Puzzles of the Black Widowers
Where Is He?

When Roger Halsted introduced his guest as his investment broker, the members of the Black Widowers, assembled at their monthly banquet, responded at first with a stunned silence.
Halsted ignored that, and went about the room, introducing the members methodically.
"As I said, this is W. Bradford Hume, folks. - Brad, I want you to meet Emmanuel Rubin, who writes mysteries; Mario Gonzalo, who will be doing your portrait soon; James Drake, who's coughing over his cigarette, and was a chemist before he retired; Geoffrey Avalon, a patent attorney, though I've never found out what they do; and Thomas Trumbull, who works for a hush-hush branch of the government. - And this is our waiter, Henry, who's also a member, and who has just brought you your drink."
Hume acknowledged all the introductions with grace and a smile. He took his martini with a "Thank you, Henry," and by that time the assemblage had recovered.
Rubin, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses, said, "Are you telling us this is your investment broker?"
"That's exactly what I'm telling you," said Halsted, haughtily.
"Have they given you a raise in salary? Quintupled it?"
Halsted said, "No need to assume I'm a beggar, Manny, just because I teach mathematics at a junior high school. I've got seniority, security, and a reasonable salary; neither rich nor gaudy, but reasonable. Besides, Alice works also and makes more than I do, and I have a small inheritance from my mother, rest her soul - so Brad takes care of a few bucks for me, and very well, too."
Hume smiled appreciatively, and said, "Not that I'm trying to drum up business, gentlemen. It's my understanding that this is a purely social evening."
"Purely!" growled Trumbull.
Avalon cleared his throat. "I should think, Mr. Hume, that being a financial adviser in these unsettled times makes for a tense life."
"So it does, Mr. Avalon, but all times are unsettled, and that makes it particularly difficult for a financial adviser, since he is expected to see the future - the immediate future, at any rate."
"What stocks go up? What stocks go down?" murmured Gonzalo. He was already working at Hume's caricature and had put in the shock of dark hair under which he intended to hang an almost cherubic face.
"That, certainly," said Hume, "but a little more than that, too. You have to be able to judge what will be useful as a long-term investment, to anticipate changes in tax  - "
At this point, Halsted put his hand on Hume's arm. "Don't talk about it now, Brad. They're going to grill you after the meal, and until then you have a right to relax."
"That suits me," said Hume. "What's on the menu for tonight, or am I not supposed to ask?"
"Why shouldn't you ask?" said Halsted. "Henry, what's on?"
Henry's smooth, sixtyish face crinkled slightly. "There will be grilled salmon tonight, Mr. Halsted, and I think you will find it most unusual. The lobster sauce is a private recipe of the chef's."
"Trying it out on us, is he?" said Drake, in his hoarse voice.
"You will not be disappointed, Dr. Drake. It will be preceded by a Portuguese fish chowder, which you may find a bit spicy."
"That won't bother me," said Avalon, his bushy eyebrows hunching low and giving his face an amiably Satanic look.
As it turned out, Henry was quite right. From soup through the rum chocolate cake, there were sounds of approval. Even Rubin's stout assertion that the "now-fashionable exercise of futurism" was empty of content did not rouse much in the way of clamorous opposition.
"All you have to do," said Rubin, "is to go back and read the predictions for the present time handed out by the charlatans of half a century ago. You'll find that they saw a million things that didn't happen, saw almost nothing of what did happen."
Hume listened gravely to the discussion that followed, but said nothing.
Gonzalo said, with obvious mischief in his eyes, "Your good friend, Asimov, is a futurist, isn't he?"
"He?" said Rubin, every hair in his sparse beard seeming to bristle. "He describes the future in what he calls science fiction, but the only points he gets right are those that are painfully obvious to anyone. And I wouldn't call him my friend. I just help him with the plot of a story now and then, when he's stuck."
Halsted patted his stomach with a satisfied smile and tapped his water glass with his spoon. "Gentlemen, it is time for Brad to pay for his excellent meal by facing a grilling. Manny, since you have so low an opinion of futurism, would you serve as grill-master? And please remember to maintain an elementary level of courtesy to one who is our honored guest."
Rubin snorted. "I'll let you know, Roger, when I need lessons in manners. - Mr. Hume, how do you justify your existence?"
"If you expect me to say," said Hume, "that I justify it by making people rich through clever investments, you'll be disappointed. The justification comes from my skill as an after-dinner speaker."
"It does, does it? I take it you consider yourself good at it?"
