Tales of the Black Widowers

It was general knowledge among the Black Widowers that Geoffrey Avalon had served as an officer in World War II and had reached the rank of major. He had never seen active service, as far as any of them knew, however, and he never talked about wartime experiences. His stiff bearing, however, seemed suited to the interior of a uniform, so that it never surprised anyone to know that he had once been Major Avalon.

When he walked into the banquet room with an army officer as his guest, it seemed, therefore, entirely natural. And when he said, "This is my old army friend Colonel Samuel Davenheim," everyone greeted him cordially without so much as a raised eyebrow. Any army buddy of Avalon's was an army buddy of theirs.

Even Mario Gonzalo, who had served an uneventful hitch in the army in the late fifties, and who was known to have acerbic views concerning officers, was pleasant enough. He propped himself on one of the sideboards and began sketching. Avalon looked over Gonzalo's shoulder briefly, as though to make sure the artist member of the Black Widowers would not, somehow, draw the Colonel's head upward into a crown of ass's ears.

It would have been most inappropriate for Gonzalo to have done so, for there was every indication of clear intelligence about Davenheim. His face, round and a little plump, was emphasized by outmoded hair, short above and absent below. His mouth curved easily into a friendly smile, his voice was clear, his words crisp.

He said, "I've had you all described to me, for Jeff, as you probably all know, is a methodical man. I ought to be able to identify you all. For instance, you're Emmanuel Rubin since you're short, have thick glasses, a sparse beard-"

"Straggly beard," said Rubin, unoffended, "is what Jeff usually calls it because his own is dense, but I've never found that density of facial hair implies-"

"And are talkative," said Davenheim firmly, overriding the other with the calm authority of a colonel. "And you're a writer... You're Mario Gonzalo, the artist, and I don't even need your description since you're drawing... Roger Halsted, mathematician, partly bald. The only member without a full head of hair, so that's easy... James Drake, or, rather, Dr. James Drake-"

"We're all doctors by virtue of being Black Widowers," said Drake from behind a curl of cigarette smoke.

"You're right, and Jeff explained that carefully. You're Doctor Doctor Drake because you smell of tobacco smoke at ten feet."

"Well, Jeff should know," said Drake philosophically. "And Thomas Trumbull," said Davenheim, "because you're scowling, and by elimination... Have I got everyone?"

"Only the members," said Halsted. "You've left out Henry, who's all-important."

Davenheim looked about, puzzled. "Henry?"

"The waiter," said Avalon, flushing and staring at his drink. "I'm sorry, Henry, but I didn't know what to tell Colonel Davenheim about you. To say you're the waiter is ridiculously insufficient and to say more would endanger Black Widower confidentiality."

"I understand," said Henry agreeably, "but I think it would be well to serve the Colonel. What is your pleasure, sir?"

For a moment the Colonel looked blank. "Oh, you mean drinks? No, that's all right. I don't drink."

"Some ginger ale, perhaps?"

"All right." Davenheim was plainly grasping at straws. "That will be fine."

Trumbull smiled. "The life of a non-drinker is a difficult one."

"Something wet must be pressed on one," said Davenheim wryly. "I've never managed to adjust."

Gonzalo said, "Have a cherry put in your ginger ale. Or better yet, put water in a cocktail glass and add an olive. Then drink and replace the water periodically. Everyone will admire you as a man who can hold his liquor. Though, frankly, I've never seen an officer who could-"

"I think we'll be eating any minute," said Avalon hastily, looking at his watch.

Henry said, "Won't you be seated, gentlemen?" and placed one of the bread baskets directly in front of Gonzalo as though to suggest he use his mouth for that purpose.

Gonzalo took a roll, broke it, buttered one half, bit into it, and said in muffled tones, "-keep from getting sloppy drunk on one martini," but no one listened.

Rubin, finding himself between Avalon and Davenheim, said, "What kind of soldier was Jeff, Colonel?"

"Damned good one," said Davenheim gravely, "but he didn't get much of a chance to shine. We were both in the legal end of matters, which meant desk work. The difference is that he had the sense to get out once the war was over. I didn't."

"You mean you're still involved with military law?"

"That's right."

"Well, I look forward to the day when military law is as obsolete as feudal law."

"I do, too," said Davenheim calmly. "But it isn't as yet."

"No," said Rubin, "and if you-"

Trumbull interrupted. "Damn it, Manny, can't you wait for grilling time?"

"Yes," said Avalon, coughing semi-stentorially, "we might as well let Sam eat before putting him through his paces."

"If," said Rubin, "military law applied the same considerations to those-"

"Later!" roared Trumbull.

Rubin looked through his thick-lensed glasses indignantly, but subsided.

Halsted said, in what was clearly intended to be a change of topic, "I'm not happy with my limerick for the fifth book of the Iliad."

"The what?" said Davenheim, puzzled.

"Pay no attention," said Trumbull. "Roger keeps threatening to put together five lines of crap for every book of the Iliad."

"And the Odyssey," said Halsted. "The trouble with the fifth book is that it deals chiefly with the feats of the Greek hero Diomedcs, and 1 feel I ought to have him part of the rhyme scheme. I've been at it, off and on, for months."

