MARIO GONZALO, host of that evening's meeting of the Black Widowers, had evidently decided to introduce his guest with eclat. At least he rattled his glass with a spoon and, when all had broken off their preprandial conversations and looked up from their cocktails, Mario made his introduction. He had even waited for Thomas Trumbull's as – usual late arrival before doing so.
"Gentlemen," he said, "this is my guest, John Anderssen – that's an s – s – e – n at the end. You can discover anything you want about him in this evening's grilling. One thing, however, I must tell you now because I know that this bunch of asexual loudmouths will never discover it on their own. John has a wife who is, absolutely, the most gorgeous specimen of femininity the world has ever seen. And I say this as an artist with an artist's eye."
Anderssen reddened and looked uncomfortable. He was a blond young man, perhaps thirty, with a small mustache and a fair complexion. He was about five – ten in height and had rather chiseled features that came together to form a handsome face.
Geoffrey Avalon, looking down from his stiff – backed seventy – four inches, said, "I must congratulate you, Mr. Anderssen, although you need not take seriously Mario's characterization of ourselves as asexual. I'm sure that each of us is quite capable of appreciating a beautiful woman. I, myself, although I might be considered to be past the first flush of hot – blooded youth, can – "
Trumbull said, "Spare us, Jeff, spare us. If you are going to give an embarrassing account of your prowess, you are better off being interrupted. From my point of view, the next best thing to having the young woman in our midst – if our customs allowed it – would be to see her photograph. I imagine, Mr. Anderssen, you carry a photo of your fair wife in your wallet. Would you consent to let us look at it?"
"No," said Anderssen, emphatically. Then, blushing furiously, he said, "I don't mean you can't look at it. I mean I don't have a photograph of her with me. I'm sorry." But he said it challengingly, and was clearly not sorry.
Gonzalo, unabashed, said, "Well, that's your loss, my friends. You should see her hair. It's gloriously red, a live red that just about glows in the dark. And natural, totally natural – and no freckles."
"Well," said Anderssen in half a mutter, "she stays out of the sun. – Her hair is her best feature."
Emmanuel Rubin, who had been standing on the outskirts, looking rather dour, said in a low voice, "And temper to match, I suppose."
Anderssen turned to him, and said, with an edge of bitterness, "She has a temper." He did not elaborate.
Rubin said, "I don't suppose there's a more durable myth than the one that redheads are hot – tempered. The redness of the hair is that of fire, and the principles of sympathetic magic lead people to suppose that the personality should march the hair."
James Drake, who shared, with Avalon, the dubious privilege of being the oldest of the Widowers, sighed reminiscently, and said, "I've known some very hot – blooded redheads."
"Sure you have," said Rubin. "So has everyone. It's a self – fulfilling assumption. Redheaded children, especially girls, are forgiven for being nasty and ill – behaved. Parents sigh fatuously and mutter that it goes with the hair, and the one with red hair in the family explains how Great – Uncle Joe would mop up the floor with anyone in the barroom who said anything that was less than a grovelling compliment. Boys usually grow up and have the stuffing knocked out of them by non – redheaded peers and that teaches them manners, but girls don't. And, if they're beautiful besides, they grow up knowing they can indulge their impoliteness to the hilt. An occasional judicious kick in the fanny would do them worlds of good."
Rubin carefully did not look at Anderssen in the course of his comment and Anderssen said nothing at all.
Henry, the indispensable waiter at all the Black Widower functions, said quietly, "Gentlemen, you may be seated."
The chef at the Milano had clearly decided to be Russian for the evening, and an excellent hot borscht was followed by an even more delightful beef Stroganoff on a bed of rice. Rubin, who usually endured the food with an expression of stoic disapproval, on principle, allowed a smile to play over his sparsely bearded face on this occasion, and helped himself lavishly to the dark pumpernickel.
As for Roger Halsted, whose affection for a good meal was legendary, he quietly negotiated a second helping with Henry.