"Yes, I do. I've been doing it for fifteen years and by now I've reached a routine fee of seventy-five hundred dollars for an hour talk. I think that's an adequate measure of my skill."
"Huh," said Rubin, seeing no immediate opportunity for a riposte. "Why do you bother doing anything else?"
Hume shrugged. "I don't particularly like to travel, so I want to be in a position to be able to pick and choose - to turn down any talk, regardless of fee. I can do that best if I have a regular job as a financial cushion. And that's why I don't have an agent. They put pressure on you - and they take thirty percent."
Rubin said, "If you don't have an agent, how do you get speaking engagements?"
"Word of mouth. If you can give a good talk, the world will beat a path to your door."
"What's your subject?"
"Futurism, Mr. Rubin - which you don't think much of. Despite your comments on the subject, everyone seems interested these days in what the future holds. What's the future of education? Of robots? Of international relations? Of space exploration? You name it - they're interested."
"And you speak on all of that?"
"I do."
"How many different talks do you have prepared?"
"None. If I had to prepare my talks, I'd have to neglect my brokerage work, and I can't do that. I speak extemporaneously and I don't need preparation. Call out your subject and I'll stand up and talk for an hour - but you'll have to pay me my fee."
Halsted said, "Listen, I've heard him speak. He is good."
Gonzalo said, "Have you had any funny experiences in your speaking career, Mr. Hume?"
"Funny?" said Hume, leaning back in his chair, and looking completely comfortable. "I've had some memorable introductions, which I didn't think were funny, though others might laugh. I once had someone object to my fee and write me a letter saying that it was four times as much as they had ever paid anyone. I wrote back and said, 'I'm four times as good - at least.' In introducing me, he read the correspondence, and the audience, a professional engineers organization, suddenly realized they were being soaked four times the usual by an arrogant bum. I could feel the north wind blow as I rose and it took me half the talk to win them over.
"Another time, a woman introduced me in a thoroughly pedestrian way - which I'm used to. Mild applause came and I rose, in order to begin right after it had peaked so that I could start with the audience's self-hypnosis in my favor. Except that the woman who introduced me - and may she have a special place in hell someday - began to call out to latecomers that there were seats on the side. She kept it up till the applause died, and I had to rise and address a dead audience. I never did quite liven them up.
"Then there's the funny man. I had one give a fifteen-minute talk as an introduction. Fifteen minutes! I timed it on my watch. And he was funny, really funny. He had the audience rolling and he wasn't charging a penny. I had to follow him, and I knew that the audience was going to consider me far less funny - and at an exorbitant price. I was considering forfeiting the money and leaving, when my introducer concluded by saying, 'But don't let me give you the impression that Mr. Hume can do anything. I happen to know that he has never sung the role of the Duke in Rigoletto,' and sat down to loud laughter.
"What he didn't know was that he had handed it to me on a plate. I got up, waited for the routine applause to die all the way down, and in the dead silence I belted out, in my best tenor voice, 'Bella figlia dell'amore,' the first notes of the Duke's contribution to the famous Quartet, and the audience rocked with the loudest laugh of the evening, and I had them.
"I had to give a talk twelve hours before I had a heart attack, and then another twelve hours after the attack. Fortunately, I didn't know it was a heart attack at the time. The second talk was to a bunch of cardiologists, and not one of them  - "
Gonzalo said, "Hold on for a minute. Hold on!"
Hume rather skidded to a halt, and looked surprised. "I beg your pardon."
Gonzalo said, "I believe you when you say you can speak for an hour extemporaneously without notice, but you didn't get my question."
"You asked me if I had had any funny experiences, didn't you?"
"Yes, but I didn't mean funny - humorous. I meant funny - odd or puzzling. I meant funny."
Hume rubbed his nose and said, "Could you explain that at greater depth, Mr. Gonzalo?"
"I meant something you couldn't explain. A puzzle. A mystery."
Avalon brought the palm of his hand down on the table with a loud slap. "Mario, I move we eject you from membership."
"You can't," said Gonzalo angrily. "There are no restrictions on the questions we ask."
"Except the canons of good taste, for heaven's sake."
"What's in bad taste about asking for a mystery? I like mysteries. If he doesn't have any, he can say so." He turned to Hume, frowning, and, in a distinctly self-righteous voice, said, "Well, have you had any kind of mystery in connection with your speaking engagements?" He then brushed the sleeves of his red velvet jacket, as though sweeping away all petty objections to the question.