"Is that why you've spared us limericks the last couple of sessions?" asked Trumbull.

"I've had one and I've been ready to read it, but I'm not quite satisfied with it."

"Then you've joined the great majority," said Trumbull.

"The thing is," said Halsted quietly, "that both 'Diomedes' and its legitimate variant 'Diomed' cannot be rhymed seriously. 'Diomedes' rhymes with 'Wheaties' and 'Diomed' rhymes with 'shy-a-bed' and what good are those?"

"Call him Tydeides," said Avalon. "Homer frequently used the patronymic."

"What's a patronymic?" asked Gonzalo.

"A father-name, which is the literal translation of the word," said Halsted. "Diomedes' father was Tydeus. Don't you think I've thought of that? It rhymes with 'di-dies' or, if you want to go Cockney, with 'lydies.' "

"How about 'ascites'?" said Drake.

"Wit seeks its own level," said Halsted. "How about this? All I need do is distort the stress and give 'Diomed' accents on first and last syllables."

"Cheating," said Rubin.

"A little," admitted Halsted, "but here it is:

"In courage and skill well ahead,

Into battle went brave Diomed.

Even gods were his quarries,

And the war-loving Ares

He struck down and left nearly for dead."

Avalon shook his head. "Ares was only wounded. He had enough strength left to rise, roaring, to Olympus."

"1 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 aboveground? 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 Tram-bull.

"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 1 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 1 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 coffeecups.

"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 'Yaknee 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-nding on a pony.

Stuck a feather in his cap

And called it macaroni.

Yankee Doodle, keep it up,

Yankee Doodle dandy.

Mind the music and the step

And with the girls be handy."

Gonzalo said, "It's just a nonsense lyric."

"Nonsense, hell," said Rubin indignantly, and his straggly beard quivered. "It makes perfect sense. It's a satire on the country boy written by a city slicker. 'Doodle' is any primitive country instrument-a bagpipe, for instance-so a Yankee Doodle is a backwoods New Eng-lander who's no more sophisticated than a bagpipe. He comes to town on his pony intent on cutting a fine figure, so he wears what he thinks are city clothes. He wears a feather in his hat and thinks he's a real dude. And in the late eighteenth century, that's what a 'macaroni' was, a city hepcat dressed in the latest style.

"The last four lines are the chorus and show the country boy stepping it up at a city dance. He is mockingly told to stamp away and be gallant to the ladies. The word 'dandy,' which first came into use about mid-eighteenth century, meant the same as 'macaroni.' "

Gonzalo said, "Okay, Manny, you win. It's not nonsense. But how does it help Sam's case?"

"I don't think it does," said Rubin. "Sorry, Sam, but Klotz sounds like a country boy making a fool of the city slicker and he can't help but think of the derisive song and how he's turning the tables on you."

Davenheim said, "I presume, Manny, that you think he must be a country boy because his name is Klotz. By that reasoning you must be a rube because your name is Rubin. Actually, Klotz was born and brought up in Philadelphia and I doubt that he's ever seen a farm. No country boy, he."

"All right," said Rubin, "then I might have been looking at the wrong end of the stick. He's the city slicker looking down on you, Sam."

"Because I'm a country boy? I was born in Stoneham, Massachusetts, and went through Harvard right up to my law degree. And he knows that, too. He has made enough roundabout references to it in his matador moments."

Drake said, "Doesn't your Massachusetts birth and upbringing make you a Yankee?"

"Not a Yankee Doodle," said Davenheim stubbornly.

"He might think so," said Drake.

Davenheim thought about that a while, then said, "Yes, I suppose he might. But if so, surely he would hum it openly, derisively. The point is, I think he's humming it unconsciously. It has a connection with something he's trying to hide, not something he's trying to show."

Halsted said, "Maybe he's looking forward to a future when he's going to be enriched by his crimes and when he'll be able to strut his way to town; when he can 'stick a feather in his cap' in other words."

Drake said, "Or maybe Klotz is thinking that his treatment of you is a feather in his cap."

Gonzalo said, "Maybe some particular word has significance. Suppose 'macaroni' means he's hooked up with the Mafia. Or suppose 'with the girls be handy' means that some Wac is involved. They still have Wacs in the army, don't they?"

It was at this point that Henry said, "I wonder, Mr. Avalon, if, as host, you will permit me to ask a few questions."

Avalon said, "Come on, Henry. You know you can at any time."

"Thank you, sir. Would the Colonel grant me the same permission?"

Davenheim looked surprised, but said, "Well, you're here, Henry, so you might as well."

Henry said, "Mr. Avalon recited eight lines of 'Yankee Doodle'-four lines of a verse followed by the four lines of the chorus. But verse and chorus have different tunes. Did Private Klotz hum all eight lines?"

Davenheim thought a moment. "No, of course not. He hummed-uh-" He closed his eyes, concentrated, and went "Dum-dum dum-dum dum-dum-dum, dum-dum dum-dum dum-du-u-um-dum. That's all. The first two lines."

"Of the verse?"

