Tales of the Black Widowers (The Black Widowers #1)

Tales of the Black Widowers (The Black Widowers #1) Page 9

There was a certain frostiness about the monthly meeting of the Black Widowers and it clearly centered on the guest brought by Mario Gonzalo. He was a large man. His cheeks were plump and smooth, his hair was almost nonexistent, and he wore a vest, something no one had seen at the Black Widowers in living memory.

His name was Aloysius Gordon and the trouble began when he calmly introduced himself by name and occupation, announcing himself quite casually as being connected with the 17th Precinct. It was like lowering a window shade against the sun, for the spark went out of the dinner at once.

Gordon had no way of comparing the quiet now prevailing with the hubbub characteristic of the usual Black Widowers dinner. He had no way of knowing how unusual it was that Emmanuel Rubin was almost supernaturally reserved and had not contradicted anyone once; that Thomas Trumbull's voice, even when it was used, was subdued; that Geoffrey Avalon actually finished his second drink; that twice James Drake had stubbed out a cigarette before it was down to the quick; and that Roger Halsted, having unfolded the piece of paper on which he had written the limerick based on the fifth book of the Iliad, merely looked at it mildly, wrinkled his high, pink forehead, and put it away.

In fact, Gordon seemed interested only in Henry. He followed the waiter with his eyes, and there was an unmistakable light of curiosity in them. Henry, ordinarily perfect in his job, upset a glass of water, to the horror of all. His cheekbones seemed to show in his unlined face.

Trumbull rose rather ostentatiously and moved in the direction of the men's room. The gesture he made was unobtrusive but none the less urgent for that, and a minute later Gonzalo left the table, too.

In the men's room, Trumbull said in a harsh whisper, "Why the hell did you bring that fellow?"

"He's an interesting guy," said Gonzalo defensively, "and it's host's privilege. I can bring anyone I want."

"He's a policeman."

"He's a plainclothesman."

"What's the difference? Do you know him, or is he here professionally?"

Gonzalo raised his hands in a kind of helpless anger. His dark eyes bulged as they usually did in moments of passion. "I know him personally. I met him-it's none of your business how I met him, Tom-I know him. He's an interesting guy and I want him here."

"Yes? What did you tell him about Henry?"

"What do you mean, what did I tell?"

"Oh, come on, you dumb jerk. Don't play games. Haven't you seen the guy watching Henry's every move? Why should he watch a waiter?"

"I told him Henry's a whiz at solving puzzles."

"In how much detail?"

"No detail at all," said Gonzalo with heat. "Don't you suppose I know that nothing that goes on in the banquet room is mentioned outside? I just said Henry was a whiz at solving puzzles."

"And he was interested, I suppose."

"Well, he said he would like to be at one of our meetings and I-"

Trumbull said, "You realize this could be very embarrassing for Henry. Did you consult him?"

Gonzalo played with one of the brass buttons of his blazer. "If I see that Henry's embarrassed, I'll use host's privilege and cut the proceedings."

"What if this Gordon guy doesn't play along?"

Gonzalo looked miserable and shrugged. They returned to the table.

When Henry was pouring out the coffee and it came time for the game of placing the guest on the griddle/ there was still no increase in verve. Gonzalo offered the role of inquisitor to Trumbull, as was traditional, and Trumbull looked unhappy about it.

The traditional first question came out. "Mr. Gordon, how do you justify your existence?"

"At the moment," said Gordon, in a rather rich baritone, "by adding to the pleasure of this occasion, I hope."

"In what way?" asked Avalon glumly.

"It is my understanding, gentlemen," said Gordon, "that guests are expected to pose a problem which the members of the club then attempt to solve."

Trumbull shot a furious glance at Gonzalo and said, "No, no, that's all wrong. Some guests have presented problems, but that was more or less a side issue. All that's expected of them is interesting conversation."

"Besides," said Drake in his dry voice, "it's Henry who does the solving. The rest of us just bat things around foolishly."

