The Return of the Black Widowers Page 20

"The sign, Gabriel. The sign. 'From White to Bright.' That's how the numbers go. The white scarf covers the 1 and zero, making 10. That's the first number of the combination, and—"

  Varsey made the next entry in his notebook:

  10-29-38-47-56

  "I guess now it's your turn, Paul." Varsey nodded in Haskill's direction.

  "Like the rest of you, I may have let my work get in the way of my detecting," said the teacher. "I chose the same window Jasper did. But I was interested in those five posters on American history. And you know, it wasn't hard to assign a specific number to each of them."

  "Oh?"Warwick asked. "How?"

  "Take the first one—the painting. It's called 'The Spirit of '76.' Next, Woodrow Wilson. His Fourteen Points—his war aims—are known to any high-school student. Or at least they should be."

  Varsey chuckled at the teacher's sternness. "Continue," he urged him.

  "The prospector mining for gold?" Haskill went on. "A 'Forty-niner,' of course—the year of the California gold rush." He hummed a few bars of "Clementine," and his listeners nodded their agreement.

  "And then Lindbergh. The Lone Eagle, the first man to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean. What could he represent except the number 1?

  "Finally, Babe Ruth. And even though it was finally broken, who can ever forget his record number of home runs?"

  "Sixty!" chimed in Warwick and Zimmerman together. "So there you have it, Edgar. Put my numbers in that book of yours with the rest of 'em." Varsey did just that:

  76-14-49-1-60

  "Come on," said the reporter, draining his glass and getting to his feet. "Let’s go down and get on that line to try the safe. We'll soon know which one of you has the right answer."

  Two hours later the little group was back at their table in the taproom of The Merry Tinker. Full glasses mirrored despondent faces.

  None of the suggested combinations had coaxed the safe's door to open.

  "And we wanted to be like the Black Widowers," moaned Zimmerman. "I'm glad that Asimov fella ain't here at this meeting. I'd have to hide my face."

  "A failure," said Warwick. "A complete fiasco."

  "A bunch of dunderheads trying to be detectives," Doone murmured. "That's us."

  "Hey, let's not be too hard on ourselves." Paul Haskill managed a weak smile. "At least we tried. That should get us a mention in your newspaper, huh, Edgar?"

  Varsey shook his head. "The public wants to read about winners," he said. "Not losers."

  The reporter pushed back his chair. "Well, it's been fun. But I've got to be getting back to—"

  "Wait a bit. Wait a bit," came a reedy voice from beside him. Varsey turned and found himself looking at the seamed face of Findlay, the barman and proprietor of The Merry Tinker.

  "I could nae let ye go till ye've heard from all of us," said Findlay. "Could I now, Mr. Varsey?"

  "But everybody had a turn."

  "I didn't. Ye see, trouble with these fellers is, they've nae read the Black Widower yarns thorough enough."

  "Come again, Findlay?" said the reporter.

  "They clean forgot, sir, that while most of the Black Widowers sit at table for the meal, there's one who's up and about the entire time."

  "Henry the waiter," breathed Haskill. "Of course."

  "Aye," said Findlay. "Henry. And while the others blather on at great length—just as you gentlemen have done—it's Henry as gets down to findin' the solutions. That waiter has an odd and refreshingly original way of lookin' at problems. Something I've been accused of meself."

  "Wait a minute." Varsey eyed Findlay closely. "Are you saying you saw something in one of those windows that none of the rest of us saw?"

  "Nae, not a bit of it." Findlay shook his head firmly. "Ye see, them windows ye've been examinin' with such care have naught tae do with the clue Davey Lotus was givin' out about the combination."

  "But they have to! Lotus told me—" the reporter began.

  "Sit down, Henry—ah—Findlay," interrupted Haskill, dragging up a chair from the next table. "Are you telling us you've got the right solution? What are the numbers? How did you get them? What do you mean—"

  "Easy, Mr. Haskill. Now first, I'll remind ye all of one set of numbers ye've apparently overlooked. I'm speakin', of course, of the ones Davey Lotus assigned tae his name when he first opened his Value Today store. That story's still well known."