The guest, John Anderssen, ate heartily, and participated eagerly in the conversation which, through a logical association, perhaps, dealt largely with the shooting down of the Korean jetliner by the Soviets. Anderssen pointed out that the ship had been widely referred to as "Flight 007," which was the number on the fuselage, during the first couple of weeks. Then someone must have remembered that 007 was the code number of James Bond, so when the Soviets insisted the liner had been a spy plane, it became "Flight 7" in the news media, and the "00" disappeared as though it had never been.
He also maintained vigorously that the jetliner, having gone off course almost immediately after leaving Alaska, should not have been left uninformed of the fact. He was shouting, red – faced, that failure to do so, when the Soviet Union was known to be on the hair trigger with respect to American reconnaissance planes and to Reagan's "evil empire" rhetoric, was indefensible.
He paid no attention, in fact, to his dessert, a honey – drenched baklava; left his coffee half – finished; and totally ignored Henry's soft request that he make his wishes known with respect to the brandy.
He was actually pounding the table when Gonzalo rattled his spoon against his water glass. Avalon was forced to raise his baritone voice to a commanding, "Mr. Anderssen, if you please -"
Anderssen subsided, looking vaguely confused, as though he were, with difficulty, remembering where he was.
Gonzalo said, "It's time for the grilling, and Jeff, since you seem to have the commanding presence needed in case John, here, gets excited, suppose you do the honors."
Avalon cleared his throat, gazed at Anderssen solemnly for a few moments, then said, "Mr. Anderssen, how do you justify your existence?"
Anderssen said, "What?"
"You exist, sir. Why?"
"Oh," said Anderssen, still collecting himself. 'Then, in a low harsh voice, he said, "To expiate my sins in an earlier existence, I should think."
Drake, who was at the moment accepting a refresher from Henry, muttered, "So are we all. Don't you think so, Henry?"
And Henry's sixtyish unlined face remained expressionless as he said, very softly, "A Black Widowers banquet is surely a reward for virtue rather than an expiation for sins."
Drake lifted his glass, "A palpable hit, Henry."
Trumbull growled, "Let's cut out the private conversations."
Avalon raised his hand. "Gentlemen! As you all know, I do not entirely approve of our custom of grilling a guest in the hope of searching out problems that might interest us. Nevertheless, I wish to call your attention to a peculiar phenomenon. We have here a young man – young, certainly, by the standards of old mustaches such as ourselves – well – proportioned, of excellent appearance, seeming to exude good health and an air of success in life, though we have not yet ascertained what the nature of his work is -"
"He's in good health and is doing well at his work," put in Gonzalo.
"I am glad to hear it," said Avalon, gravely. "In addition, he is married to a young and beautiful woman, so that one can't help but wonder why he should feel life to be such a burden as to lead him to believe that he exists only in order to expiate past sins. Consider, too, that during the meal just concluded, Mr. Anderssen was animated and vivacious, not in the least abashed by our older and wiser heads. I believe he shouted down even Manny, who is not one to be shouted down with impunity – "
"Anderssen was making a good point," said Rubin, indignantly.
"I think he was, too," said Avalon, "but what I wish to stress is that he is voluble, articulate, and not backward at expressing his views. Yet during the cocktail period, when the conversation dealt with his wife, he seemed to speak most reluctantly. From this, I infer that the source of Mr. Anderssen's unhappiness may be Mrs. Anderssen. – Is that so, Mr. Anderssen?"
Anderssen seemed stricken and remained silent.
Gonzalo said, "John, I explained the terms. You must answer."
Anderssen said, "I'm not sure how to answer."
Avalon said, "Let me be indirect. After all, sir, there is no intention to humiliate you. And please be aware that nothing said in this room is ever repeated by any of us elsewhere. That includes our esteemed waiter, Henry. Please feel that you can speak freely. Mr. Anderssen, how long have you been married?"