"For God's sake, Jim," began Trumbull, but Gordon's voice overrode his.

"That's exactly what I've been given to understand," he said. "Now I am here in a strictly social capacity and not as a member of the Police Department at all. Just the same, I can't help having a professional interest in the matter. In fact, I'm damned curious about Henry, and I've come to test him... If I may, that is," he added in response to the cold silence that had fallen over everyone else.

Avalon was frowning, and on his face, with its neat mustache, its closely cut and neatly kept chin beard, and its absolutely luxurious eyebrows, a frown was a portentous phenomenon.

He said, "Mr. Gordon, this is a private club, the meetings of which serve no purpose but social camaraderie. Henry is our waiter and we value him and we do not wish him to be disturbed in this room. If your presence here is purely social and not professional, as you say, I think it would be best if we leave Henry to himself."

Henry had just completed the coffee ritual and he interrupted with the faintest trace of agitation in his voice. He said, "Thank you, Mr. Avalon. I appreciate your concern. However, it may improve the situation if I explain something to Mr. Gordon."

He turned to the guest and went on earnestly, "Mr. Gordon, on some half-dozen occasions I have been able to make some obvious point or other in connection with some problem that arose at the dinners. The puzzles were, in themselves, trivial, and not at all the sort that would interest a policeman. I know quite well that in solving the kind of cases that interest policemen, what is most important are records, informants, rather tedious procedural work, the cooperation of many different men and agencies. All of this is quite beyond my abilities.

"In fact, I could not even do what I have done were it not for the other members of the club. The Black Widowers are ingenious men who can find complicated answers to any problem. When they are all done then, assuming none of the complicated answers are correct, I can sometimes wiggle past the complications to the simple truth. That is all I do, and I assure you that it is not worth your while to test me."

Gordon nodded his head. "In other words, Henry, if there's a gangland killing and we have to track down half a dozen hoods and investigate their alibis, or try to find some bystanders not too afraid to tell us what they saw, you couldn't help us."

"Not at all, sir."

"But if I have an odd piece of paper that carries some words that might make sense and might not, and that may require a little thought past the complications to the simple truth, you could help."

"Probably not, sir."

"But would you look at the paper and give me your thoughts on the matter?"

"Is that the test, sir?"

"I suppose we can call it that," said Gordon.

"Well, then," said Henry, with a slow shake of his head. "Mr. Gonzalo is the host. If he's willing to have you introduce it, then, by the rules of the club, you may."

Gonzalo looked uncomfortable. Then he said defiantly, "Go on, Lieutenant, show it to him."

"Hold on," said Trumbull, pointing his blunt finger at Gonzalo. "Have you seen it, Mario?"

"Yes."

"Can you make sense out of it?"

"No," said Gonzalo, "but it's the kind of thing Henry might be able to handle."

Rubin said, "I don't think we ought to put Henry on the spot like that."

But Henry said, "It's host's privilege, sir. I'm willing to look at it."

Gordon brought a piece of paper, folded into quarters, out of his upper right vest pocket. He held it over his shoulder and Henry took it. Henry looked at it for a moment, then handed it back.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "but I cannot see anything in it except what it says."

Drake held out his hand. "How about passing it around? Is that all right, Mr. Gordon?"

"I'm willing to pass it around," said Gordon. He gave it to Halsted, who sat at his right. Halsted read it and passed it on. There was absolute silence till it had made its circle and returned to Gordon. Gordon glanced at it briefly and put it back in his pocket.

The message, in full, written in a scrawled hand, went:

Woe unto you, Jezebels.

Death unto you, Rahab.

"It sounds Biblical," said Gonzalo. "Doesn't it?" He looked automatically at Rubin, who was the Biblical authority of the group.

"It sounds Biblical," said Rubin, "and it may have been written by a Bible nut, but that is not a quotation from the Bible. You can take my word on that."

