Tales of the Black Widowers

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.

Halsted said, "Gentlemen, this is my guest, Jeremy At-wood. I met him through the fact that one of his nephews is a fellow teacher. Mr. Atwood, let me present the company."

By the time the introductions were completed and a glass of dry sherry had been pressed into Atwood's hand, Henry had the first course on the table. Rubin stared at it suspiciously.

"No liver?" he asked.

"No liver, Mr. Rubin," said Henry. "Kidney slices are the base."

"Oh, Lord," said Rubin, "what's the soup?"

"Cream of leek, Mr. Rubin."

"Coming and going. They get you coming and going," he grumbled, and tackled the kidney with a gingerly probing fork.

Drake, with a glimmer in his small eyes which meant he thought he was on the track of a fellow chemist, said, "What does your nephew teach, Mr. Atwood?"

Atwood said, in a surprisingly musical tenor, "English literature, I believe. I am not very well acquainted with him."

"I don't blame you," said Rubin at once. "Teachers of English literature have probably turned out more illiterates than have any other force of illegitimate culture in the world."

"You see, Mr. Atwood," said Gonzalo, striving for his own back, "Manny Rubin is a writer whose works have never been discussed by any teacher who was sober at the time."

Trumbull spoke at once to cut off Rubin's retort. "What's your own line of work, Mr. Atwood?"

"I'm retired now, but once upon a time I was a civil engineer," said Atwood.

Avalon said, "You do not have to answer any questions now, Mr. Atwood. That will come with the dessert."

It turned out to be unnecessary advice since Rubin had the bit in his teeth now and was off and running. With the soup, of which he had little, he developed the thesis that teachers of English generally and of English literature in particular had as their peculiar object the placing of the English language in chains and the making of literature a fossil in murky amber.

Over the main course, roast stuffed duck, Rubin proceeded to probe the motives of the English-teaching criminals and found it to consist of an embittered and hate-filled envy of those who could, past and present, use the English language as a tool.

"Like Emmanuel Rubin, of course," said Gonzalo in a stage whisper.

"Like me," said Rubin, unabashed. "I know more grammar than any so-called English teacher and have read more literature more closely than they can possibly have done, any of them. The thing is I don't let the grammar bind me or the literature force me."

"Anyone who writes ungrammatical twaddle can say the same," said Avalon.

"That means something, Jeff," said Rubin hotly, "only if you're prepared to say that I write ungrammatical twaddle."

Having disposed of his wild rice and somewhat neglecting the stuffing, Rubin began an eloquent dissertation on the damage done to young minds by those academic delinquents and took on the other five members as each raised objections until the poire au vin was served and the coffee was poured.

"Can I have a glass of milk, instead?" said Atwood apologetically.

Henry's assent was lost in Rubin's triumphant "There you are. Any English teacher would have said, 'May I have a glass of milk?' but Atwood knows he may. The question is, does the restaurant have milk to serve? Therefore, 'can' he, not 'may' he?"

Atwood said, "Actually, my grammar has always been poor and maybe I should have said-"

Halsted rapped his spoon against the water glass and said, "Enough grammar, Manny, enough. It's time for our guest."

"And that's why," said Rubin in a parting shot, "I don't collect reviews, because any English-lit type who would waste his time writing reviews-"

"He collects only favorable ones," said Gonzalo. "I know. He showed me his empty scrapbook."

Halsted's spoon kept up a series of chimes and finally he said, "My friend Stuart-Mr. Atwood's nephew- happened to mention, a couple of weeks ago, that Mr. Atwood had a literary problem. Naturally, I was interested-for reasons we all understand-and inquired further. It turned out Stu didn't know much about it. I got in touch with Mr. Atwood and he told me enough to make me think he would make an excellent guest for this meeting. Since I am hosting and he kindly consented to come-"

Avalon harumphed stentoriously. "I trust Mr. Atwood understands that he may be cross-examined rather-"

"I explained it all thoroughly, Jeff," said Halsted. "I also explained to him that everything that goes on here is confidential. As it happens, Mr. Atwood is rather interested in a solution to his problem, and is anxious to have us help."