"Two years. Actually, closer to two and a half."
"Any children, sir?"
"Not yet. We hope to have some one day."
"For that hope to exist, the marriage must not be foundering. I take it you are not contemplating divorce."
"I take it then that you love your wife?"
"Yes. And before you ask, I am quite satisfied she loves me."
"There is, of course, a certain problem in being married to a beautiful woman," said Avalon. "Men will flock about beauty. Are you plagued by jealousy, sir?"
"No," said Anderssen. "I've no cause for it. Helen – that's my wife – has no great interest in men -"
"Ah," said Halsted, as though a great light had dawned.
"Except for myself," said Anderssen, indignantly. "She's not in the least bit asexual. Besides," he went on, "Mario exaggerates. She does have this luxuriant head of remarkable red hair, but aside from that she is not really spectacular. Her looks, I would say, are average – though I must rely now on your assurance that all said here is confidential. I would not want that assessment to be repeated. Her figure is good, and I find her beautiful, but there are no men caught helplessly in her toils, and I am not plagued by jealousy."
"What about her temper?" put in Drake, suddenly. "That's been mentioned and you've admitted she had one. I presume there's lots of fighting and dish throwing?"
"Some fights, sure," said Anderssen, "but no more than is par for the course. And no dish throwing. As Mr. Avalon has pointed out, I'm articulate, and so is she, and we're both pretty good at shouting, but after we work off our steam, we can be just as good at kissing and hugging."
"Then am I to take it, sir, that your wife is not the source of your troubles?" said Avalon.
Anderssen fell silent again.
"I must ask you to answer, Mr. Anderssen," said Avalon.
Anderssen said, "She is the problem. Just now, anyway. But it's too silly to talk about."
Rubin sat up at that and said, "On the contrary. Till now, I felt that Jeff was just wasting our time over the kind of domestic irritations that we attend these dinners, in part, to escape. But if there's something silly involved, then we want to hear it."
"If you must know," said Anderssen. "Helen says she's a witch."
"Oh?" said Rubin. "Has she always claimed this, or just recently?"
"Always. We joke about it. She would say she put me under enchantment to get me to marry her, and that she would cast spells and get me a promotion or a raise. Sometimes, when she is furious, she'll say, "Well, don't blame me if you blotch out in pimples just because you're going to be that stupid and mean.' That sort of thing."
Rubin said, "It sounds harmless to me. She probably did put you under enchantment. You fell in love with her and any woman of reasonable intelligence and looks can make a young man fall in love with her if she works hard enough being charming. You can call that enchantment if you wish."
"But I do get the promotions and raises."
"Surely that could be because you deserve them. Do you get the pimples, too?"
Anderssen smiled. "Well, I managed to trip and sprain an ankle and, of course, she said she had changed the spell because she didn't want to spoil my pretty face."
Halsted laughed and said, "You don't really act disturbed at this, Mr. Anderssen. After all, this sort of playacting by a young and vivacious woman isn't unusual. Personally, I find it charming. Why don't you?"
Anderssen said, "Because she pulled it on me once too often. She did something that I can't understand." He threw himself back in his chair and stared somberly at the table in front of him.
Trumbull bent to one side as though to look into Anderssen's eyes and said, "You mean you think she really is a witch?"
"I don't know what to think. I just can't explain what she did."
Avalon said, forcibly, "Mr. Anderssen, I must ask you to explain just what it was that Mrs. Anderssen did. Would you do that, sir?"
"Well," said Anderssen, "maybe I should. If I talk about it, maybe I can forget it. But I don't think so."
He brooded a bit and the Widowers waited patiently.
Finally, he said, "It was just about a month ago – the sixteenth. We were going out for dinner, just the two of us. We do that once in a while, and we like to try new places. We were trying a new place this time, the door to which was reached by passing through the lobby of a small midtown hotel. It was an unpretentious restaurant, but we had had good reports of it. The trouble started in the lobby.