"That's right. 'Yankee Doodle went to town, A-riding on a pony.'"

"Always those two lines?" "Yes, I think always."

Drake brushed some crumbs from the table. "Colonel, you say this humming took place when the questioning was particularly tense. Did you pay particular attention to exactly what was being discussed at those times?" "Yes, of course, but I prefer not to go into detail." "I understand, but perhaps you can tell me this. At those times, was it he himself who was under discussion or Sergeant Farber as well?"

"Generally," said Davenheim slowly, "the humming times came when he most emphatically protested innocence, but always on behalf of both. I'll give him that. He has never once tried to clear himself at the expense of the other. It was always that neither Farber nor he did thus-and-so or were responsible for this-and-that."

Henry said, "Colonel Davenheim, this is a long shot. If the answer is no, then I'll have nothing more to say. If, however, the answer is yes, it's just possible we may have something."

"What's the question, Henry?" asked Davenheim.

"At the same base where Sergeant Farber and Private

Klotz are stationed, Colonel, does there happen to be a Captain Gooden or Gooding or anything resembling that in sound?"

Davenheim had, until then, been looking at Henry with grave amusement. Now that vanished in a flash. His mouth closed tight and his face whitened visibly. Then his chair scraped as he shoved it back and rose.

"Yes," he said strenuously. "Captain Charles Goodwin. How the hell could you possibly have known that?"

"In that case, he may be your man. I'd forget about Klotz and Farber, sir, if I were you, and concentrate on the captain. That might be the one step upward that you wanted. And the captain may prove an easier nut to crack than Private Klotz has been."

Davenheim seemed to find no way to speak further and Trumbull said, "I wish you'd explain, Henry."

"It's the 'Yankee Doodle,' as the Colonel expected. The point is, though, that Private Klotz hummed it. We have to consider what words he was thinking when he hummed."

Gonzalo said, "The Colonel said he hummed the lines that go 'Yankee Doodle went to town, A-riding on a pony.' "

Henry shook his head. "The original poem 'Yankee Doodle' had some dozen verses and the macaroni lines were not among them. They arose later, though they're now the most familiar. The original poem tells of the visit of a young farmboy to the camp of Washington's Continental Army and his naivete is made fun of, so I believe Mr. Rubin's interpretation of the nature of the song to be correct."

Rubin said, "Henry's right. I remember now. Washington is even mentioned, but as Captain Washington. The farmboy wasn't even aware of the nature of military rank."

"Yes," said Henry. "I don't know all the verses and I imagine very few people do. Perhaps Private Klotz didn't, either. But anyone who knows the poem at all knows the first verse or, at any rate, the first two lines, and that's what Private Klotz may have been humming. The first line, for instance-and it's the farmboy speaking-is 'Father and I went down to camp.' You see?"

"No," said Davenheim, shaking his head. "Not quite."

"It occurred to me that whenever you pressed hard on Private Klotz and might say, 'Farber and you did thus-and-so,' and he answered, 'Farber and I did not do thus-and-so,' the humming would start. You said, Colonel, that it was at the moment of denial that it tended to come and that he always denied on behalf of both Farber and himself. So when he said 'Farber and I,' it would trigger the line 'Farber and 1 went down to camp.' " Henry sang it in a soft tenor voice.

"Farber and he were in an army camp," said Avalon, "but, good God, that's stretching for it."

"If it stood alone, sir, yes," said Henry. "But that's why I asked about a Captain Gooden in the camp. If he were a third member of the conspiracy, the push to hum the tune might be irresistible. The first verse, which is the only one I know-"

But here Rubin interrupted. Standing up, he roared:

"Father and I went down to camp

Along with Cap'n Good'n,

And there we saw the men and boys

As thick as hasty puddih'."

"That's right," said Henry calmly, "Farber and I went down to camp along with Captain Goodwin."

"By God," said Davenheim. "That must be it. If not, it's the most extraordinary coincidence... And it can't be. Henry, you've put your finger on it."

"I hope so. More coffee, Colonel?" said Henry.

Afterword

This story was the occasion of my making a great discovery. It came about this way:

I compose on the typewriter. Even first drafts get type-written. It was my firm belief that it had to be so. li I dictated, I couldn't see what I was doing, and if I tried writing by hand, my fingers would get stiff and fall off halfway down the second page.

So on November 9, 1972, I found myself in a Rochester hotel room with a speech to give the next 'day. For that evening I had nothing to do and while driving to Rochester I had thought up the story you have just finished (unless you're skipping through the book just reading the afterwords). I was desperate. All I wanted to do was to write and I had not brought a typewriter with me.

Finally, I dug out some of the hotel stationery and decided to start the story by hand and keep on going till my fingers dropped off. It might kill a little time. So I wrote, and I wrote-and I wrote. Do you know I finished the entire story without lifting pen from paper and my fingers didn't hurt at all?

Now I need never take my typewriter. Since then I have handwritten several other items, while I was on board ship.

And you know what? While I was writing the story I discovered an odd thing. Writing by hand with pen and ink is very silent. That noise I always make writing isn't the writing; it's the typewriter. I thought you'd want to know that.