Trumbull's dark face lined into savage creases. "God damn it, Roger, you haven't guaranteed a solution, have you?"

"No, but we've got a fair record," said Halsted complacently.

"All right, then. Let's begin… Henry! Is the brandy on the way?… Who does the grilling, Roger?"

"Why, you, Tom."

The brandy was being poured neatly into the small glasses. Atwood raised his hand in a timid negative and Henry passed him. He turned his bright blue eyes toward Trumbull, "Am I to be grilled?"

"Only a manner of speaking, sir. We are interested in your literary problem. Would you care to tell us about it in whatever way you please? We will ask questions when that seems advisable, if you don't mind."

"Oh, I won't mind," said Atwood cheerfully. His eyes darted from one to the other. "I warn you that it isn't much of a mystery-except that I don't know what to make of it."

"Well, we might not know, either," said Gonzalo, touching his brandy to his lips.

Drake, who was nursing the remains of a cold and who had to cut down on his smoking in consequence, stubbed out a half-finished cigarette morosely, and said, "We'll never know if we don't hear what it is." He blew his nose into a bright red handkerchief and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

"Won't you go on, Mr. Atwood?" said Trumbull. "And let's have some silence from the rest of you."

Atwood folded his hands on the edge of the table almost as though he were back in grade school, and a formal intonation colored his words. He was reciting.

"This all involves my friend Lyon Sanders, who was, like myself, a retired civil engineer. We had never actually worked together but we had been neighbors for a quarter-century and were very close. I am a bachelor; he was a childless widower; and we both led lives that might, superficially, have seemed lonely. Neither of us was, however, for we had each carved out a comfortable niche.

"I myself have written a text on civil engineering which has had some success and for some years I have been preparing a rather elaborate, if informal, tale of my experiences in the field. I doubt that it will ever be published but, of course, if it is-

"But that's beside the point. Sanders was a more aggressive person by far than ever 1 was; louder; more raucous; with a rather coarse sense of humor. He was a games person-"

Rubin interrupted. "A sports enthusiast?"

"No, no. Indoor games. I believe he knew and could play well every card game ever invented. He could play anything else, too, that used counters, pointers, dice boards, cups, anything. He was a master at Chinese checkers, parcheesi, backgammon, Monopoly, checkers, chess, go, three-dimensional ticktacktoe. 1 couldn't even tell you the names of most of the games he played.

"He read books on the subject and he invented games himself. Some were clever and I would suggest he patent them and place them on the market. But that was not what he wanted at all. It was only his own amusement that interested him. That was where I came in, you see. I was what he sharpened his analyses on."

Trumbull said, "In what way?"

"Well," said Atwood, "when I say he played those games, I do not mean in the ordinary sense of the word. He analyzed them carefully, almost as though they involved engineering principles-"

"They do," said Rubin suddenly. "Any decent game can be analyzed mathematically. There's a whole field of recreational mathematics."

"I know this," Atwood managed to interpose gently, "but I don't know that Sanders went at it in any orthodox manner. He never offered to explain it to me and I never bothered to ask.

"Our routine over the last twenty years was to spend the weekend at the games, applying what had been learned over the week, for often he would spend time teaching me. Not out of any urge to educate, you understand, but merely to make the game more interesting for

himself by improving the opposition. We might play bridge ten weeks running, then switch to gin rummy, then to something in which I had to match numbers he thought of. Naturally, he almost always won."

Drake looked at an unlit cigarette as though he wished it would light itself and said, "Didn't that depress you?"

"Not really. It was fun trying to beat him and sometimes I did. I beat him just often enough to keep up my interest."

"Do you suppose he let you win?" said Gonzalo.

