The Return of the Black Widowers (23 page)
"What was it, then?"
"Let me be certain I understand one point. When you asked the people in the restaurant if they had seen a redheaded woman enter, the man on the couch turned around and shook his head in the negative. Is that right?"
"Yes, he did. I remember it well. He was the only one who really responded."
"But you said the fireplace was at the wall opposite the door into the restaurant and that the couch faced it, so that the man had his back to you. He had to turn around to look at you. That means his back was also to the door, and he was reading a magazine. Of all the people there, he was least likely to see someone enter the door, yet he was the one person to take the trouble to indicate he had seen no one. Why should he have?"
"What has all that got to do with it, waiter?" said Anderssen.
"Call him Henry," muttered Gonzalo.
Henry said, "I would suggest that Mrs. Anderssen hurried in and took her seat on the couch, an ordinary and perfectly natural action that would have attracted no attention from a group of people engaged in dining and in conversation, even despite her red hair."
"But I would have seen her as soon as I came in," said Anderssen. "The back of the couch only reaches a person's shoulders and Helen is a tall woman. Her hair would have blazed out at me."
"On a chair," said Henry, "it is difficult to do anything but sit. On a couch, however, one can lie down."
Anderssen said, "There was a man already sitting on the couch."
"Even so," said Henry. "Your wife, acting on impulse, as you say she is apt to do, reclined. Suppose you were on a couch, and an attractive redhead, with a fine figure, dressed in a skimpy summer costume, suddenly stretched out and placed her head in your lap; and that, as she did so, she raised her finger imploringly to her mouth, pleading for silence. It seems to me there would be very few men who wouldn't oblige a lady under those circumstances."
Anderssen s lips tightened. "Well—"
"You said the man was holding his magazine high, as though he were nearsighted, but might that not be because he was holding it high enough to avoid the woman's head in his lap? And then, in his eagerness to oblige a lady, would he not turn his head and unnecessarily emphasize that he hadn't seen her?"
Anderssen rose. "Right! I'll go home right now and have it out with her."
"If I may suggest, sir," said Henry. "I would not do that."
"I sure will. Why not?"
"In the interest of family harmony, it might be well if you would let her have her victory. I imagine she rather regrets it and is not likely to repeat it. You said she has been very well behaved this last month. Isn't it enough that you know in your heart how
it was done so that you needn't feel defeated yourself? It would be her victory without your defeat and you would have the best of both worlds."
Slowly, Anderssen sat down and, amid a light patter of applause from the Black Widowers, said, "You may be right, Henry."
"I think I am," said Henry.
T |
he guest at the monthly banquet of the Black Widowers frowned at the routine question asked him by that best of all waiters, Henry.
"No," he said, vehemently. "Nothing! Nothing!—No, not even ginger ale. I'll just have a glass of water, if you don't mind."
He turned away, disturbed. He had been introduced as Christopher Levan. He was a bit below average height, slim, and well-dressed. His skull was mostly bald but was so well-shaped that the condition seemed attractive rather than otherwise.
He was talking to Mario Gonzalo and returned to the thread of his conversation with an apparent effort, saying, "The art of cartooning seems simple. I have seen books that show you how to draw familiar shapes and forms, starting with an oval, let us say, then modifying it in successive stages till it becomes Popeye or Snoopy or Dick Tracy. And yet how does one decide what oval to make and what modifications to add in the first place? Besides, it is not easy to copy. No matter how simple the steps seem to be, when I try to follow them, the end result is distorted and amateurish."
Gonzalo looked, with a certain complacency, at the cartoon he had just drawn of the guest, and said, "You have to allow for a kind of inborn talent and for years of experience, Mr. Levan."
"I suppose so, and yet you didn't draw any oval with modifications. You simply drew that head freehand as quickly as you could and without any effort as far as I could tell.—Except that somehow my head looks shiny. Is it?"
"Not particularly. That's just cartoonist's license."
"Except that," said Emmanuel Rubin, drawing near with a
145
drink in his hand, "if licenses were required for cartooning, Mario would never qualify. Some may have talent, but Mario gets by with effrontery."
Gonzalo grinned. "He means chutzpah. Manny knows about that. He writes stories which he actually submits to editors."
"And sells," said Rubin.
"An indication of occasional editorial desperation."
Levan smiled. "When I hear two people spar like that, I am certain that there is actually a profound affection between them."
"Oh, God," said Rubin, visibly revolted. His sparse beard bristled and his eyes, magnified through the thick lenses of his glasses, glared.
"You've hit it, Mr. Levan," said Gonzalo. "Manny would give me the shirt off his back if no one were looking. The only thing he wouldn't give me is a kind word."
Geoffrey Avalon, the host of this banquet, called out, "Are you getting tangled up in some nonsense between Manny and Mario, Chris?"
"Voluntarily, Jeff," said Levan. "I like these bouts with pillows and padded bats."
"It gets wearisome," said Avalon, staring down from his seventy-four-inch height, "past the fifty-seven thousandth time.—But come and sit down, Chris. We are having nothing less good than lobster tonight."