"I don't remember exactly what set it off. In fact, I don't even remember what it was all about, really. What happened afterward pushed it our of my mind. What it amounted to was that we had a – a – disagreement. In less than a minute, we would have been inside the restaurant and studying the menu, and instead, we were standing to one side of the lobby, under a plastic potted plant of some sort. I can remember the sharply pointed leaves touching my hand disagreeably when I waved it to make a point. The registration desk was across the way, between the door to the restaurant and the door to the street. The scene is still painted in my mind.
"Helen was saying, "If that's your attitude, we don't have to have dinner together.'
"I swear to all of you, I don't remember what my attitude was, but we're both of us highly vocal, and we were both of us furious, I admit. The whole thing was highly embarrassing. It was one of those times when you and someone else – usually your wife or girlfriend, I suppose – are shouting at each other in whispers. The words are being squeezed out between clenched teeth, and every once in a while one of you says, 'For Heaven's sake, people are staring,' and the other says, "Then shut up and listen to reason,' and the first one says, 'You're the one who isn't listening,' and it just keeps on and on."
Anderssen shook his head at the memory. "It was the most intense argument we had ever had up to that time, or since, and yet I can't remember what it was about. Unbelievable!
"Then she suddenly said, 'Well, then, I'm going home. Good – bye.' I said, 'Don't you dare humiliate me by leaving me in public.' And she said, 'You can't stop me.' And I said, 'Don't tempt me, or I will stop you.' And she said, 'Just try,' and dashed into the restaurant.
"That caught me by surprise. I had thought she would try to get past me to the door to the street – and I was ready to seize her wrist and hang on. It would have been better to let her go than to make a scene, I suppose, but I was past reason. In any case, she fooled me, and made a dash for the restaurant.
"I was stunned for a moment – two moments – and then I hurried in after her. I may have been twenty seconds behind her. – Let me describe the restaurant. It was not a large one, and it had the deliberate decor of a living room. In fact, the restaurant is called The Living Room. – Are any of you acquainted with it?"
There was a blank murmur about the table, but Henry, who had cleared the dishes with his usual unobtrusive efficiency and was standing by the sideboard, said, "Yes, sir. It is, as you say, a small but well – run restaurant."
"It had about a dozen tables," Anderssen proceeded, "the largest of which would hold six. There were windows with drapes, but not real windows. They had city views painted on them. There was a fireplace in the wall opposite the entrance door with artificial logs in it, and a couch facing it. The couch was real and, I suppose, could be used by people who were waiting for the rest of their parry to arrive. At least, there was one man sitting on the left end of the couch. He had his back to me, and was reading a magazine that he held rather high and close to his head as though he were nearsighted. I judged from its typography that it was Time – "
Avalon put in suddenly, "You seem to be a good observer and you are going into minutiae. Is this important that you've just told us?"
"No," said Anderssen, "I suppose not, but I am trying to impress on you that I was not hysterical and that I was entirely myself and saw everything there was to see quite clearly. When I came in, about half the tables were taken, with two to four people at each. There may have been fifteen to twenty people present. There were no waitresses on the scene at the moment and the cashier was stationed just outside the restaurant, to one side of the door in a rather unobtrusive recess, so it really did look like a living room."
Drake stubbed out his cigarette. "It sounds like an idyllic place. What was present there that disturbed you?"
"Nothing was present that disturbed me. That's the point. It was what was absent there. Helen wasn't there. Look, she had gone in. I saw her go in. I am not mistaken. There was no other door on that side of the lobby. There was no crowd within which she might have been lost to view for a moment. My vision was entirely unobstructed and she went in and did not come out. I followed in her tracks and entered, at the most, twenty seconds after her – maybe less, but not more. And she was not there. I could tell that at a glance."
Trumbull growled. "You can't tell anything at a glance. A glance will fool you."