Hume was smiling delightedly. "Well, yes! As a matter of fact, I did have. How odd that you should ask. It was years ago, of course, but it was a real mystery. We didn't have the slightest idea where the fellow had gone. - Do you want to hear it?"
Gonzalo rose from his seat and said, "I do, but I'll be glad to put it to a vote. Is there anyone here who doesn't want to hear it?"
There wasn't a sound, and then Avalon said, "Well, Mario, we'll listen."
Gonzalo nodded his head emphatically. "All right, then. Mr. Hume, you have the floor."
Hume said mildly, "I'll be glad to. But are you going to stop me midway, or will I be allowed to talk freely?"
Avalon said, "I assure you, Mr. Hume. You will be allowed to talk. Roger as host will have absolute control over the conversation and when he sayeth 'Speak' we will speak, and when he sayeth 'Speak not,' we will remain silent. - Right, Roger?"
"Right," said Halsted.
"I will begin," said Hume, "and take my chance."
The story begins [said Hume] some years ago when I was invited to give a talk in Seattle. It meant I would have to fly, obviously, and I'm not keen on flying. I never do it voluntarily; certainly not in January. What's more, the fee offered was considerably less than I liked. So, to put it all into one tightly crumpled ball, I said no.
And it was a good thing I said no, because, as it happened, the Northwest was visited by a tenacious fog on just the day I would have arrived. Even assuming I would have landed safely, very few planes left Seattle for a week thereafter, and I would have been stranded. That would have annoyed me, since I had work to do at home, and it would have annoyed my employer, too. The firm doesn't mind my speaking, since I generally give it a plug or two, and it looks good for them to be concerned with, and involved in, the future. Still, my staying away a week would have been pushing them a little far.
All that is irrelevant, however. The important thing is that the gentleman at the other end didn't accept my no. He and his associates took advantage of the miracle of modern communication and came back at me with the suggestion that I sit right in New York and submit to a twenty-minute interview on television. The interview would be taped and eventually played for a presumably eager audience in Seattle.
The fee was still less than I would have liked, but I was flattered at their persistence. Then, too, I wouldn't have to travel. The interview would take place at a midtown location within walking distance of my apartment, if the weather was passable, which is, of course, by no means a foregone conclusion in December. Anyway, I accepted.
The gentleman inviting me - I forget his name, but that's immaterial, so I'll call him Smith - sensed a residium of unenthusiasm about me and tried to reassure me that all would be made as simple as possible for me. He told me that he would come and get me in a taxi at nine-twenty A.M. in order to get me there at nine-thirty. The cameraman, scheduled to get there shortly after nine A.M., would be all set up and ready when I arrived.
That was an important point to me. I'd done television work - cameras being set up for an interview in some hotel room, for instance - and let me tell you that there's no easier way to be driven crazy. Television has been around for forty years and the cameramen still haven't worked out a system for setting up lights in such a way that the subject is well-illuminated and with no distracting shadows.
Besides, they all consider themselves artists and there's some sort of law, apparently, that compels artists never to be satisfied. Every adjustment here throws out something there. It takes hours for them to reach a point of near-satisfaction, and then when you sit down, they become aware for the first time that you wear glasses, and that those glasses cast an undesirable reflection - and so all the weary work must be gone through again.
I said, "Are you sure the cameraman will be ready, that all I'll have to do will be to sit down?"
"Positive," he said, and that swung it.
Came the day. Smith pulled up in his taxi on time and off we went. We arrived at the proper place within ten minutes, and, as we went up, Smith said to me, "He'll be all ready for us."
I tried not to let my cynicism show. I'm convinced that cameramen are not ready for anything at any time for anyone. "Fine," I said.
We rose to one of the upper floors and swung into the office just before nine-thirty A.M. We had entered the offices of quite a large law firm, in which an old army buddy of Smith's was a senior partner. Let's call him Jones, because I don't remember his name, either. They were lending us the use of a conference room.
Smith said jovially to the receptionist, "Hello, I'm Smith and this is Mr. Hume. We're here for the television taping. I suppose the cameraman has arrived and is set up."
The receptionist said, rather indifferently, "I didn't see any cameraman, sir."
"What? No cameraman?"
"No, sir."
Smith frowned but decided to be invincibly optimist. "It can't be," he said. "He's waiting for us."
But he wasn't. We walked into the conference room and it was as bare as a Shakespearean stage.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"I don't know," said Smith.
Down came Smith's buddy, Jones, who shook hands with me, and said to Smith, "Well, where is he?"
