The Return of the Black Widowers

by Isaac Asimov

  There was a general murmur of assent from the Black Widowers.

  "Well, that didn't make me exactly popular with Marilyn. She claimed that if I weren't a male chauvinist pig I wouldn't accept an invitation to a stag dinner. Naturally, I didn't see that— Come to think of it, I wonder if that's why she played the trick on me.

  Huh, with that kind of desire for petty revenge, the marriage would never work."

  Henry said, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Nemerson, but it has by no means been established that your fiancée was responsible for the disappearance of the umbrella."

  Nemerson said, "I'm sure she was."

  Henry said, "With all due respect, that is a conclusion based on emotion and not on logic. But I am asking if she was going out to dinner."

  "Well, she complained that while I was dining out sumptuously, she would have to 'pig out'—her phrase, not mine—on a tuna fish salad. I imagine she was just saying that to make me feel guilty."

  "Are you saying that she may simply have pretended she would have a tuna fish salad in order to play the martyr but that she would actually dine out?"

  "No, I don't think so," said Nemerson thoughtfully. "She doesn't like dining out alone. She's not that much of a feminist. I'm sure she would be eating at home."

  "Then she would be home right now?"

  "I'm sure of it."

  Henry said, "I have another question. Does she know where you've gone for dinner?"

  "Of course. I told you I told her I was dining with the Black Widowers. And I told her what little I knew of the club—what Manny had told me."

  "Yes, but did she know to which restaurant you were coming? Did you tell her you were dining at the Milano?"

  Nemerson reflected. "No, I didn't mention that. I guess I didn't want her coming to the restaurant, finding an adjoining table, and making faces at us. I didn't know we'd have a private room."

  "Then if she wanted to call you right now, there would be no way she could, is that right?"

  "I suppose that's right. But why should she want to call me?" Henry said, "It is my feeling, sir, that after you left, she found the umbrella—and would certainly have called you at once with the news had she known where to call."

  Nemerson pressed his lips together, then said unforgivingly, "If she were to say she found it, it would be because she knew all along what she had done with it."

  "I don't believe that is the case, sir. I believe I know where the umbrella is and how it got there. I have written down one word on this piece of folded notepaper, which I will ask Mr. Rubin to hold for me. If you will be so kind as to phone your fiancée—and if she tells you she has found it, and if the manner of her finding it matches the word I have written down, then she is quite innocent of your suspicions and the matter explains itself."

  Nemerson stared at Henry, then said, "I don't know what this mumbo-jumbo is all about, but I'll call Marilyn."

  He rose and went to the wall phone. "I suppose I may use this?"

  "Yes, sir," said Henry. "Dial nine first."

  With a look of settled dissatisfaction on his face, Nemerson dialed, waited a moment, then said, "Marilyn, this is— What? You did? Where? But how—never mind, dear, as soon as I'm through here I'll come over."

  He hung up the receiver and turned to Rubin. "Let me see that piece of paper, Manny."

  Rubin looked at Henry, who nodded. Rubin handed Nemerson the folded paper. Nemerson opened it, stared at it for a long moment, then fumbled his way to a chair and sat down.

  "All right, Henry," he said. "How did you know?"

  "You told us yourself, Mr. Nemerson. You said you were on the point of leaving your fiancée’s apartment, at which time you said you saw the umbrella on the kitchen table. Your orderly way of handling the umbrella meant, to me, that you must have picked it up and held it in your hand as you were accustomed to doing. In fact, you said yourself that you were under the impression that you had picked it up. You said you could have sworn to it.

  "Your fiancée then suggested you help yourself to a cold beer and you were willing. On a steamy day like today, the beer could only have been in the refrigerator. You opened the refrigerator door and, I imagine, found the beer cans a trifle awkwardly placed. You therefore put down your umbrella on one of the refrigerator shelves while you reached for the beer.

  "Forgetting the umbrella, you closed the refrigerator door and drank your beer. In your later search for the umbrella, you never thought to look inside the refrigerator for it. It is simply not a place one would normally think to look for an umbrella.