  "Yeah, yeah," said Zimmerman impatiently. "D is 1, A is 2, right up to S is zero. And even if we paired em—12, 34, 56, and so forth—that idea was tried the first day Lotus put the safe in the window."

  "And Lotus said the clue was in the windows." Varsey pounded the table positively. "When we talked in front of the store."

  "Did he now?" replied Findlay. "Did he say that in so many words? I didn't get that impression when you first spoke of the conversation." Varsey wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. "No," he replied slowly. "When I asked him where the clues were, he just said, 'Right there.' But he pointed to the windows."

  "Are ye certain sure?" asked Findlay. "Or did he just wave, like?" The little barman made a vague gesture with his hand toward the corner of the room. "Ez ye did yerself, when ye spoke of it earlier."

  "Well—yes, that was about the way he did it," admitted the reporter. "But except for the windows, there's nothing special about that old building he could have been pointing to."

  "With deepest respect," countered Findlay, "I submit there is something, Mr. Varsey. Ye could hardly uv missed it, standin' where the two o' ye was."

  "Look, Findlay," said Warwick, "are you saying we've been studying those damned windows when Lotus was actually pointing to something else? What was it?"

  "It was letters—ten uv 'em, tae be exact. At least a foot high. And they spell out the name of Davey Lotus' store—Value Today."

  "You—you mean the store sign was the clue, Findlay? But how?"

  "Don't it strike ye odd, sir, that every one o' them ten letters in Value Today is found somewhere in Davey Lotus' own name. Quite a coincidence, ain't it? Only I don't really think it is one. I think Davey had this little scheme in mind from the time he found the safe and opened the store. He named the place accordingly."

  "Value Today," mused Haskill while the others buzzed excitedly. "Ten letters. Now if we break them down into two-letter groups—"

  "Exactly, Mr. Haskill," grinned Findlay. "Take VA, for example. Now we assign numbers tae them letters, based on the way Davey first used his name to code prices. VA, therefore, becomes 32."

  "And LU is 69, because L is the sixth letter in Davey's name, and U the ninth," added Varsey.

  "Now ye have it, sirs." Findlay reached across the table and pulled a piece of paper from Varsey's notebook. "Unless I'm far off the mark, these numbers’ll open that safe."

  He began to write with a stub of pencil: 32-69-48-71-25

  Warwick leaped to his feet. "Come on. Let's go down there and give it a whirl."

  The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there was the sound of a door opening, then slamming shut. A thin lively woman darted into the room, looking about sharply. She spotted Findlay and hurried over to him. "I got it, Findlay! I got it!" she cried excitedly. "See?"

  She reached into the depths of her ample purse and withdrew a rectangle of green paper. It bore a portrait of President Grover Cleveland, as well as the figure 1000 in all four corners.

  "Gentlemen," said Findlay, "I'd like ye tae meet Dorrie, my wife. I sent her on ahead tae test me theory."

  He peered slyly at the little group at the table. "I did nae think ye'd mind, since yer own interest was purely in the problem itself, not the money involved."

  The others looked at one another ruefully, shaking their heads.

  "There is one thing ye could do fer me though, Mr. Haskill."

  "Anything, Findlay," said the teacher.

  "Could ye find me the address uv the gude Dr. Asimov? I’d like tae write him a letter an' ask him tae extend tae each an' every one o' the Black Wi
dowers me personal thanks."

  Return to Table of Contents

  The Uncollected Black Widowers

  NORTHWESTWARD

  T

  homas Trumbull said to Emmanuel Rubin in a low voice, "Where the devil have you been? I've been trying to reach you for a week."

  Rubin's eyes flashed behind the thick lenses of his spectacles, and his sparse beard bristled. "I was away at the Berkshires for a week. I was not aware I had to apply for permission to you for that."

  "I wanted to speak to you."

  "Then speak to me now. Here I am. That is, supposing you can think of something intelligent to say."

  Trumbull looked about hastily. The Black Widowers had gathered for the monthly banquet at the Milano, and Trumbull had managed to arrive on time because he was the host.

  He said, "Keep your voice down, for God's sake, Manny. I can't speak freely now. It's about," his voice dropped to a mere mouthing, "my guest."