"I don't know," said Smith again.
I said, "Better call his office."
Smith said, "His office is in Indianapolis."
Whereupon I said, rather nonplussed, "Aren't there any cameramen in New York? Why send in one from Indianapolis?"
Smith shrugged. "It's a firm we always work with."
Jones pointed to a telephone in the corner. He said to Smith, "Push any button at the bottom that's not lit up, then push 8 and wait for another dial tone, push 1, the area code, and the number."
I waited patiently. It's an amazing thing. Usually, the one thing that brings out the fury in me is having to wait. All sorts of things can go wrong and I am patience itself. Everyone remarks on what a sweet fellow I am. But if someone doesn't appear at the agreed-upon instant, a frown creases my brow. Let five minutes pass, and smoke is curling out of my ears. But time was passing and it was almost the moment at which I was counting on having finished the interview, and the cameraman hadn't even showed up, and I wasn't in the least perturbed. There was a mystery about it, and I was interested.
Smith had returned from the telephone. "He left yesterday," he said, "and the manager says he had the right name, the right address, and everything was as it should be. What's more, the manager says the cameraman assigned to us is known as 'Old Reliable.' He's worked all over the world, and he never misses an appointment."
I said, "He's missed this one. Where's he supposed to be today, then, if he left yesterday?"
"At a hotel," said Smith.
"Did he ever get there?" I asked.
It was back to the telephone and, after a while, Smith said, "He registered last night."
Jones said, "All right, then. He took a taxi and the taxi driver spotted him for an out-of-towner and took him to this place by way of Yonkers. Taxi drivers have been known to do that."
"That's impossible," said Smith with intense irritation. "He's staying at the New York Hilton. Isn't that right in the neighborhood?"
"The New York Hilton?" Jones sounded nonplussed. "Yes, it is. It's right across the street. All he has to do is cross Fifty-fourth Street."
"Yes. So he wouldn't take a taxi, would he?"
"I guess not. The hotel's address is 1335 Sixth and we're at 1345 Sixth. The biggest greenhorn in the world wouldn't take a taxi to go ten numbers along a particular street, and this guy is a world traveler who's called Old Reliable."
I felt cynicism rising as high as my nostrils and said, "So Old Reliable is here in the big city. He's gone on a toot, brought home an amiable young woman, and he's sleeping it off."
Smith looked indignant. "Come on, the manager said he's forty-eight years old. He's no wild kid."
"He's no dead hulk, either," I said. "I'm older than he is and I could do it easily. I mean, I don't, but I could if I wanted to."
"Well, he wouldn't do it, if he had a date to keep in the morning. He's a professional man."
"All right," I said. "You're talking me into wondering if he didn't have a heart attack in the night; if he might not be lying in that hotel bed right now, dying, or maybe dead."
Smith and Jones both looked uneasy. Smith said uncertainly, "Do you think we ought to call the police?"
Jones said, "Not before we have someone look into his room."
Jones went to the phone this time. He spoke crisply into it, then hung up. We all maintained a worried silence for a while.
Smith said, "Do you suppose he came to this building and couldn't get in? I imagine the security is tight, and he may be wandering about the lobby right now."
"Security is tight, sure," said Jones, "but a pass was delivered to him last night. He should have had no trouble getting in."
"Maybe it never got to him," I said, ever the pessimist, "and he never got past the lobby."
Jones said, "I'll send someone to the lobby to look."
By that time the phone was ringing. Jones answered it, talked awhile, and came back to say, "Hotel security went into his room. His baggage is there, but he isn't. And there's no camera equipment. So he left with his cameras."
"Then where is he?" I asked.
There was no answer, of course. Jones thought awhile and said, "I suppose they looked in the bathroom."
Smith shrugged. "I assume the security people know their business."
By now I had been there nearly an hour and word came up that there was no sign of any cameraman wandering about the lobby. Obviously, if he was carrying camera equipment about with him, he would be easily spotted. For that matter, the security man downstairs had not seen anyone with such equipment come in, with or without a pass.
I said, "Did they check as to whether he had signed in?"
Jones shook his head. "He wouldn't have to sign in, if he had a pass. They'd just wave him through."
Smith said, "You don't suppose he got off the elevator on the wrong floor, do you? He couldn't be wandering about helplessly?"
Jones looked at his watch. "He was due here an hour and a half ago. How could he be wandering around on the wrong floor for an hour and a half? There's not a floor in this building which doesn't have security guards. No one would be allowed to wander about anywhere. - And he wouldn't, anyway. He'd ask. After all, he knew the name of this firm. For that matter, he knew the correct floor."