"No one's likely to question your word on the Bible, Manny," said Avalon agreeably.

Gordon said, "That note was delivered to a girl at the entrance to a restaurant within which the Miss Earth contestants were holding a press conference."

"Who delivered it?" asked Trumbull.

"A drifter. He had been given a dollar to hand the note to the girl and he couldn't describe the person who had given it to him, except that it was a man. There is no reason to suppose the drifter was more than an intermediary. We checked him out."

Halsted said, "Any fingerprints?"

Gordon said, "Any number of superimposed smudges. Nothing useful."

Avalon looked austere and said, "I suppose that the Jezebels mentioned in the note referred to the young ladies of the Miss Earth contest."

"That seems a natural thought," said Gordon. "The question is: Which one?"

"All of them, I should say," said Avalon. "The note used the plural, and the kind of person who uses the term in this context would not make fine distinctions. Anyone who presents her beauty to the public gaze for judgment would be a Jezebel. All of them would be Jezebels."

"But what about the second phrase?" asked Gordon.

Rubin said, with just a trace of self-importance, "I'll explain that. Suppose the writer is a Bible nut; I mean the kind who reads the Bible every day and hears God whispering in his ear, directing him to destroy immorality. Such a guy would automatically write in Biblical style. It so happens that the chief poetic device in Biblical times was the repetition of the same sentence in a slightly different way, such as..." He thought for a while, then said, "For instance, How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, and thy tabernacles, O Israel. Another one is Hear my words, O ye wise men; and give ear unto me, ye that have knowledge."

Rubin's straggly beard grew stragglier as his lips parted in a broad smile and his eyes glinted through his thick spectacles as he said, "That second one is from the Book of Job."

"Parallelism," muttered Avalon.

Gordon said, "You mean he's just saying the same thing twice?"

"That's right," said Rubin. "First he predicts woe and then he predicts the ultimate woe, death. First he calls them Jezebels, then he calls them Rahabs."

"Not quite," said Gordon. " 'Jezebel' is in the plural. 'Rahab' isn't. The fellow who wrote that speaks of 'Jezebels,' plural, when he yells 'Woe'; but only 'Rahab,' singular, when he predicts 'Death.' "

"Can I see that paper again?" said Rubin. It was passed to him and he studied it. Then he said, "The way this fellow writes, I don't know whether we can expect exact spelling. He may have meant to put in the 's.' "

"He may have," said Gordon, "but we can't rely on that. His spelling and punctuation are correct and, scrawl or not, the other 's' is clear and sharp-"

"It seems to me," said Avalon, "it would be safer to assume the singular is what is meant, unless we have good reason to the contrary."

Drake tried to blow a smoke ring (an attempt at which no one had ever seen him succeed) and said, "Do you take this thing seriously, Mr. Gordon?"

"My private inclinations," said Gordon, "are not in question. The note has a certain psychotic quality about it and I feel pretty safe in saying that if the writer is not playing a stupid practical joke, then he's crazy. And crazy people have to be taken seriously. Suppose the writer is someone who considers himself a spokesman for the wrath of God. Naturally, he announces it; he sends for the word of God because that's what the Biblical prophets did."

"And he announces it in poetic terms," began Halsted.

"Because that's what the Biblical prophets did, too," said Gordon, nodding. "A man like that may just possibly decide to be the arm of God as well as His voice. We can't take a chance. You understand that the Miss Earth contest offers a more ticklish situation than the Miss America contest does."

"Because there are foreign contestants, I suppose," said Rubin.

"That's right. There are about sixty contestants altogether, and exactly one-Miss United States-is homegrown. We'd just as soon nothing happened to any of them, even a minor incident. I don't say that it would plunge the world into a crisis if anything happened, but the State Department would be very unhappy. So a note like this means that the police have to supply protection for all sixty girls and these days we don't have all that manpower to waste."

"If you don't mind," said Trumbull frowning, "what the hell do you expect us to do about it?"

