Drake said, "Maybe you're right. Maybe some in-joke is involved."
"I've just said that."
"Then why don't you try it backward? Can you think of something, some gag, some phrase?… Is there some expression he used every time?"
"Yes. When he disapproved of someone he would say, 'Eighteen black years on him.' "
"What kind of an expression is that?" asked Trumbull.
"In Yiddish it's common enough," said Levy. "Another one was 'It will help him like a dead man cups.' "
"What does that mean?" asked Gonzalo. "It refers to cupping. You place a lighted piece of paper in a small ro und glass cup and then put the open edge against the skin. The paper goes out but leaves a partial vacuum in the cup and circulation is sucked into the superficial layers. Naturally, cupping can't improve the circulation of a corpse."
"All right," said Drake, "is there anything about eighteen black years, or about cupping dead men, that reminds you of something in Shakespeare?"
There was a painful silence and finally Avalon said, "I can't think of anything."
"And even if you did," said Levy, "what good would it do? What would it mean? Listen, I've been at this for two months. You're not going to solve it for me in two hours."
Drake turned to Henry again and said, "Why are you just standing there, Henry? Can't you help us?"
"I'm sorry, Dr. Drake, but I now believe that the whole question of Shakespeare is a false lead."
"No," said Levy. "You can't say that. The old man pointed to The Collected Works without any question. His fingertip was within an inch of it. It couldn't have been any other book."
Drake said suddenly, "Say, Levy, you're not diddling us, are you? You're not telling us a pack of lies to make jackasses out of us?"
"What?" said Levy in amazement.
"Nothing, nothing," said Avalon hastily. "He's just thinking of another occasion. Shut up, Jim."
"Listen," said Levy. "I'm telling you exactly what happened. He was pointing exactly at Shakespeare."
There was a short silence and then Henry sighed and said, "In mystery stories-"
Rubin broke in with a "Hear! Hear!"
"In mystery stories," Henry repeated, "the dying hint is a common device, but I have never been able to take it seriously. A dying man, anxious to give last-minute information, is always pictured as presenting the most complex hints. His dying brain, with two minutes' grace, works out a pattern that would puzzle a healthy brain with hours to think. In this particular case, we have an old man dying of a paralyzing stroke who is supposed to have quickly invented a clue that a group of intelligent men have failed to work out; and with one of them having worked at it for two months. I can only conclude there is no such clue."
"Then why should he have pointed to Shakespeare, Henry?" asked Levy. "Was it all just the vague delusions of a dying man?"
"If your story is correct," said Henry, "then I think he was indeed trying to do something. He cannot, however, have been inventing a clue. He was doing the only thing his dying mind could manage. He was pointing to the bonds."
"I beg your pardon," said Levy huffily. "I was there. He was pointing to Shakespeare."
Henry shook his head. He said, "Mr. Levy, would you point to Fifth Avenue?"
Levy thought a while, obviously orienting himself, and then pointed.
"Are you pointing to Fifth Avenue?" asked Henry.
"Well, the restaurant's entrance is on Fifth Avenue, so I'm pointing to it."
"It seems to me, sir," said Henry, "that you are pointing to a picture of the Arch of Titus on the western wall of this room."
"Well, I am, but Fifth Avenue is beyond it."
"Exactly, sir. So I only know that you are pointing to Fifth Avenue because you tell me so. You might be pointing to the picture or to some point in the air before the picture, or to the Hudson River, or to Chicago, or to the Planet Jupiter. If you point, and nothing more, giving no hint, verbal or otherwise, as to what you're pointing at, you are only indicating a direction and nothing more."
Levy rubbed his chin. "You mean my grandfather was only indicating a direction?"
"It must be so. He didn't say he was pointing to Shakespeare. He merely pointed."
"All right, then, what was he pointing at? The-the-" He closed his eyes and fingered his mustache gently, as he oriented the room in his house. "The Verrazano Bridge?"
"Probably not, sir," said Henry. "He was pointing in the direction of The Collected Works. His finger was an inch from it, you said, so it is doubtful that he could be pointing at anything in front of it. What was behind the book, Mr. Levy?"
"The bookcase. The wood of the bookcase. And when you took the book out, there was nothing behind it. There was nothing pushed up against the wood, if that's what you have in mind. We would have seen it at once if any thing at all had been there."
"And behind the bookcase, sir?"
"The wall."
"And between the bookcase and the wall, sir?"
Now Levy fell silent. He thought a while, and no one interrupted those thoughts. He said, "Is there a phone I can use, Henry?"
"I'll bring you one, sir."
The phone was placed in front of Levy and plugged in. Levy dialed a number.
"Hello, Julia? What are you doing up so late?… Never mind the TV and get to bed. But first call Mamma, dear… Hello, Caroline, it's Simon… Yes, I'm having a good time, but listen, Caroline, listen. You know the bookcase with the Shakespeare in it?… Yes, that Shakespeare. Of course. Move it away from the wall… The bookcase… Look, you can take the books out of it, can't you? Take them all out, if you have to, and dump them on the floor… No, no, just move the end of the bookcase near the door a few inches; just enough to look behind and tell me if you see anything… Look about where the Shakespeare book would be… I'll wait, yes."
They were all frozen in attitudes. Levy was distinctly pale. Some five minutes passed. Then, "Caroline?… Okay, take it easy. Did you move…? Okay, okay, I'll be home soon."
He hung up and said, "If that doesn't beat everything. The old guy had them taped to the back of the bookcase. He must have moved that thing sometime when we were out. It's a wonder he didn't have a stroke then and there."
"You did it again, Henry," said Gonzalo.
Levy said, "Agent's fee is three hundred dollars, Henry."
Henry said, "I am well paid by the club, and the banquets are my pleasure, sir. There is no need for more."
Levy reddened slightly and changed the subject. "But how did you get the trick of it? When the rest of us-"
"It was not difficult," said Henry. "The rest of you happened to track down all the wrong paths, and I simply suggested what was left."
This story first appeared in the July 1973 issue of El-lery Queen's Mystery Magazine, under the title I gave it.
In the magazine the story has a slightly different beginning because it was thought that one story in the series shouldn't refer to events in earlier stories. After all, the reasoning is, many of the magazine readers don't get all the issues and might not have read the one with the earlier story. Or if they did, and if that had been half a year ago or so, they wouldn't remember.
That's perfectly right, but here in the book I restore the original beginning. In fact, it occurs to me that if I had written the series for the book version to begin with, I would have interlocked them quite a bit. For instance, I wouldn't have let the matter of Halsted's limerick version of the Iliad and the Odyssey drop. As it was though, I felt that to come across them out of order, or missing some and reading others, would spoil the effect.
Oh, well.
8. Miss What?
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.