It is not to be denied that an elaborate lobster dinner tends to inhibit conversation a bit. The cracking of shells takes considerable concentration and the dipping into drawn butter is not a matter to be carried through casually. The period between the Portuguese fish chowder and the
coupe aux matrons
was largely silent, therefore, as far as the human voice was concerned, though the nut cracking play kept the table at a low growl.
"I despise lobster salad," said Roger Halsted over the coffee. "It's like eating seedless watermelon cut into cubes. The worth of the prize is directly proportional to the pains taken to win it."
Levan said, "I suppose, then, you would be very much against interest-free loans," and he chuckled with a sated air.
"Well," said James Drake, in his hoarsely muted voice, "I imagine even Roger would consider that as carrying a principle too far."
Thomas Trumbull fixed Levan with a glowering eye. "That's a banker's joke. Are you a banker?"
"One moment, Tom," said Avalon. "You're beginning to grill and the grilling session has not yet been opened."
"Well, then, open it, Jeff. We're on our coffee, and Henry is going to come around with the brandy in a millisecond."Trumbull looked at his watch. "And the lobster has delayed us, so let's go."
"I was about to begin," said Avalon, with dignity. He tapped his glass three or four times. "Tom, since you are so anxious, won't you begin the grilling."
"Certainly," said Trumbull. "Mr. Levan, are you a banker?"
"That is not the traditional opener," said Gonzalo.
Trumbull said, "Who asked you? What you're thinking of is traditional; it's not mandatory.— Mr. Levan, are you a banker?"
"Yes, I am. At least, I'm the vice president of a bank."
"Hah," said Trumbull.
"Now
I'll ask you the traditional opener. Mr. Levan, how do you justify your existence?"
Levan s smile became a beam. "Easiest thing in the world. The human body is completely dependent on blood circulation, which is driven by the heart. The world economy is completely dependent on money circulation, which is driven by the banks. I do my bit."
"Are the banks motivated in this by a desire for the good of the world or for the profits of their owners?"
Levan said, "Socialist claptrap, if you don't mind my saying so. You imply that the two motives are mutually exclusive, and that is not so. The heart drives the blood into the aorta and the first arteries to branch off are the coronaries, which feed what? The heart! In short, the heart's first care is for the heart, and that is as it should be, for without the heart all else fails. Let the coronaries
get choked up and you'll find yourself agreeing with the heart, and wishing it were anything else that was on short rations."
"Not the brain," said Drake. "Sooner the heart. Better die of a heart attack than live on in senility."
Levan thought a bit. "That's hard to disagree with, but we may treat and reverse senility a lot sooner than we are likely to be able to treat and reverse death."
Gonzalo, frowning, said, "Come on, what's this subject we've latched on to? And on a full stomach, too. Hey, Tom, may I ask a question?"
Trumbull said, "All right. Subject changed. Ask a question, Mario, but don't make it a dumb one."
Gonzalo said, "Mr. Levan, are you a member of Alcoholics Anonymous?"
There was a sudden silence about the table and then Trumbull, face twisted in anger, growled, "I
said,
don't make it—"
"It's a legitimate question," insisted Gonzalo, raising his voice, "and the rules of the game are that the guest must answer."
Levan, not smiling, and looking grim rather than embarrassed, said, "I'll answer the question. I am
not
a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, and I am not an alcoholic."
"Are you a teetotaler, then?"
For some reason, Levan seemed to find more difficulty answering that. "Well, no. I drink on occasion—a bit. Not much."
Gonzalo leaned back in his chair and frowned.
Avalon said, "May we change the subject once again and try to find something more civilized to discuss?"
"No, wait a while," said Gonzalo. "There's something funny here and I'm not through. Mr. Levan, you refused a drink. I was talking to you at the time. I watched you."
"Yes, I did," said Levan. "What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing," said Gonzalo, "but you refused it angrily.—Henry!"
"Yes, Mr. Gonzalo," said Henry at once, momentarily suspending his brandy-pouring operation
"Wasn't there something funny about Mr. Levan's refusal?"
"Mr. Levan was a bit forceful, I believe. I would not undertake to say that it was 'funny.' "
"Why was it forceful, do you think?"
"There could be—"
Drake interrupted. "This is the damndest grilling session I can remember. Bad taste all around. Whom are we grilling, anyway? Mr. Levan or Henry?"
"I agree," said Rubin, nodding his head vigorously. "Come on, Jeff, you're the host. Make a ruling and get us on track."
Avalon stared at his water glass, then said, "Gentlemen, Christopher Levan is a vice president of the largest bank in Merion. In fact, he is my personal banker, and I know him socially. I have seen him drink in moderation but I have never seen him drunk. I did not hear him refuse a drink, but somehow I'm curious. Chris,
did
you refuse a drink forcefully? If so, why?"
Levan frowned, and said, "I'm on the edge of resenting this."
"Please don't, Chris," said Avalon. "I explained the rules when you accepted my invitation, and I gave you a chance to back out. Nothing said here goes beyond the walls. Even if you were to tell us you were absconding with bank funds, we would be unable to tell anyone that—though I'm sure we would all urge you quite forcibly to abandon your intention."
"I am not an absconder, and I resent being forced to make that statement. I don't take this kindly of you, Jeff."
"This
has
gone far enough," said Halsted. "Let's end the session."
"Wait," said Gonzalo, stubbornly, "I want an answer to my question."
