tell more about themselves than they are aware of. Why shouldn't you fall victim to this as well? You're a member of the human race with a considerably larger than average share of the good points it possesses. You can't be blamed if you possess a few of the shortcomings."
Henry shook his head, unsolaced.
Rubin put both his elbows on the table and stared across it at the seated Henry. "Henry," he said, "I'm going to suggest something. I don't want to; actually, I think that th
e suggestion is unbelievable. However, if there is one thing we have all learned from you, it is to put aside complicated solutions and go for the simplest one. I would like to. Have I your permission?"
"Of course, Mr. Rubin."
"However ridiculous it may sound?"
"Certainly, Mr. Rubin."
"You've known Hester for a year and a half now."
"Nearer to two years, actually."
"And the greatest pleasure you two have had has been your conversations; your discussions that must have ranged wherever they were led and upon which no bars or limits were set."
Henry smiled faintly. "There is always the limit of good taste." "Which slowly becomes blurred as time goes on. She must have told you a great many things about herself."
"Some things."
"She probably told you more than she told anyone else. — Henry, did you write the letters?"
There was an instant stir all around the table; a palpable outcry of indignation.
Rubin raised his arm. "Now hold it. Hold it, all of you. It's a legitimate question." His voice became stentorian, rising above the hubbub. "We have decided it is unlikely that any childhood chum could possibly know what she's doing now, unless she's working at the department store in disguise, which really seems unlikely. We are told Hester believes that no one at work dislikes her sufficiently to do this, even if they knew her youthful peccadilloes, which seems entirely unlikely, too. And, frankly, I think that there is no chance whatever that two or more people are working together on this. Yet someone is writing these letters. Henry knows her best. Henry has the opportunity. I'll bet you anything that Henry thinks it is legitimate and sensible to suspect him."
Henry nodded his head. "It is. I must admit that the possibility would never have occurred to me for I know that I didn't write the letters. You others, however, can't know that and, if so, I must admit I seem a proper, and possible, suspect. The only thing is—
"Well?" said Rubin.
"We are back to my chief question, 'Yes, but why?' Suppose I had written the letters. You must explain why I should have done so."
Rubin said, "I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Henry, in all this, we only know what you have told us. You tell us that you have a pleasant relationship with this woman. In fact, from what you say, your relationship has grown warmer since this trouble started. But this is only what you tell us. Suppose you actually dislike this woman so intensely for some reason that you want to make her miserable."
There were shouts of anger from the others. Avalon thundered, "I would like to assure Henry that we accept every word he has told us as complete and unperverted truth."
"All right," shouted Rubin, in return. "I think so too. But we're investigating a problem and any possible solution depends upon whether the initial conditions given us are correct. I don't for a minute doubt Henry's word, but I would like some evidence that does not rest entirely on his word, just as a matter of form."
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."
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LOST IN A SPACE WARP
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."
231 "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.