"I doubt it. My victories would always either enrage or chagrin him and they would send him into a fury of further analyses. 1 think he enjoyed it a little, too, for when he had too long a string of unbroken victories he would start educating me. It was a strange relationship but it worked. We were very fond of each other."

"Were?" asked Avalon.

"Yes," sighed Atwood. "He died six months ago. It was no great shock. We both saw it coming. Of course, I miss him dreadfully. The weekends are quite empty now. I even miss the rowdy way in which he poked fun at me. He bullied me constantly. He never wearied of making fun of me for being a teetotaler and he never stopped teasing me about my religion."

"He was an atheist?" asked Gonzalo.

"Not particularly. In fact, neither of us went to church often. It's just that he was brought up one brand of Protestant and I another. He called mine high-church and found nothing so humorous as to tease me over the elaborateness of the worship I skipped every Sunday in comparison to the simplicity of the worship he skipped every Sunday."

Trumbull frowned. "I should think that would annoy you. Didn't you ever feel like taking a poke at him?"

"Never. It was just his way," said Atwood. "Nor need you think that poor Lyon's death was in the least suspicious. You needn't search for any motives of that kind. He died at the age of sixty-eight of complications from a mi!d but long-standing case of diabetes.

"He had said that he was going to leave me something in his will. He expected to die before I did, you see, and he said it was to compensate me for my patience in accepting defeat. Actually, I'm sure it was out of affection, but he would be the last to admit that.

"It was only in the last year before his death, when he knew he was failing, that this began to enter into our conversations. Naturally I protested that this was no fit subject for talk and that he merely made me uncomfortable. But he laughed one time and said, 'I won't make it easy for you, you genuflecting idol worshipper.' You see, just thinking about him makes me fall into his way of talking. I don't know that that's exactly what he called me at this time, but it was something. Anyway, leaving out the epithets, he said, 'I won't make it easy for you. We'll be playing games to the end.'

"He said that on what turned out to be his deathbed. I was all he had, except for the various hospital personnel that hovered about impersonally. He had distant relatives, but none of them visited. Then late in the evening, when I wondered if I ought to leave and return the next morning, he turned his head to me and said in a voice that seemed almost normal, The curious omission in Alice.'

"Naturally, I said, 'What?'

"But he laughed very weakly and said, That's all you get, old friend, all you get.' And his eyes closed, and he was dead."

Rubin said, "A dying hint!"

Avalon said, "You say his voice was clear?"

"Quite clear," said Atwood.

"And you heard him plainly?"

"Quite plainly," said Atwood.

"You sure he didn't say, The curious admission of Wallace'?"

Gonzalo said, "Or The furious decision in Dallas.' "

Atwood said, "Please, I haven't finished the story. I was at the reading of the will. I was asked to be. Also present were several of the distant relatives who hadn't visited poor Lyon. There were cousins and a young grand-niece. Lyon wasn't a really rich man, but he left bequests to each of them, and one to an old servant, and one to his school. I came last. I received ten thousand dollars which had been placed in a safe-deposit box for me and for which I would be given the key on request.

"When the will was read and done with, I asked the lawyer for the key to the safe-deposit box. There is no use denying that I can find perfectly good use for ten thousand dollars. The lawyer said that I must apply to the bank in which the box was to be found. If I failed to do so in one year from that date, the bequest was revoked and was to be otherwise disposed of.

"Naturally, I asked where the bank was located and the lawyer said that except for the fact that it was located somewhere in the United States he could not say. He had no further information except for one envelope which he had been instructed to hand to me and which he hoped would be useful. He had one other envelope for himself which was to be opened at the end of one year if I had not, by then, claimed the money.

"I accepted my envelope and found inside only the words I had heard from my friend's dying lips. 'The curious omission in Alice.'… And that's where the matter now stands."

Trumbull said, "You mean you haven't got your ten thousand dollars?"

"I mean I haven't located the bank. Six months have passed and I have six months more."

