More Tales of the Black Widowers Read Online Free Page B

drawn. I have lived through some rotten banquets and, at an editor's suggestion, I have written an article entitled “My Worst Meal,” but that editor is a pussycat who published the article promptly and who in no way resembles Bercovich in either word, thought, or deed.

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2    Quicker Than the Eye

    Thomas Trumbull, who worked for the government as a cryptologist, was clearly uneasy. His tanned and wrinkled face was set in a carved attitude of worry. He said, “He's a man from the department; my superior, in fact. It's damned important, but T don't want Henry to feel the pressure.”
    He was whispering and he couldn't resist the quick look over his shoulder at Henry, the waiter at the Black Widower monthly banquets. Henry, who was several years older than Trumbull, had a face that was unwrinkled, and, as he quickly set the table, he seemed tranquil and utterly unaware of the fact that five of the Black Widowers were huddled quietly at the opposite end of the room. Or, if not unaware, then certainly undisturbed.
    Geoffrey Avalon, the tall patent lawyer, had, under the best of conditions, difficulty in keeping his voice low. Still, stirring his drink with a middle finger on the ice cube, he managed to impart sufficient hoarseness. “How can we prevent it, Tom? Henry is no fool.”
    “I'm not sure anyone from the federal administration qualifies as a guest, Tom,” said Emmanuel Rubin in a swerving non sequitur. His sparse beard bristled truculently and his eyes flashed through the thick lenses of his glasses. “And I say that even though you're in the category. Eighty per cent of the tax money I pay to Washington is expended in ways of which I strongly disapprove.”
    “You've got the vote, haven't you?” said Trumbull testily.
    “And a fat lot of good that does, when the manipulation—” began Rubin, quite forgetting to keep his voice low.
    Oddly enough, it was Roger Halsted, the mathematics teacher, whose quiet voice had sufficient difficulty in controlling a junior high school class, who managed to stop Rubin in mid-roar. He did it by placing his hand firmly over the smaller man's mouth. He said, “You don't sound very happy about your boss coming here, Tom.”
    “I'm not,” said Trumbull. “It's a difficult thing. The point is that I've gotten considerable credit on two different occasions over matters that were really Henry's insights. I've had to take the credit, damn it, since what we say here in this room is confidential. Now something has come up and they're turning to me, and I'm as stuck as the rest of them. I've had to invite Bob here without really explaining why.”
    James Drake, the organic chemist, coughed over his cigarette and fingered his walrus-head bolo-tie. “Have you been talking too much about our dinners, Tom?”
    “I suppose it could be viewed in that way. What bothers me is Henry, though. He enjoys the game, I know, when it is a game, but if there's real pressure and he won't—or can't —under that pressure—”
    “Then you'll look bad, eh, Tom?” said Rubin with just a touch, perhaps, of malice.
    Avalon said frigidly, “I have said before and I will say it again that what began as a friendly social get-together is becoming a strain on us all. Can't we have one session with just conversation?”
    “I'm afraid not this one,” said Trumbull. “All right, here's my boss. —Now let's carry all the load we can and put as little as possible on Henry.”
    But it was only Mario Gonzalo walking noisily up the stairs, uncharacteristically late, and resplendent in his long hair, a crimson jacket, and subtly matching striped shirt, to say nothing of a flowing scarf meticulously arranged to display the effect of casualness.
    “Sorry I'm late, Henry—” But the proper drink was in his hand before he could say more. “Thanks, Henry. Sorry, fellows, trouble with getting a taxi. That put me in a grim mood and when the driver began to lecture me on the crimes and