"Not in this case," said Anderssen. "Mario mentioned Helen's hair. There's just nothing like it. At least I've seen nothing like it. There may have been, at most, ten women there and not one had red hair. Even if one of them had been a redhead, I doubt she would have been a redhead in quite the fluorescent and lavishly spectacular way that Helen was. Take my word for it. I looked right – left, and there was no Helen. She had disappeared."
"Gone out to the street by another entrance, I suppose," said Halsted.
Anderssen shook his head. "There was no entrance to the street. I checked with the cashier afterward, and with the fellow at the registration desk. I've gone back there since to order lunch and managed to look over the place. There isn't any entrance to the outside. What's more, the windows are fakes and they're solid something – or – other. They don't open. There are ventilation ducts, of course, but they're not big enough for a rabbit to crawl through."
Avalon said, "Even though the windows are fake, you mentioned drapes. She might have been standing behind one of them."
"No," said Anderssen, "the drapes hug the wall. There would have been an obvious bump if she were behind one. What's more, they only came down to the bottom of the window and there are two feet of bare wall beneath them. She would have been visible to mid – thigh if she were standing behind one."
"What about the ladies' room?" inquired Rubin. "You know, so strong is the taboo against violating the one – sex nature of these things, we tend to forget the one we don't use is even there."
"Well, I didn't," said Anderssen, with clear exasperation. "I looked around for it, didn't see any indication, and when I asked later, it turned out that both rest rooms were in the lobby. A waitress did show up while I was looking around and I said to her in, I suppose, a rather distracted voice, 'Did a redheaded woman just come in here?'
"The waitress looked at me in a rather alarmed way, and mumbled, 'I didn't see anyone,' and hastened to deliver her tray load to one of the tables.
"I hesitated because I was conscious of my embarrassing position, but I saw no way out. I raised my voice and said, 'Has anyone here seen a redheaded woman come in just a moment ago?' There was dead silence. Everyone looked up at me, staring stupidly. Even the man on the couch turned his head to look at me and he shook his head at me in a clear negative. The others didn't even do that much, but their vacant stares were clear enough indication that they hadn't seen her.
"Then it occurred to me that the waitress must have emerged from the kitchen. For a minute, I was sure that Helen was hiding there and I felt triumphant. Regardless of the fact that my actions might induce some of the staff to call hotel security, or the police, even, I marched firmly through a pair of swinging doors into the kitchen. There was the chef there, a couple of assistants, and another waitress. No Helen. There was one small further door which might have been a private lavatory for the kitchen staff, and I had gone too far to back down. I walked over and flung the door open. It was a lavatory, and it was empty. By then the chef and his assistants were shouting at me, and I said, 'Sorry,' and left quickly. I didn't see any closets there large enough to hold a human being.
"I stepped back into the restaurant. Everyone was still looking at me, and I could do nothing but return to the lobby. It was as though the instant Helen had passed through the doorway into the restaurant, she had vanished."
Anderssen sat back, spread his hands in blank despair. "Just vanished."
Drake said, "What did you do?"
Anderssen said, "I went out and talked to the cashier. She had been away from her station for a few moments and she hadn't even seen me go in, let alone Helen. She told me about the rest rooms and that there was no exit to the street.
"Then I went to talk to the room clerk, which demoralized me further. He was busy and I had to wait. I wanted to yell, "This is a matter of life and death,' but I was beginning to think I would be carried off to an asylum if I didn't behave in a totally proper way. And when I spoke to him, the room clerk turned out to be a total zero, though what could I really have expected from him?"
"And then what did you do?" asked Drake.
"I waited in the lobby for about half an hour. I thought Helen might show up again; that she had been playing some practical joke and that she would return. Well, no Helen. I could only spend my time fantasizing, as I waited, of calling the police, of hiring a private detective, of personally scouring the city, but you know – What do I tell the police? That my wife has been missing for an hour? That my wife vanished under my eyes? And I don't know any private detectives. For that matter, I don't know how to scour a city. So, after the most miserable half hour of my whole life, I did the only thing there was to do. I hailed a taxi and went home."