  "However, when your fiancée set about preparing a tuna fish salad for herself, she had to obtain the ingredients from the refrigerator. When she opened the refrigerator door, she must have been astonished to see the umbrella there but she had no way of reaching you."

  Nemerson held up the folded piece of paper dreamily. "The word Henry wrote was 'refrigerator.' "

  Gonzalo said, "Absolutely great, Henry."

  "Thank you, Mr. Gonzalo," said Henry.

  Nemerson said, "Now why didn't I think of it?"

  Henry said, "As I said, a refrigerator isn't a natural place for an umbrella, sir."

  "But you reasoned it out, Henry."

  "Yes, sir," said Henry, "but I did it in the cool, unimpassioned aftermath of the event. Had I been caught up in the immediate unexplained loss, I, too, would have been tempted to wonder about the possible existence of a space warp."

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  POLICE AT THE DOOR

  T

  he monthly banquets of the Black Widowers were never models of quiet and serenity, but on this occasion things were unusually noisy. Where, usually, one or another of the members was in a testy mood and made his views known with remarkable vigor, this was one of those rare times when all the Black Widowers were remarkably vehement. It seemed next to impossible for any one of them to complete a sentence or for any listener to determine who was saying what.

  "I tell you that when we have a pipsqueak dope-runner like Noriega—"

  "Pipsqueak? Why worry about pipsqueaks? What about the situation in South Africa, where we seem remarkably adjusted to—"

  "Never mind South Africa. Panama is in our backyard—"

  "You make it sound like Pennsylvania. It's a good—"

  "I'm talking about the Panama Canal—"

  "The less we talk about how we got it in the first place, the better—"

  "Look, all of you are missing the point. The drug problem is a matter of demand. The supply—"

  "What are the farmers supposed to grow? Coca plants are the only crop—"

  "It's good old free enterprise, good capitalist doctrine—"

  "Since when have you been such a yodeler on the mountaintops for free enterprise?"

  Arnold Kriss, the guest on this occasion, listened gravely, his eyes traveling from one speaker to another. He had a round and

  247 chubby face that made him look younger than he was, and curly brown hair that showed no signs of thinning. The well-cared-for fingers of his right hand drummed softly on the tabletop, making way briefly to allow that best of all waiters, Henry, to place the chocolate mousse before him.

  Kriss turned to Mario Gonzalo, host for the occasion, who, mindful of his hostly dignity, had contributed very little to the hot discussion. Kriss said, "How long has this club existed, Mario?"

  "It was founded during World War Two. Before my time, of course."

  Kriss said, in a tone of deep envy, "You fellows must love each other."

  Gonzalo turned his attention to Kriss with a look of wonder. "Are you kidding, Arnie?"

  "Kidding? Not at all."

  "Where do you get this love shtick? We're yelling at each other like crazy."

  "But that's what I mean. No one's bothering to be polite. Everyone's saying what he wants to say without regard for anyone's feelings. You can't help but get the idea that there's complete trust among all of you. Everyone knows that nothing he'll say will in any
way disrupt a friendship. That's love. Come on, Mario, is there anyone here who wouldn't lend you money if you needed it, or put himself out to help if you were in trouble?"

  Gonzalo thought about it a moment, his eyes traveling from one squabbler to another. Then he said, "I guess you're right, Arnie. I can count on every one of them, but each one would be so sarcastic at my expense if I came to him with a sob-story that I think I'd try out a handful of strangers first."

  "You would not. You'd go to them like a shot." Kriss turned his attention to the chocolate mousse.

  As the members were drinking their coffee almost immediately afterward (or, in the case of Kriss, herb tea), Gonzalo rattled his water glass with his spoon.

  "Gentlemen of the Black Widowers," he said, "you've all met my guest, Arnold Kriss, and you all know he's a cellist with the Philharmonic, probably the best cellist it has had in at least thirty years—"

  "What is this?" interrupted Thomas Trumbull indignantly, the lines on his tanned forehead turning it into a washboard. "Are you doing the grilling yourself?"

  "What I'm doing," said Gonzalo, "is eliminating some of the things there's no point in talking about."