Gonzalo said, "The phrase might be an anagram. Maybe if you rearrange the letters you will get the name of the bank."

Atwood shrugged. "It's a possibility I've thought of. I can't remember Sanders ever playing anagrams, but I've tried that sort of thing. I haven't come up with anything hopeful."

Drake, who blew his nose again and looked as though he had no patience at the moment with careful reasoning, said, "Why don't you just go into every bank in White Plains and ask if there is a key to a safe-deposit box put away in your name?"

Avalon shook his head. "Scarcely playing the game, Jim," he said severely.

"Ten thousand dollars is no game," said Gonzalo.

Atwood said, "I admit that I would feel as though I were cheating if 1 simply tried to solve it by hit-or-miss, but I must also admit that I cheated. I tried the banks in several neighboring communities as well as in White Plains. I drew a blank. I'm not surprised at that, though. It's unlikely he would place it near home. He had the whole country to choose from."

"Did he make any trips out of town the last year of his life-during the time he started talking will to you?" asked Halsted.

"I don't think so," said Atwood. "But then he wouldn't have to. His lawyer could attend to that part."

"Well," said Trumbull, "let's try it this way. You've had six months to think about it. What conclusions have you come to?"

"Nothing on the message itself," said Atwood, "but I knew my friend well. He once told me that the best way to hide something was to make use of modern technology. Any document, any record, any set of directions could be converted into microfilm, and a tiny piece of material on which that was recorded could be hidden anywhere and never be uncovered by anything but blind luck. I suppose that the message tells me where to find the microfilm."

Rubin shrugged. "That only switches the focus of the problem. Instead of having the message tell us the location of the bank, it tells us the location of the microfilm. That still leaves us with the curious omission."

"I don't think it's quite the same," said Atwood thoughtfully. "The bank may be thousands of miles away, but the piece of microfilm, or just an ordinary piece of very thin paper, for all I know, might be close at hand. But no matter how close at hand, it might as well be a thousand miles away." He sighed. "Poor Lyon will win this game, too, I'm afraid."

Trumbull said, "If we tackled the problem for you, and managed to solve it, Mr. Atwood, would you feel you had been cheating?"

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Atwood, "but I would accept the ten thousand gladly just the same."

Halsted said curiously, "Have you got some idea as to the moaning of the message, Tom?"

"No," said Trumbull, "but if, as Mr. Atwood says, we're looking for a tiny message in a nearby and accessible place, and if we assumed that Mr. Sanders played fair, then maybe we could carry through some eliminations… To whom did he leave his own house, Mr. Atwood?" "To a cousin, who has since sold it." "What was done to the contents? Surely Sanders had books, games of all sorts, furniture." "Most of it was sold at auction." "Did anything go to you?"

"The cousin was kind enough to offer me whatever I wanted of such material as was not intrinsically valuable. I didn't take anything. I am not the collecting type myself."

"Would your old friend have known this of you?" "Oh, yes." Atwood stirred resdessly. "Gentlemen, I have had six months to think of this. I realize that Sanders would not have hidden the fihn in his own house since he left it to someone else and knew I would have no opportunity to search it. He had ample opportunity to hide it in my house, which he visited as often as I visited his, and it is in my house that I think it exists."

Trumbull said, "Not necessarily. He might have felt certain that there would be some favorite books, some certain memento, you would have asked for."

"No," said Atwood. "How could he be certain I would? He would have left such an item to me in his will."

"That would give it away," said Avalon. "Are you sure he never hinted that you ought to take something? Or that he didn't give you something casually?"

"No," said Atwood, smiling. "You have no idea how unlike Sanders that would be… I tell you. I have thought that since he gave me a year to find it, he must have been pretty confident that it would stay in place for

that length of time. It wouldn't be likely to be part of something I might throw away, sell, or easily lose."

There was a murmur of agreement.