There was a sticky silence and we all took turns looking at our watches. Finally, Jones muttered an "Excuse me" and left. He was back in three minutes and said, "I just talked to Josie  - "
"Who's she?" I asked.
"The receptionist. She swears no cameraman came in. In fact, no one, no one came in who wasn't a member of the firm, except you, Smith, and you, Mr. Hume."
Smith said, "Was she at her desk the whole time?"
"The receptionist insists she was."
"You mean she didn't go out to powder her nose, or whatever?"
"She says she didn't. She says she was on the job and alert all morning, and she says no one could possibly have gotten into the place without her seeing him."
I said, "Is she a truthful woman?"
Jones frowned at me. "We can trust her. We've had her on the job nearly five years now and if she says no one got in, no one got in."
Smith said, "Then where is he? How could he have gotten lost just crossing the street?"
I said, "We're eliminating everything, except the possibility that he might have had an accident crossing the street."
Smith said shakily, "You mean he might have been hit by a car?"
"It's been known to happen," I said.
"It would have to be pretty serious," said Jones. "Being a professional, he would call us, or the home office. Even if he were immobilized he would tell someone else to call us."
I said, "If he were conscious. If he were alive."
Jones said, "If it was a really serious accident in the street just outside, they'd known about it downstairs."
I said, "Did anyone ask?"
Jones hesitated about two seconds and called downstairs. It didn't take long. He shook his head. "No one down there knows anything about any accident."
Smith said, "Call the police. They would have to have a record."
Jones didn't seem to want to, but he did. That took longer, but the result was the same. He said, "The police say there is no record of any accident at any time this A.M. at Fifty-fourth Street and Sixth Avenue."
Smith said, "Then where is he?"
I got up. "Gentlemen," I said, "I don't know where he is, but I can wait no longer. I've got other appointments to meet, other work to do. I'm terribly sorry but I have to leave now. Still, I would like to know the answer to this. If at any time you find out, please phone me. If you're kind enough to do this, then I'll come back a second time to complete the taping."
So I left. - Within an hour, Smith did call me and explained the situation. A week later, I returned and did the job. There's your mystery.
The Black Widowers stared dubiously at their guest. Halsted spoke for all, finally, when he said, "Did that really happen, Brad? Or are you having a bit of fun with us?"
"No, no," said Hume. "It's all true. Every word. Scout's honor. It happened exactly as I described it."
"Well, then, tell us what happened to the cameraman."
Hume shook his head, still smiling. "You wanted a mystery and I gave it to you. You tell me what happened. You have all the facts. I'll give you two hints. No one was lying. It wasn't a setup of any kind. The second hint is that it's no tragedy. The cameraman was in no way harmed. Now, where was he?"
Gonzalo said, "Did he have a temporary bout of amnesia and go wandering off?"
Hume said, "No, he was in no way harmed. Neither physically nor mentally."
"See here," said Avalon rather heavily. "You don't really know he was in the hotel at all - or in New York, even. No one saw him there that morning. The pass was sent over the night before, but I'll bet it was just left at the desk for him. Who knows who might have been in the room?"
Hume said, "It was someone who signed the cameraman's name in the register."
"Anyone could do that if he knew the name," said Avalon. "The cameraman had a reservation at the hotel and someone knew of it. The someone delayed the cameraman somehow, registered in his name, and had a room for a night at a very posh hotel at someone else's expense. Hotel service found baggage there in the morning, when our imposter had gone about his own business, but no camera equipment. That might just mean that there was no camera equipment in the first place."
Hume said, "Why should anyone do this?"
Avalon said, "I don't know. I could invent motives by the score, perhaps, but I couldn't prove any of them."
Trumbull said, "Someone on the run needed a false name and a secure room just for the night - a spy  - "
Drake said, with a tone that showed clearly he was not serious, "A bomb outrage. Needed a room in which to plant a bomb."
"Gentlemen," said Hume, brushing back his mane of hair. "You are inventing things. As a matter of fact, it never occurred to us to locate the bellhop who took the cameraman's baggage to the room, but if we had, that bellhop would have told us he had brought up some items that looked as though they might be camera equipment. No, no, it's absolutely certain that the right man registered in the hotel."