  "Well, what about him?" Rubin glanced in the direction of the tall, distinguished-looking elderly man who was conversing with Geoffrey Avalon in the far corner. The guest was a good two inches taller than Avalon, who was usually the tallest person at the gathering. Rubin, who was ten inches shorter than Avalon, grinned.

  "I think it does Jeff good to have to look up now and then," he said.

  "Listen to me, will you?" said Trumbull. "I've talked to the others, and you were the only one I was really worried about and the only one I couldn't reach."

  197 "But what are you worried about? Get to the point."

  "It's my guest. He's peculiar."

  "If he's your guest—"

  "Sh! He's an interesting guy, and he's not nuts, but you may consider him peculiar and I don't want you to mock him. You just let him be peculiar and accept it."

  "How is he peculiar?"

  "He has an idée fixe, if you know what that means."

  Rubin looked revolted. "Can you tell me why it's so necessary for an American with a stumbling knowledge of English to say idée fixe when the English phrase 'fixed idea' does just as well?"

  "He has a fixed idea, then. It will come out because he can't keep it in. Please don't make fun of it, or of him. Please accept him on his own terms."

  "This violates the whole principle of the grilling, Tom."

  "It just bends it a little. I'm asking you to be polite, that's all. Everyone else has agreed."

  Rubin's eyes narrowed. "I'll try, but so help me, Tom, if this is some sort of gag—if I'm being set up for something—I'll stand on a stool if I have to, and I'll punch you right in the eye."

  "There's no gag involved."

  Rubin wandered over to where Mario Gonzalo was putting the finishing touches on his caricature of the guest. Not much of a caricature at that. He was turning out a Gibson man, a collar ad.

  Rubin looked at it, then turned to look at the guest. He said, "You're leaving out the lines, Mario."

  "Caricature," said Gonzalo, "is the art of truthful exaggeration, Manny. When a guy looks that good at his age, you don't spoil the effect by sticking in lines."

  "What's his name?"

  "I don't know. Tom didn't give it. He says we ought to wait for the grilling to ask."

  Roger Halsted ambled over, drink in hand, and said in a low voice, "Tom was looking for you all week, Manny."

  "He told me. And he found me right here."

  "Did he explain what he wanted?"

  "He didn't explain it. He just asked me to be nice."

  "Are you going to?"

  "I will, until I get the idea that this is a joke at my expense. After which—"

  "No, he's serious."

  Henry, that quiet bit of waiter-perfection, said in his soft, carrying voice, "Gentlemen, dinner is served."

  And they all sat down to their crab leg cocktails.

  James Drake had stubbed out his cigarette since, by general vote, there was to be no smoking during the actual meal, and handed the ashtray to Henry.

  He said, "Henry's announcement just now interrupted our guest in some comments he was making about Superman, which I'd like him to repeat, if he doesn't mind."

  The guest nodded his head in a stately gesture of gratitude and, having finished an appreciative mouthful of veal Marengo, said, "What I was saying was that Superman was a travesty of an ancient and honorable tradition. There has always been a branch of literature concerning itself with heroes; human beings of superior strength and courage. Heroes, however, should be supernormal but not supernatural."

  "As a matter of fact," said Avalon, in his startling baritone, "I agree. There have always been characters like Hercules, Achilles, Gilgamesh, Rustum—"

  "We get the idea, Jeff," said Rubin, balefully.

  Avalon went on, smoothly, "Even half a century ago, we had the development of Conan by Robert Howard, as a modern legend. These were all far stronger than we puny fellows are, but they were not godlike. They could be hurt, wounded, even killed. They usually were, in the end."

  "In the Iliad," said Rubin, perfectly willing, as always, to start an argument, "the gods could be wounded. Ares and Aphrodite were each wounded by Diomedes." "Homer can be allowed liberties," put in the guest. "But compare, say, Hercules with Superman. Superman has X-ray eyes, he can fly through space without protection, he can move faster than light. None of this would be true of Hercules. But with Superman's abilities, where is the excitement, where's the suspense? Then, too, where's the fairness? He fights off human crooks who are less to him than a ladybug would be to me. How much pride can I take in flipping a ladybug off my wrist?"