Gordon said, "It's just possible he may not be planning to kill all the girls. He may have only one in mind, so that is why he uses the singular when he talks of death. Perhaps Henry might give us some ideas as to how to narrow it down. We'd rather concentrate on ten girls than on sixty. We'd rather concentrate on one girl only, in fact."

"From that note?" said Trumbull, with perfectly obvious disgust. "You want Henry to pick out one Miss Earth contestant from that note?"

He turned to look at Henry, and Henry said, "I have no idea, Mr. Trumbull."

Gordon put the note away again. "I thought you might tell me who Rahab is. Why should he call one particular girl Rahab and threaten to kill her?"

Gonzalo said suddenly, "Why should we suppose that Rahab applies to the girl he's after? Maybe it's his signature. Maybe it's a pseudonym he's using because Rahab was some important prophet or executioner in the Bible."

Rubin let out his breath in a snort. "Oh, boy! Mario, how can even an artist know so little? 'Rahab' is part of the line. If it were the signature, he would put it on the bottom. If he's the kind of guy who wants to call down the wrath of God in public, he would sign it proudly and unmistakably if he signed it at all. And if he did, he would never take the pseudonym of Rahab, not if he knew anything at all about the Bible. Rahab was... No, I tell you what. Henry, get us the King James from the reference shelf. We might as well make sure we get the words exactly right."

"You mean you don't know the Bible by heart?" said Trambull.

"I miss a word now and then, Tom," said Rubin loftily.

He took the Bible from Henry. "Thanks, Henry. Now the only person named Rahab in the Bible was a harlot."

"She was?" said Gonzalo incredulously.

"That's right. Here it is-first verse of the second chapter of the Book of Joshua. And Joshua the son of Nun sent out of Shittim two men to spy secretly, saying, Go view the land, even Jericho. And they went, and came into an harlot's house, named Rahab, and lodged there."

"And that's part of the parellelism," said Avalon thoughtfully. "Is that what you think?"

"Of course. And that's why I think 'Jezebel' and 'Rahab' both apply to all the girls and should both be plural. Both Jezebel and Rahab are Biblical representatives of immoral women, and I take it that our note writer, whoever he may be, conceives all the Miss Earth candidates to be just that."

"Are they?" asked Gonzalo. "I mean, immoral."

Gordon smiled slightly. "I won't guarantee their private lives, but I don't think they set any records in immorality. They're young women, carefully selected to represent their countries. I doubt that anything really notorious would slip by the judges."

Avalon said, "When a Fundamentalist who's a little past the bend speaks of immorality, or when he starts calling someone a Jezebel, there is no need, in my opinion, for the existence of real immorality. It's probably purely subjective. Any woman who rouses feelings of sexual excitement within him will seem to him to be immoral; and the one who does so most will seem to him to be most immoral."

"You mean," said Gordon, swiveling his eyes toward

Avalon, "that he's after the most beautiful one and aims to kill her?"

Avalon shrugged. "What's beauty? He may be after the one he thinks is most beautiful, but what are his standards? It might not even be beauty in the most literal sense. It might be that one of them reminds him of his dead mother, his childhood sweetheart, or some teacher he once had. How can we tell?"

"All right," said Gordon. "You may be quite correct in all you say, but it doesn't matter. Tell me who he's after; tell me who Rahab is; and we can worry about motives afterward."

Avalon shook his head. "I don't know that we can dismiss motive quite that easily, but, in any case, we won't get anywhere if we head down the wrong path. Despite what Manny says, I don't think there's any parallelism between Jezebel and Rahab."

"There certainly is," said Rubin, his jaw lifting at once.

"Where is it? To begin with, Jezebel wasn't a harlot. She was the Queen of Israel and there is no hint in the Bible that she was in any way sexually immoral. It's just that she was an idolator and opposed the Yahvists; that is, those who worshipped Yahveh-or Jehovah, to use the more common but less accurate name."