Avalon said, solemnly, "I trust, Mr. Anderssen, that you are not going to tell us your wife has been missing ever since."
Gonzalo said, "She can't be, Jeff. I saw her two days ago."
Anderssen said, "She was waiting for me when I got home. For a minute, a wave of intense thankfulness swept over me. It had been a terrible taxi ride. All I could think of was that she would have to be missing twenty – four hours before I could call the police and how would I live through the twenty – four hours? And what would the police be able to do?
"So I just grabbed her and held on to her. I was on the point of weeping, I was so glad to see her. And then, of course, I pushed her away and said, 'Where the hell have you been?'
"She said, coolly, "I told you I was going home.'
"I said, 'But you ran into the restaurant.'
"She said, "And then I went home. You don't suppose I needed a broomstick, do you? That's quite old – fashioned. I just – pft! – and I was home.' She made a sweeping motion of her right hand.
"I was furious. I had gotten completely over my relief. I said, 'Do you know what you've put me through? Can you imagine how I felt? I rushed in like a damn fool and tried to find you and then I just stood around. I almost went to the police.'
"She grew calmer and icier and said, 'Well, it serves you right for what you did. Besides, I told you I was going home. There was no need for you to do anything at all but go home, too. Here I am. Just because you refuse to believe I have the power is no reason for you to begin scolding me, when I did exactly what I told you I would do."
"I said, 'Come on, now. You didn't pft here. Where were you in the restaurant? How did you get here?'
"I could get no answer from her on that. Nor have I been able to since. It's ruining my life. I resent her having put me through an hour of hell. I resent her making a fool of me."
Avalon said, "Is the marriage breaking up as a result? Surely, you need not allow one incident – "
"No, it's not breaking up. In fact, she's been sweet as apple pie ever since that evening. She hasn't pulled a single witch trick, but it bothers the dickens out of me. I brood about it. I dream about it. It's given her a kind of – superiority -"
Rubin said, "She's got the upper hand now, you mean."
"Yes," said Anderssen, violently. "She's made a fool of me and gotten away with it. I know she's not a witch. I know there are no such things as witches. But I don't know how she did it, and I've got this sneaking suspicion she's liable to do it again, and it keeps me – it keeps me – under."
Anderssen then shook his head and said, in a more composed way, "It's such a silly thing, but it's poisoning my life."
Again there was silence about the table, and then Avalon said, "Mr. Anderssen, we of the Black Widowers are firm disbelievers in the supernatural. Are you telling us the truth about the incident?"
Anderssen said, fiercely, "I assure you I have told you the truth. If you have a Bible here, I'll swear on it. Or, which is better as far as I am concerned, I'll give you my word as an honest man that everything I've told you is as completely true as my memory and my human fallibility will allow."
Avalon nodded. "I accept your word without reservation."
Gonzalo said, in an aggrieved way, "You might have told me, John. As I said, I saw Helen two days ago, and nothing seemed wrong to me. I had no idea – Maybe it's not too late for us to help."
"How?" said Anderssen. "How could you help?"
Gonzalo said, "We might discuss the matter. Some of us may have some ideas."
Rubin said, "I have one, and, I think, a very logical one. I begin by agreeing with Anderssen and everyone else here that there is no witchcraft and that, therefore, Mrs. Anderssen is no witch. I think she went into the restaurant and somehow managed to evade her husband's eyes. Then when he was busy in the kitchen or at the registration desk, she left the restaurant and the hotel quickly, took a taxi, went home, and then waited for him. Now she won't admit what it is she has done in order to stay one – up in this needless marriage combat. My own feeling is that a marriage is useless if – "
"Never mind the homilies," said Anderssen, the shortness of his temper fuse showing. "Of course that's what happened. I don't need you to explain it to me. But you skip over the hard part. You say she went into the restaurant and 'somehow managed to evade her husband's eyes.' Would you please tell me just how she managed that trick?"