Atwood said, "He might very likely have pasted it over the molding of a wall, somewhere on the undersurface of a heavy piece of furniture, inside the refrigerator-you see what I mean."

"Have you looked?" said Gonzalo.

"Oh, yes," said Atwood. "This little game has kept me busy. I've spent considerable spare time going over moldings and under-surfaces and drawers and various insides. I've even spent time in the cellar and the attic."

"Obviously," said Trumbull, "you haven't found anything or we wouldn't be talking about it now."

"No, I haven't-but that doesn't mean anything. The thing I'm after might be so small as to be barely visible. Probably is. I could look right at it and miss it, unless I knew I was in the right place and was somehow prepared to see it, if you know what I mean."

"Which brings us back," said Avalon heavily, "to the message. If you understood it, you would know where to look and you would see it."

"Ah," said Atwood, "if I understood."

"Well, it seems to me," said Avalon, "that the key word is 'Alice.' Does that name have any personal significance to you? Is it the name of someone you both knew? Is it the name of Sanders' dead wife, for instance? The nickname of some object? Some private joke you shared?"

"No. No to all of that."

Avalon smiled, showing his even teeth beneath his neatly trimmed, ever so slightly graying mustache. "Then I would say that 'Alice' must refer to far and away the most famous Alice in the minds of men-Alice in Wonderland."

"Of course," said Atwood, in clear surprise. "That's what makes it a literary puzzle and that's why I turned to my nephew who teaches English literature. I assumed at the start it was a reference to the Lewis Carroll classic.

Sanders was an Alice enthusiast. He had a collection of various editions of the book, and he had reproductions of the Tenniel illustrations all over the house."

"You never told us that," said Avalon in hurt tones.

Atwood said, "Haven't I? I'm sorry. It's one of those things I know so well, I somehow expect everyone to know it."

"We might have expected it," said Trumbull, the corners of his mouth twisting down. "Alice involves herself with a deck of cards in the book."

"It always helps to have all pertinent information," said Avalon stiffly.

"Well, then," said Trumbull, "that brings us to the curious omission in Alice in Wonderland… And what curious omission is that? Have you any thoughts in that direction, Mr. Atwood?"

"No," said Atwood. "I read Alice as a child and have never returned to it-until the bequest, of course. I must admit I've never seen its charm."

"Good Lord," muttered Drake under his breath. Atwood heard him, for he turned his head sharply in Drake's direction. "I don't deny there may be charm for others but I have never seen the fun in word play. I'm not surprised Sanders enjoyed the book, though. His sense of humor was rather raucous and primitive. In any case, my dislike was compounded by my annoyance at having to detect an omission. I did not wish to have to study the book that closely. I hoped my nephew would help." "A teacher of literature!" said Rubin derisively. "Shut up, Manny," said Trumbull. "What did your nephew say, Mr. Atwood?"

"As it happens," said Atwood, "Mr. Rubin is right. My nephew was entirely at sea. He said there were a few passages in the original version of the story that Lewis Carroll had himself written in long hand that did not appear in the final published version. As it happens, an edition of the prepublished version is available now. I obtained a copy and checked through it. I found nothing that seemed significant to me."

Gonzalo said, "Listen! Where we go wrong, Henry always tells us, is in getting too damned complex. Why don't we look at the message? It says, 'The curious omission in Alice.' Maybe we don't have to look at the book. There is a curious omission in the message itself. The name of the book isn't Alice. It's Alice in Wonderland.

Avalon emerged from his wounded silence long enough to say, "It's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, if you wish to be accurate."

"All right," said Gonzalo, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Then we ought to concentrate on the rest of the title, which is omitted in the message… Isn't that right, Henry?"

Henry, standing quietly by the sideboard, said, "It is certainly an interesting point, Mr. Gonzalo."

"Interesting, hell," said Trumbull. "What's curious about it? It's an omission of convenience. Lots of people would say Alice."