  Geoffrey Avalon, hunching his thick eyebrows low, interrupted in his turn to say, "I don't think you should do any eliminating, Mario. I have some questions I'd like to ask about the internal workings of the Philharmonic."

  "Maybe we'll get to that" said Gonzalo, "but I'm the host and I'm using host's privilege to turn the discussion in the direction I think proper. Arnie Kriss, as I was about to say, is a celebrity—"

  At this, Kriss twisted uncomfortably in his seat and said, "Not really, Mario. I don't have the kind of following the Beatles had, or, in fact, that any third-rate rock star would have."

  "Among people like us you're a celebrity," said Gonzalo, "and that's all we care about. So we'll take all that as given. Now it's customary for the host to appoint a griller, but I never heard that a host can't appoint himself as griller—"

  There was at once a tumult, and Emmanuel Rubin raised an indignant voice, "It's never been done!"

  "Just because something's never been done doesn't mean it can't be done, Manny. I'm host tonight and I've got the right to run this banquet as I wish. And I wish to be the griller. I have some questions to ask of Arnie—"

  "How can you be an objective griller?" demanded Rubin. "You're a personal friend of the grillee."

  "So what? I still want to ask the questions. Host's privilege."

  James Drake peered through the smoke of his cigarette and said, "Let's give Mario his way. When he's asked his questions, we can ask sensible ones." "I second those sentiments," said Roger Halsted in his soft voice. "Go ahead, Mario. Shoot."

  "All right, I will." Gonzalo sat back in his chair and straightened his somewhat garish tie. "Arnie," he said, "you're a celebrity among people who have taste. You've been profiled in The New Yorker and you've played at a command performance at the White House. You've got it made. So what's the matter? Don't you have any friends?"

  Kriss straightened in his chair and looked indignant. "Of course I have friends. What do you think? What kind of question is that?"

  "It's a Mario question," muttered Rubin in ax low voice.

  "Well, yes," said Gonzalo, "one would think you have friends. I'm a friend of yours—at least I like to think so. But then why do you envy us?"

  "Envy you?"

  "During dinner, while we were all screaming our heads off, you said to me that we must all love each other, and there was envy in your voice, as though you had no friends who loved you in the same way."

  "Love?" Halsted's glance went around the table. "I wouldn't call it love."

  "But Arnie did," said Gonzalo. "He said we had the complete freedom to yell at each other and curse each other without fearing anyone would resent it, and that that was love. So I want to know what's behind that, Arnie."

  "Nothing," said Kriss, his voice rising in pitch.

  "Don't give me that, Arnie. I told you the conditions of the dinner and you agreed to them. We can ask you any questions within the bounds of good taste and human decency and you've got to give a complete and truthful answer. Everything you say will be held completely confidential by us—that includes Henry, who is also a member of the Black Widowers."

  Kriss said uneasily, "Well—"

  Trumbull growled, "Go ahead, Mr. Kriss. If you have something on your mind, you might as well spill it. You'll probably feel better."

  Kriss nodded. "All right. Maybe I will. I'm not sure how to put it, though. I've been in music all my life. Child prodigy and all that. I can't remember anything but concerts and moving that bow back and forth. Don't get me wrong. I love music. It's my life. It's just that every once in a while I get tired. Not of music, but of musicians.—I wouldn't want that repeated, by the way."

  "It won't be," said Gonzalo, "I promised you that. Why are you tired of musicians?"

  "Almost all the time all I have around me are musicians—that's only natural, even inevitable—but their talk gets monotonous. They've got their special insecurities and jealousies. After a while, none of them has anything to say that I haven't heard a thousand times before. I suppose it's that way in any profession that's deep enough to consume a person.

  "Now, you Black Widowers are all what we might call professional men." His eye went from one to another. "Mario's an artist, and if I remember my introductions correctly Mr. Avalon is a patent lawyer, Mr. Trumbull is a code expert, Mr. Halsted is a mathematics teacher, Mr. Drake is a chemist, and Mr. Rubin is a mystery writer. No two alike. And that's good, because if you were all chemists, or all lawyers, or all writers, I have a notion you'd get tired of each other a lot faster."