"In that case," said Rubin, "he was himself up to funny stuff. He had a girl he had to see, some money matter he had to attend to, something or other in the great city he wanted to do. When he got down to the lobby of the hotel, he checked his equipment, grabbed a taxi, and dashed off. Maybe he thought he'd be back in half an hour and that you would wait that long for him without much fuss. But perhaps it took two hours, because he may have underestimated New York traffic, or gotten into a minor tangle of some sort that delayed him."
Hume said, "I wouldn't think he'd do that. Surely, a job would come first with Old Reliable."
Now there was a long, dank silence, as every face furrowed, and every pair of lips pursed themselves. So it seemed to Hume, until he noticed the exception.
He said, "Henry's the only one smiling. - Henry, what are you grinning about?"
Henry said, "I beg your pardon, sir. I mean no disrespect, but you did say it was no tragedy, and it occurs to me that it was a farce, and so I can't help but smile."
Avalon said, in his rolling baritone, "Do you have a solution, Henry? If so, out with it."
Henry said, "If I have your permission, gentlemen?"
The chorus was immediate and unanimous.
Henry said, "Mr. Hume made it clear that the cameraman was an old, reliable professional who had worked all over the world, and who had, presumably, always given satisfaction. Since he was not found dead in the room, and the police had no report of any accident, we can only assume that in the morning he had gotten ready to do his work, had crossed the street to the office building as he had been instructed to do, and, going to the proper place, had set up his television equipment."
"No," said Avalon. "The receptionist swears he never came in and Mr. Hume has told us the receptionist didn't lie. That means - Mr. Hume, please forgive me the question I am forced to ask. It is merely a matter of the search for a solution? When you told us the receptionist did not lie, may I take it that you did not lie?"
"I did not lie," said Hume with equanimity.
"In that case, Henry," said Avalon, "your assumption is wrong."
"Perhaps not, Mr. Avalon," said Henry. "Mr. Hume was supposed to arrive at nine-thirty A.M. and the cameraman was supposed to come at about 9 A.M. in order to be ready by nine-thirty. Isn't that right, Mr. Hume?"
"That's right."
"And the receptionist would have been a very curious receptionist if she had arrived much before nine A.M., which would be the opening of the business day. The cameraman, however, was so reliable, efficient, and professional, that it is quite likely he arrive at eight-thirty A.M. That would account for the fact that the receptionist never saw him. What's more, I expect a new shift came on in the lobby at nine A.M. and that's why no one who is in the next shift down there saw him come in."
"And the door would have been locked," said Avalon, "and he would have had to wait for her."
"Would he, sir? It was a large legal firm, we were told, so there would be many lawyers working there. At least one would have been at work early. He would answer the door, see the cameraman's pass, let him in, go back to his own work, and then forget the whole thing."
Avalon said, "And what happened to the cameraman thereafter? Did he drop through a hole in the floor? Where was he? No one saw him."
"Mr. Hume," said Henry, "may I ask you one more question?"
"Go ahead, Henry."
"Considering that it was a large legal firm, did it possess more than one conference room?"
Hume leaned his head back and laughed in sheer enjoyment. "Two, it turned out, Henry. Two!"
"I thought so," said Henry. "The lawyer who let him in took him to the wrong conference room. The cameraman waited in one, and you waited in the other the whole morning, and neither knew where the other was."
"No," said Avalon. "How would that be possible? Wouldn't the cameraman come out and say, 'Where is everybody?' "
"In a way, he did," said Hume, choking down his laughter. "He used the phone in his room to call Jones. Jones's secretary answered and said that Jones was away from his desk - which he was, being down in our conference room, wondering where the cameraman was. The cameraman said he had to tape someone, and the secretary said she would tell Jones just as soon as he returned, only Jones didn't return until after I had left. - How did you get it, Henry?"
"In the usual way," said Henry. "Once you and the other two gentlemen in the conference room, and my fellow members of the Black Widowers, too, had cut away all the complexity, the only thing left was something very simple and I just pointed it out."
Afterword
Of all the Black Widowers stories I have written, this one made the least demand on my imagination. It really happened. It happened exactly as I have described it in the story. I must say that it made me realize how much less clever I am than Henry. I was completely lost for a solution when it happened to me.
Incidentally, I was very amused at the fact that this story received more reader flak than any other Black Widowers I had written. A surprising number of people wrote to object to this or that facet of the story as improbable. Some even criticized my street addresses, although I gave the actual addresses that the buildings did have.
The conclusion is that in my fiction I am careful to make everything probable and to tie up all loose ends. Real life is not hampered by such considerations.
The story first appeared in the October 1986 issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.