Halsted said, "Quite apart from that, I don't see what Adventures in Wonderland would mean. It's no more helpful than the original message. Here's my idea. Alice in Wonderland-beg pardon, Jeff, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland-contains verses, most of which are parodies of well-established poems of the day-"

"Poor ones," said Rubin.

"Beside the point," said Halsted. "They are not perfect parodies, however. Some verses are omitted. For instance, Alice recites a poem beginning 'How doth the little crocodile,' which is a parody of Isaac Watts's dreadful poem 'How doth 'the little busy bee,' though I don't think that's the actual title of the poem. Alice recites only two stanzas and I'm sure Watts's poem has at least four. Maybe the answer lies in the missing verses of the original."

"Is that a curious omission?" said Trumbull.

"I don't know. I don't remember the original version except for the first line, but it should be looked up… The other originals to the parodies should be studied, too."

"I'll be glad to do so," said Atwood politely. "The point had not occurred to me."

Drake said, "I think that's a crock of crud. The message refers to a curious omission in Alice. I think it means in Alice as it now stands and not in some outside source." "You can't know that," protested Halsted. "Yes, but that's the point," said Trumbull. "It seems to me that if we get the right answer, we'll know at once it's right, and if we work out something that only uncovers a new layer of puzzle, that's just wrong."

Avalon said, "Well, nothing more occurs to me. Do we ask Henry?"

Atwood looked puzzled, and Avalon went on, "You have to understand, Mr. Atwood, that Henry, whose pleasure it seems to be to wait on us, has the faculty for seeing past complications."

Gonzalo said, "That's what I tried to do and you all ran me down… Henry, isn't the answer in the full title of the book?"

Henry smiled regretfully and said, "Gentlemen, you must not put more on my shoulders than I can carry. I do not know the book very well, though I've read it, of course. If I'm to penetrate the meaning of the puzzle, it will have to be very simple."

"If it were very simple," said Atwood, "we would have seen it."

"Perhaps," said Henry, "yet it seems to me it must be simple. Surely, your friend, Mr. Sanders, wanted you to have the bequest. He put it in a game, and made a contest out of it, because that was his way, but he must have wanted you to win."

Atwood nodded. "I would think so." "Then let's look for something very simple he felt you would surely see, but just subtle enough, perhaps, to make the game interesting. As I said, I don't know the book very well, so I'll have to ask questions."

"Very well, sir. Mr. Trumbull said Alice in Wonderland involved a deck of cards, and I do remember, from the Disney cartoon version more than from anything else, that the Queen of Hearts kept shouting 'Off with his head.' "

"Yes," said Avalon. "A female Henry VIII. The King of Hearts and the Knave of Hearts are also involved."

"Any other cards?"

"They're all mentioned," said Avalon. "The hearts are the royal family, the clubs are soldiers, the diamonds courtiers, the spades workmen. Three of the spades have speaking parts, the two, the five, and the nine… Do you agree with me, Atwood?"

"Yes," said Atwood grimly. "It's fresh in my mind."

Trumbull said, "1 suspect Henry is going to ask if any of the cards were omitted. Only a few are mentioned specifically-"

"The six I listed," said Avalon. "The King, Queen, and Knave of Hearts; the two, five, and nine of spades."

"But so what?" said Trumbull. "As many as necessary were mentioned and the rest were there in the background. There's nothing 'curious' about that. I insist on respecting the word 'curious.' "

Henry nodded, then said, "Are you an Episcopalian, Mr. Atwood?"

"I was brought up an Episcopalian. Why do you ask?"

"You said Mr. Sanders teased you about your high-church proclivities and you said you were a Protestant. Putting those together, I felt you might be an Episcopalian… Do you have a chess set, Mr. Atwood?"

"Certainly!"

"Yours? Or was it a present from Mr. Sanders?"

"Oh, no, mine. A rather beautiful set that belonged to my father. Sanders and I played many a game on it."