  Halsted said, "You know, Mr. Kriss, you can seek out friends who are not musicians."

  "I do," said Kriss energetically. "I do my best to get away from them. It's why I value my friendship with Mario here. And about a year ago, I found something else, too. By sheer circumstance, I met a group of men who play poker regularly and I accepted an invitation to join them. There are five of us now, and we meet every Tuesday night for the game. It circulates among our apartments. Every five weeks or so the game is at mine, and the whole thing is an incredibly welcome relief. Sometimes there's an additional player or two, and sometimes one of us is missing, but there are five regulars—including," he added with satisfaction, me.

  "What kind of people are they?" asked Avalon. "Not musicians, of course."

  "Absolutely not. In fact—" Kriss hesitated. "Actually, they're working people. Salt of the earth and all that, but no pretensions to intellectual activity at all. We just play poker and talk about football and drink beer and tell funny stories. In a way, I don't fit in perfectly, and I don't play the best poker in the world—I lose more often than I win—but I can afford the losses and they accept me. They know I'm a musician, but I never talk about it. They may think I blow a penny whistle. For a few hours each week I'm a man and not a musician. It's wonderful."

  "In that case," said Gonzalo fiercely, "why do you envy us?"

  "Because something happened."

  "Aha," said Gonzalo. "What happened?"

  Kriss said, "Something peculiar that just messed up everything."

  "That's not informational. You’ll have to tell us what it was that messed up everything."

  "All right, but it's complicated. I'll have to start by talking about my wife."

  "If you wish to do so," said Avalon, "please do. We'll leave it to your good judgment to keep matters within the bounds of good taste."

  "There's nothing remotely involving bad taste that's involved," said Kriss. "My wife—Grace—and I married in middle life. I was fifty-three, she was forty-seven. She's my second wife, I'm her first husband. She has no children and mine are grown up. We live together, just the two of us, in perfect harmony. We've stayed in love and we simply do not quarrel."

  Trumbull said, "I find that hard to believe, Mr. Kriss. I've never come across a
ny couple that didn't quarrel on occasion, and that certainly includes myself and Mrs. Trumbull."

  "It depends on how you define 'quarrel.' Grace and I are both articulate people and we each have strong views. Sometimes those views compete and we have no hesitation in letting each other know that. As you Black Widowers do at your meetings, we yell at each other sometimes. We wouldn't be human, or in love with each other for that matter, if we didn't.

  "But when I say we don't quarrel, I mean that our disagreements are always kept within the bounds of decency and fair play. We don't call each other names, we don't throw things, we never use our muscles. And when we do disagree, we make up again before bedtime—as an invariable rule. I'm explaining this so you'll understand how shocking the thing that happened was."

  Drake said, "Wait. If your wife didn't marry until she was forty-seven, it's safe to assume that she was living on some inherited competence or on some adequately paying job or profession. Is she a musician, by any chance?"

  Kriss grinned self-consciously. "Yes, she is, in a manner of speaking. She's a piano teacher—but not a concert pianist, you understand."

  "A social difference?" asked Rubin drily.

  "Yes, in a way. Still, it makes for marital harmony if we keep each other on an even level. Having lived with her maiden name, after all, for forty-seven years, she has kept on using it with my thorough approval. We put both names on the door when we married—G. Barron and A. Kriss—her name on top because she has students coming to the door all the time."

  Rubin said, "Does it bother her that you are much more famous as a musician than she is?"

  "I don't think so. She refers to it now and then, perhaps with just a touch of grimness, but you can be sure that I know better than to be too aware of it, or to refer to it."

  "So what happened?" asked Gonzalo.

  "Well, about a month ago we were watching television quietly— and separately. We have two sets in two different rooms and can each watch without being disturbed by the other because we have a sizable apartment and a well built one. She was in her office, with the door closed, watching Star Trek, a program she's very fond of. I was in the living room watching a Kate and Allie rerun. I was about ten minutes into the program, so it must have been 7:40 P.M. when the doorbell rang. That's always unsettling, because no one is supposed to get up to the apartment without the concierge downstairs ringing us. Of course, it might be a neighbor, or one of the building employees.