Rubin said, "I'll explain it to you, if you want. Jezebel was the daughter of the King of Tyre, who was also a priest of Astarte. She was probably a priestess herself. As for Rahab, she was probably not a common harlot, but a priestess who participated in fertility rites. To the Israelites that was being a harlot."

Halsted said, "Not everybody has gone into the Bible the way you have, Manny. The Bible calls Jezebel a queen and Rahab a harlot, and the average reader wouldn't go past that."

"But that's not the point I'm trying to make," said Avalon. "Jezebel, whatever her status, came to a bad end. She died in a palace coup and was eaten by dogs. Rahab, however, came to a good end. She was saved alive after the fall of Jericho, because she had kept the spies hidden and safe. One can assume she was converted to the worship of the God of Israel and was no longer a harlot or a pagan priestess. In fact... Manny, let me have the Bible."

Avalon took it and turned its pages rapidly. "It's just at the opening of the Book of Matthew. Here it is: And Salmon begat Booz of Rachab; and Booz begat Obed of Ruth; and Obed begat Jesse; and Jesse begat David the king. There, that's the fifth and sixth verse of the first chapter of the Gospel of St. Matthew. According to that, Rahab married a prominent Israelite and was the great-great-grandmother of David and therefore a distant ancestress of Jesus himself. Having helped the Israelites take Jericho, having married an Israelite, and being the ancestress of David and Jesus, Rahab couldn't possibly be used as a symbol of immorality by any Fundamentalist."

The Bible passed from hand to hand, and Halsted said, "The name isn't spelled the same. It's 'Rachab' in Matthew."

Avalon said, "The New Testament is translated into English from the Greek; the Old Testament from the Hebrew. The transliterations aren't consistent. 'Booz' in the passage I just read is 'Boaz' in the Old Testament Book of Ruth."

"Besides," said Rubin, "in this case 'Rachab' is more nearly the correct spelling. The Hebrew letter that occurs in the middle of the name is correctly pronounced like the guttural German 'ch.'"

"So if we are going to associate Rahab with one of the Miss Earth contestants," said Avalon, "we had better forget about the parallelism with Jezebel and look for something else."

"But what?" asked Drake.

"Don't worry." Avalon lifted an admonitory finger. "I have something in mind. Manny, isn't 'Rahab' used in the Bible as the poetic equivalent of Egypt?"

Rubin said excitedly, "Yes, you're right. It's not the same word in Hebrew. There the middle letter is an 'h.' Still, it's the same word in English. Usually it's translated into 'pride' or 'might' or something like that, but it's left untranslated in at least one place... Somewhere in the Psalms, I think."

He turned the pages and muttered, "I wish we had a Bible dictionary. That's something the club ought to buy and add to the reference shelf." Then, with his voice rising to a shout, he said, "Here it is, by God! Fourth verse of the 87th Psalm: / will make mention of Rahab and Babylon to them that know me: behold Philistia, and Tyre, with Ethiopia."

"How do you know that 'Rahab' means Egypt there?" asked Gonzalo.

"Because throughout Old Testament history the rival great powers were those in the Tigris-Euphrates Valley and on the Nile. Babylon clearly typifies the former, so Rahab must typify the latter. There's no dispute there. Biblical scholars agree that 'Rahab' stands for Egypt there."

"In that case," said Avalon, "I don't think we have to fall back on Henry. I suspect that it's Miss Egypt that our mysterious friend is after. And that makes sense, too. There are a couple of million Jewish people in this city and considering the present situation between Israel and Egypt, one of them, with a little derangement, might feel called upon to threaten Miss Egypt."

Gordon said, "An interesting thought. There's only one trouble."

"What's that, sir?"

