"Generally," said Davenheim slowly, "the humming times came when he most emphatically protested innocence, but always on behalf of both. I'll give him that. He has never once tried to clear himself at the expense of the other. It was always that neither Farber nor he did thus-and-so or were responsible for this-and-that."
Henry said, "Colonel Davenheim, this is a long shot. If the answer is no, then I'll have nothing more to say. If, however, the answer is yes, it's just possible we may have something."
"What's the question, Henry?" asked Davenheim.
"At the same base where Sergeant Farber and Private
Klotz are stationed, Colonel, does there happen to be a Captain Gooden or Gooding or anything resembling that in sound?"
Davenheim had, until then, been looking at Henry with grave amusement. Now that vanished in a flash. His mouth closed tight and his face whitened visibly. Then his chair scraped as he shoved it back and rose.
"Yes," he said strenuously. "Captain Charles Goodwin. How the hell could you possibly have known that?"
"In that case, he may be your man. I'd forget about Klotz and Farber, sir, if I were you, and concentrate on the captain. That might be the one step upward that you wanted. And the captain may prove an easier nut to crack than Private Klotz has been."
Davenheim seemed to find no way to speak further and Trumbull said, "I wish you'd explain, Henry."
"It's the 'Yankee Doodle,' as the Colonel expected. The point is, though, that Private Klotz hummed it. We have to consider what words he was thinking when he hummed."
Gonzalo said, "The Colonel said he hummed the lines that go 'Yankee Doodle went to town, A-riding on a pony.' "
Henry shook his head. "The original poem 'Yankee Doodle' had some dozen verses and the macaroni lines were not among them. They arose later, though they're now the most familiar. The original poem tells of the visit of a young farmboy to the camp of Washington's Continental Army and his naivete is made fun of, so I believe Mr. Rubin's interpretation of the nature of the song to be correct."
Rubin said, "Henry's right. I remember now. Washington is even mentioned, but as Captain Washington. The farmboy wasn't even aware of the nature of military rank."
"Yes," said Henry. "I don't know all the verses and I imagine very few people do. Perhaps Private Klotz didn't, either. But anyone who knows the poem at all knows the first verse or, at any rate, the first two lines, and that's what Private Klotz may have been humming. The first line, for instance-and it's the farmboy speaking-is 'Father and I went down to camp.' You see?"
"No," said Davenheim, shaking his head. "Not quite."
"It occurred to me that whenever you pressed hard on Private Klotz and might say, 'Farber and you did thus-and-so,' and he answered, 'Farber and I did not do thus-and-so,' the humming would start. You said, Colonel, that it was at the moment of denial that it tended to come and that he always denied on behalf of both Farber and himself. So when he said 'Farber and I,' it would trigger the line 'Farber and 1 went down to camp.' " Henry sang it in a soft tenor voice.
"Farber and he were in an army camp," said Avalon, "but, good God, that's stretching for it."
"If it stood alone, sir, yes," said Henry. "But that's why I asked about a Captain Gooden in the camp. If he were a third member of the conspiracy, the push to hum the tune might be irresistible. The first verse, which is the only one I know-"
But here Rubin interrupted. Standing up, he roared:
"Father and I went down to camp
Along with Cap'n Good'n,
And there we saw the men and boys
As thick as hasty puddih'."
"That's right," said Henry calmly, "Farber and I went down to camp along with Captain Goodwin."
"By God," said Davenheim. "That must be it. If not, it's the most extraordinary coincidence… And it can't be. Henry, you've put your finger on it."
"I hope so. More coffee, Colonel?" said Henry.
This story was the occasion of my making a great discovery. It came about this way:
I compose on the typewriter. Even first drafts get type-written. It was my firm belief that it had to be so. li I dictated, I couldn't see what I was doing, and if I tried writing by hand, my fingers would get stiff and fall off halfway down the second page.
So on November 9, 1972, I found myself in a Rochester hotel room with a speech to give the next 'day. For that evening I had nothing to do and while driving to Rochester I had thought up the story you have just finished (unless you're skipping through the book just reading the afterwords). I was desperate. All I wanted to do was to write and I had not brought a typewriter with me.
Finally, I dug out some of the hotel stationery and decided to start the story by hand and keep on going till my fingers dropped off. It might kill a little time. So I wrote, and I wrote-and I wrote. Do you know I finished the entire story without lifting pen from paper and my fingers didn't hurt at all?
Now I need never take my typewriter. Since then I have handwritten several other items, while I was on board ship.
And you know what? While I was writing the story I discovered an odd thing. Writing by hand with pen and ink is very silent. That noise I always make writing isn't the writing; it's the typewriter. I thought you'd want to know that.
11. The Curious Omission
Roger Halsted was clearly suffused with a controlled glee when he arrived at the monthly banquet of the Black Widowers. He unwound his scarf (it was a cold evening with considerably more than a hint of snow in the air--since half an inch of it already lay on the ground) and said, "Have I got a guest for you!"
Emmanuel Rubin looked at him over his scotch and soda and said peevishly, "Where were you? Even Tom Trumbull beat you to the drinks and we thought you were welching on the host's responsibility."
Halsted looked hurt and his high forehead grew pink. He said, "I called the restaurant. Henry-"
Henry had adjusted the bread baskets and seen to it that the bran muffins affected by Geoffrey Avalon were in plain view. He said, "Yes, Mr. Halsted. The company has been informed that you would be a little late. I believe Mr. Rubin is merely amusing himself at your expense."
Trumbull said, "What guest?"
"That's why I'm late. I had to pick him up in White Plains and it's snowing harder up there. I had to call the restaurant from a gas station."
"So where is he?" asked Mario Gonzalo, more than usually nattily dressed in a maroon blazer, matching striped shirt, and matching patterned tie.
"Downstairs. Men's room. His name is Jeremy At-wood; he's about sixty-five; and he has a problem."
Avalon from his considerably better than six feet of height drew his thick and graying eyebrows together. "I've been thinking, gentlemen, of this very matter. The original purpose of the Black Widowers consisted of nothing more than dining and conversation. We have now reached the point where we never fail to have a problem to agitate us and disturb our digestion. What happens when we can't find one? Do we disband?"
Gonzalo said, "Then we're back to conversation without a purpose. There's always Manny."
Rubin said, his sparse beard lifting noticeably, "Nothing I say is without a purpose, Mario. Failing all else, there's the vague hope my words may serve to educate you. For one thing, I can show you why your latest painting is completely wrong."
"You said you liked it," said Mario, frowning and stepping into the trap.
"Only out of relief when you said it was your last painting and only until I found out you meant it was your latest."
But Halsted's guest was coming up the stairs now. He moved rather slowly and he seemed tired. Halsted helped him off with his overcoat, and when the guest removed his hat, he showed himself to be quite bald. Only a fringe of white hair remained.