"Very well," said Rubin. "I will. You came in, looked right and left, and were at once certain she wasn't there. Why? Because you were looking for an unmistakable redhead. – Have you ever heard of a wig, Mr. Anderssen?"
"A wig? You mean she put on a wig?"
"Why not? If she appeared to have brown hair, your eyes would pass right over her. In fact, I suspect that her red hair is so much the most important thing you see in her that if she were wearing a brown wig and had taken a seat at one of the tables, you could have been staring right at her face without recognizing it."
Anderssen said, "I insist I would have recognized her even so, but that point is of no importance. The important thing is that Helen has never owned a wig. For her to use one is unthinkable. She is as aware of her red hair as everyone else is, and she is vain about it, and wouldn't dream of hiding it. Such vanity is natural. I'm sure everyone here is vain about his intelligence."
Rubin said, "I grant you. Intelligence is something to be vain about. Yet, if it served some purpose that seemed important to me, I would pretend to be an idiot for a few minutes, or even considerably longer. I think your wife would have been willing to slip on a brown wig just long enough to escape your eye. Vanity is never an absolute in anyone who isn't an outright fool."
Anderssen said, "I know her better than you do, and I say she wouldn't wear a wig. Besides, I told you this was a month ago. It was the height of summer and it was a hot evening. All Helen was wearing was a summer dress with only summer underwear beneath, and she had a light shawl to put on against the air conditioning. She was holding a small pocketbook, just large enough to contain some money and her makeup. There was nowhere she could have hidden a wig. She had no wig with her. Why should she have brought one with her, anyway? I can't and won't believe that she was deliberately planning to have a fight, and to trick me in this way in order to achieve a long – term upper hand. She's a creature of impulse, I tell you, and is incapable of making plans of that kind. I know her."
Trumbull said, "Conceding her vanity and impulsiveness, what about her dignity? Would she have been willing to duck under one of the tables and let the tablecloth hide her?"
"The tablecloths did not come down to the ground. I would have seen her. I tell you I've gone back to the restaurant and studied it in cold blood. There is nowhere she could have hidden. I was even desperate enough to wonder if she could have worked her way up the chimney, but the fireplace isn't real and isn't attached to one."
Drake said, "Anyone have any other ideas? I don't."
There was silence.
Drake turned half about in his chair. "Do you have anything to volunteer, Henry?"
Henry said, with a small smile, "Well, Dr. Drake, I have a certain reluctance to spoil Mrs. Anderssen's fun."
"Spoil her fun?" said Anderssen in astonishment. "Are you telling me, waiter, that you know what happened?"
Henry said, "I know what might easily have happened, sir, that would account for the disappearance without the need for any sort of witchcraft and I assume, therefore, that that was, indeed, what happened."
"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.
Actually, I dreamed this one.
I don't often remember my dreams since, actually, I attach no importance to them whatever. (In this, I differ from my dear wife, Janet, who is a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, and considers them to be important guides to what makes a person tick. She may be right, of course.)
Anyway, even when I do remember my dreams, they seem remarkably uninteresting since they almost never contain any element of fantasy or imagination. It's as though I use up the entire supply in my writing business, leaving nothing over for dreams.
In one dream, however, I followed someone into a dining room and found he had unaccountably disappeared. I was quite astonished, for, as I said, even in my dreams I don't usually defy the laws of nature. A search through the room finally located the person I was looking for in the place where the heroine of the preceding story had hidden.
I stared at him and said (so help me), "What a terrific idea for a Black Widowers story."
Fortunately I woke at that moment and, for once, the dream was fresh in my mind. Thereupon I stored the notion in my waking memory and on the next available occasion, I wrote the story and it appeared in the October 1984 issue of EQMM.
I can't help but think that if I could dream all my gimmicks, life would be a lot easier.