"There isn't any Miss Egypt. You see, the Miss Earth contest isn't as cut-and-dried as the Miss America contest. In the Miss America you have one contestant from each of the fifty states because foreign policy doesn't enter into it. In the Miss Earth contest, nations hostile to the United States, or those which look down on beauty contests as decadent, don't enter. This year, no Arab state is represented. On the other hand, some nations are represented by more than one entry, each with a different name. Some years ago, I understand, there were two German beauties. The top winner went as Miss Germany and the second went as Miss Bavaria."

Avalon looked distinctly annoyed. "If there's no Miss Egypt, then I don't know what 'Rahab' can mean."

"What does it mean in the Bible?" asked Gonzalo. "Why do they give that name to Egypt? There has to be some reason."

Rubin said, "Oh, well. Egypt was a river kingdom and Rahab was associated with the waters. In fact, it was a mythological remnant of a pre-Israelite creation myth. The land was viewed by the Sumerians as having been created from the sea. They visualized the sea as an enormous monster called Tiamat that had to be split in two so that the land emerged from between the halves. In Babylonian mythology, it was Marduk who killed Tiamat.

"The priestly writers of the first book of Genesis cleaned up the Babylonian myths and removed the polytheism, but they left traces. In the beginning, before the first day of creation, according to Chapter 1, Verse 2 of Genesis, And the earth was without form and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. Well, the Hebrew word translated as 'the deep' is 'tehom' and some commentators think that is a version of Tiamat and that this verse is all that is left of the cosmic struggle."

"That's pretty farfetched," said Drake.

"I don't know. There are occasional verses in the Bible which seem to refer to the earlier and less sophisticated creation myth. There's one toward the end of Isaiah, if I can find it... I used to know where all these references are."

He turned pages back and forth feverishly, ignoring the small glass of brandy Henry had placed before him. Gordon sipped at his own brandy and watched calmly. He made no attempt to stop Rubin or to attempt to bring the discussion back to the point.

It was Trumbull who said, "Is this getting us anywhere?"

But Rubin waved excitedly. "I've got it. I've got it. Listen to this: Isaiah, Chapter 51, Verse 9: Awake, awake, put on strength, O arm of the Lord; awake, as in the ancient days, in the generations of old. Art thou not it

that hath cut Rahab and wounded the dragon? You see, 'cut Rahab' and 'wounded the dragon' is another example of parallelism. Rahab and the dragon are alternate expressions that symbolize the raging ocean that has to be defeated and split before dry land can be formed. Some commentators maintain this refers to Egypt and the division of the Red Sea, but in my opinion it is certainly a version of the fight with Tiamat."

There was perspiration on Rubin's forehead and he kept waving his left hand for silence, even while his right hand continued to turn pages. "There are references to it in the Psalms, too. I can find them if you'll give me a minute. Ah! Psalm 89, Verses 9 and 10: Thou rulest the raging of the sea: when the waves thereof arise, thou stillest them. Thou hast broken Rahab in pieces, as one that is slain. And then another one, Psalm 74, Verses 13 and 14: Thou didst divide the sea by thy strength: thou bra-kest the heads of the dragons in the waters. Thou brakest the heads of leviathan in pieces. Leviathan was another name for the primeval ocean."

Trumbull shouted, "God damn it, Manny. You're not a revivalist preacher any more. Where's this all getting us?"

Rubin looked up indignantly and closed the Bible. "If you'll let me talk, Tom," he said, with exaggerated dignity, "and curb your impulse to bellow, I'll tell you."

He looked about impressively. "I now suspect that to the fellow who wrote this note, Rahab meant the raging power of the sea. Now what is the raging power of the sea today? Who controls the sea? The United States does. With our aircraft carriers, our nuclear submarines, our Polaris missiles, we have the power of Rahab. I think maybe he's after Miss United States."

"Is that so?" said Halsted. "The United States has been the predominant sea power only since World War II. It hasn't had time to enter legend. It's Great Britain that's the ruler of the sea in song and story. 'Britannia rules the waves.' I vote for Miss Great Britain."