  Drake said, "One trouble with these heroes, though, is that they're muscle-bound at the temples. Take Siegfried. If he had an atom of intelligence, he took care never to show it. For that matter, Hercules was not remarkable for the ability to think, either."

  "On the other hand," said Halsted, "Prince Valiant had brains, and so, especially, did Odysseus."

  "Rare exceptions," said Drake.

  Rubin turned to the guest and said, "You seem very interested in storybook heroes."

  "Yes, I am," said the guest, quietly. "It's almost an idée fixe with me." He smiled with obvious self-deprecation. "I keep talking about them all the time, it seems."

  It was soon after that that Henry brought on the baked Alaska.

  Trumbull tapped his water glass with his spoon at about the time that Henry was carefully supplying the brandy. Trumbull had waited well past the coffee, as though reluctant to start the grilling, and even now the tinkle of metal against glass seemed less authoritative than customary.

  Trumbull said, "It is time we begin the grilling of our guest, and I would like to suggest that Manny Rubin do the honors."

  Rubin favored Trumbull with a hard stare, then said to the guest, "Sir, it is usual to ask our guest to begin by justifying his existence, but against all custom, Tom has not introduced you by name. May I, therefore, ask you what your name is?"

  "Certainly," said the guest. "My name is Bruce Wayne."

  Rubin turned immediately toward Trumbull, who made an unobtrusive, but clear, quieting gesture with his hands.

  Rubin took a deep breath and managed a smile. "Well, Mr. Wayne, since we were speaking of heroes, I can't resist asking you if you are ever kidded about being the comic-strip hero, Batman. Bruce Wayne is Batman's real name, as you probably know."

  "I do know," said Wayne, "because I am Batman."

  There was a general stir at the table at this, and even the ordinarily imperturbable Henry raised his eyebrows. Wayne was apparently accustomed to this reaction, for he sipped at his brandy without reacting.

  Rubin cast another quick glance at Trumbull, then said carefully, "I suppose that, in saying this, you imply that you are, in one way or another, to be identified with the comic-strip character, and not with something else named Batman, as, for instance, an officer's orderly in the British army."

  "You're right," said Wayne. "I'm referring to the comic-strip character. Of course," a
nd he smiled gently, "I'm not trying to convince you I am literally the comic-strip Batman, cape, bat symbol, and all. As you see, I am a three-dimensional living human being, and I assure you I am aware of that. However, I inspired the existence of the comic-strip character Batman."

  "And how did that come about?" asked Rubin.

  "In the past, when I was considerably younger than I am now—"

  "How old are you now?" asked Halsted, suddenly.

  Wayne smiled. "Tom has told me I must answer all questions truthfully, so I will tell you, though I'd prefer not to. I am seventy-three years old."

  Halsted said, “You don't look it, Mr. Wayne. You could pass for fifty."

  "Thank you. I try to keep fit."

  Rubin said, with a trace of impatience, "Would you get back to my question, Mr. Wayne? Do you want it repeated?"

  "No, my memory manages to limp along satisfactorily. When I was considerably younger than I am now, I was of some help to various law enforcement agencies. At that time, there was money to be had in these comic strips about heroes, and a friend of mine suggested that I serve as a model for one. Batman was invented with a great many of my characteristics and much of my history.

  "It was, of course, distinctly romanticized. I do not go about with a cape and never have done so, or had a helicopter of my own, but I did insist that Batman be given no supernatural powers but be restricted to entirely human abilities. I admit they do stretch it a bit sometimes. Even the villains Batman faces, although they are invariably grotesque, are exaggerations of people with whom I had problems in the past and whom I helped put out of circulation."

  Avalon said, "I see why Superman annoys you, then. There was a television Batman for two seasons. What about that?"

  "I remember it well. Especially Julie Newmar playing Cat-woman. I would have liked to have met her as an opponent in real life. The program was played for laughs, you know, and good-natured fun."

  "Well," said Drake, looking about the table and carefully lighting a cigarette now that the meal was over (and cupping it in his hand in the obvious belief that that would trap the smoke), "you seem to have had an amusing life. Are you the multimillionaire that the comic-strip Batman is?"