Henry nodded. "I ask because it seems to me that we've all discussed Alice in Wonderland without mentioning that there was a sequel."

"Through the Looking-Glass," said Avalon. "Yes, of course."

"Might that not be considered as included in the word Alice?"

Avalon nodded. "Certainly. As it happens, the full title is Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, so it surely bears as much right to be referred to as Alice as the other does."

"And isn't Through the Looking-Glass about chessmen?"

"Absolutely," said Avalon benevolently, his role as recognized expert having completely restored his good humor. "The Red and White Queens are important characters. The White King has a speaking role but the Red King just sleeps under a tree." "And there are knights, too?"

Avalon nodded. "The White Knight has a battle with the Red Knight and then escorts Alice to the final square. He's the most amiable character in either book and the only one who seems to like Alice, He's usually considered a serf-portrait by Carroll."

"Yes, yes," said Trumbull testily. "What are you getting at, Henry?"

"I'm looking for omissions. There is a reference to a white pawn at the start of the book, I think."

Avalon said, "I don't think you're as unknowledgeable about the books as you pretend, Henry. There is a mention of a white pawn named Lily in the first chapter. Alice herself plays the part of a white pawn, too, and is eventually promoted to a white queen."

"And rooks?" said Henry. Avalon frowned in silence for a while, then shook his head.

Atwood interposed. "There's a reference to them. Take my word for it; I know the stupid books practically by heart. In Chapter 1, Alice enters the Looking-Glass house, sees chessmen moving about, and says to herself, 'and here are two Castles walking arm in arm.' The castles, of course, are also called rooks.

Henry said, "That accounts, then, for the King, Queen, Rook, Knight, and Pawn. But there is a sixth chesspiece, the Bishop. Does it play a role in the book or is it even mentioned?"

Avalon said, "No."

Atwood said, "Two bishops are shown in one of the illustrations to the first chapter."

"That's Tenniel's work," said Henry, "not Carroll's. Now isn't the total absence of the Bishop a curious omission?"

"I don't know," said Avalon slowly. "Lewis Carroll, a thorough-going Victorian, probably feared giving offense to the Church."

"Isn't it curious to have him go so far in avoiding offense?"

"Well, supposing it is?" asked Halsted.

Henry said, "I think it possible that if Mr. Atwood checks the four bishops of his set, a set which Mr. Sanders knew Mr. Atwood cherished and would neither sell, give away, or lose, he will probably find the piece of film. If the head comes off, he should look inside. If the head doesn't come off, pull off the piece of felt it stands on."

There was an uncomfortable silence. "That's farfetched, Henry," said Trumbull.

"Perhaps not, sir," said Henry. "Mr. Sanders has more than once been described as having a raucous sense of humor. He teased Mr. Atwood constantly about his religion. Perhaps this final message is another way of continuing the joke. You are an Episcopalian, Mr. Atwood, and I suppose you know what the word means."

"It's from the Greek word for bishop," said Atwood, half choking.

"I imagine, then," said Henry, "Mr. Sanders might think it funny to hide the message in a bishop."

Atwood started to his feet. "I think I had better go home."

"I'll take you," said Halsted.

"I think the snow has stopped," said Henry, "but drive carefully."

This, in a way, is a twice-told tale.

At a time before I had begun the Black Widowers series, I was asked by Union Carbide Corporation to write a short mystery without a solution for a contest they were running for their employees, who were to supply solutions, with myself making the final judgment on excellence.

Well, I wrote the short mystery, which was rather like the story you have just read. The contest was carried through successfully (two other writers also supplied short mysteries) and all was well.

However, I was made restless by the fact that the short mystery I wrote was never published-except on the book jacket of an edition of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes which was given out to the contest applicants. That seemed a waste to me, and I abhor literary waste. It was especially annoying since the story appeared without my solution.

So I completely rewrote the story, lengthening it a good deal, placing it against the Black Widower background, and now I feel ever so much better. Especially since now my solution is included.