Gordon interposed. "There's no Miss Great Britain. There's a Miss England, though."

"All right. I vote for Miss England."

Drake said, "There's no way of getting into this nut's head. Maybe he was just using the name to indicate his method of operation. Rubin said 'brakest the head' and 'broken in pieces' when he read those verses. Maybe the writer meant he was going to use a blunt instrument."

Rubin shook his head. "In one of the verses it was 'cut Rahab.' "

Gonzalo said, "If Rahab is an arch opponent of God, the writer might be thinking of the Nazis. Jeff said the writer might be Jewish and after Miss Egypt; why not after Miss Germany?"

Trumbull said, "Why does the writer have to be Jewish? Most Fundamentalists are Protestants and they've had some neat terms in their time for the Pope. He was the 'Whore of Babylon' to some of them and Rahab was a harlot. I don't suppose there's a Miss Vatican City, but how about Miss Italy?"

Henry said, "I beg your pardon, gentlemen."

Gordon looked up. "Ah, you have a suggestion, Henry?"

"Yes, I have, sir. Whether it's useful or not, I don't know... You said, Mr. Gordon, that the rules are rather flexible in the Miss Earth contest as far as the nations represented are concerned. Some nations have no representatives, some have two or more under different names. You mentioned a Miss Germany and a Miss Bavaria, for instance."

"That's right," said Gordon.

"And you said there was no Miss Great Britain, but that there was a Miss England."

"Right again," said Gordon.

"Does the Miss England imply the presence of a Miss Scotland as well?"

"It does, as a matter of fact." Gordon's eyes narrowed. "And a Miss Ireland and Miss Northern Ireland as well."

Gonzalo brought both hands before him down on the table. "I'll bet I know what Henry is driving at. If the writer of the note is Irish, he may be after Miss Northern Ireland. He would consider her as representing a political division that's a puppet of England, and England rules the waves and is Rahab."

Henry shook his head. "It's not as complicated as that, I think. I have always thought that all things being equal, the simplest explanation is best."

"Occam's razor," muttered Avalon.

"I must admit," said Henry, "I never heard of Rahab before, but Mr. Rubin's explanation was quite enlightening. If Rahab is a monster representing the sea, and if the monster is also called leviathan, and if leviathan is sometimes used as a name for an actual sea monster, and the largest that lives, why might not the writer be referring to Miss Wales?"

"Ah," said Gordon.

Henry turned to him. "Was that the answer, Mr. Gordon?"

Gordon said gravely, "It's a possibility."

"No, Mr. Gordon," said Henry. "You know better than that. You came here to test me. How can you test me with a puzzle to which you don't know the answer?"

Gordon broke into a laugh. "You win again, Henry," he said. "Everything I told you is true enough, but it happened last year. The person in question was caught. He had a knife in his hand, but he wasn't really dangerous. He surrendered quietly and he's in a mental hospital now. He was quite incoherent. We could never be sure what his motive was except that he was sure his victim was particularly wicked.

"The trouble was," Gordon went on, "we had to stake out a lot of men and we never did find out what Rahab meant... But when we caught him he was making his way into the dressing room of Miss Wales. We should have had you last year, Henry. You're a remarkable detective."

"The Black Widowers are. They explore the problem; I only pick up what's left," said Henry.

Afterword

This story first appeared in the September 1973 issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, under the title "A Warning to Miss Earth," which I simply don't like. Back to "Miss What?"

I don't always remember the exact genesis of a particular story, but I remember this one. Mrs. Anita Summer, who works with the Leonard Lyons column on the New York Post, and who is a science fiction reader, invited me to come with her to a cocktail party being given for the contestants for the Miss Universe award.

Well, of course, I was delighted to go and I wandered from contestant to contestant in a happy daze. Anita, pleased at my artless delight, said, "Are you going to write a story about this, Isaac?"

And I said, "All right." And I did. So this story, "Miss What?", is dedicated to Anita Summer.