Trambull said, "Come on, Henry. That's silly." Henry said, "But then what about a break-in where virtually nothing was taken?"

"Nuts," said Rubin. "Jane came back too soon. If she had stayed away five minutes more, the stereo would have been gone."

Trumbull said, "Look here, Henry. You've done some remarkable things in the past and I wouldn't totally dismiss anything you say. Just the same, this is very thin."

"Perhaps I can present evidence."

"What kind?"

"It would involve the recordings Mr. Rubin made of the banging. Could you get them, Mr. Rubin?"

Rubin said, "Easiest thing in the world." He stepped through an archway.

Trumbull said, "Henry, if you think I'm going to listen to some stupid hammering and tell you if it's in code, you're crazy."

"Mr. Trumbull," said Henry, "what connections you have with the government, I don't know, but it is my guess that in a few moments you will want to get in touch with the proper people and my suggestion is that you begin by having the doorman thoroughly questioned, and that-"

Rubin came back, frowning and red-faced. "Funny. I can't find them. I thought I knew exactly where they were supposed to be. They're not there. So much for your evidence, Henry. I'll have to… Did I leave them somewhere?"

"It's the absence that's the evidence, Mr. Rubin," said Henry, "and I think we know now what the burglar was after, and why there's been no hammering since."

Trumbull said hastily, "I'd better make-" Then he paused as the doorbell sounded.

For a moment all were frozen, then Rubin muttered,

"Don't tell me Jane is getting home early." He rose heavily, moved to the door, and peered out the peephole.

He stared a moment, then said, "What the hell!" and flung the door open. The doorman was standing there, red-faced and clearly uneasy.

The doorman said, "It took time to get someone to stand in for me… Listen," he said, his eyes darting uneasily from person to person. "I don't want trouble, but-"

"Close the door, Manny!" cried Trumbull.

Rubin pulled the doorman inside and closed the door. "What is it, Charlie?"

"It's been getting to me. And now someone asked me about troubles here… You did, sir," he said to Avalon. "Then more people came and I think I know what it must be about. I guess some of you are investigating the break-in and I didn't know what was going on but I guess I was out of line and I want to explain. This fellow-"

"Name and apartment number," said Trumbull.

"King! He's in 15-U," said Charlie.

"Okay, come into the kitchen with me. Manny, I'm going to make that phone call on the phone in here." He closed the kitchen door.

Rubin looked up, as though listening. Then he said, "Hammering messages? Who'd believe it?"

"Exactly why it worked, Mr. Rubin," said Henry softly, "and might have continued to work had there not been in the same apartment house a writer of your-if I may say so-marked eccentricity."

This story, and the two that follow, did not appear in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, but, as I explained in the Introduction, were written especially for the book.

This one is an example of how writing enriches one's life. The business about hearing mysterious banging from one's apartment is taken from actual fact. Someone in my apartment house bangs away at all hours. I've never taken the strong action Manny Rubin took, but have contented myself with shaking my head and gritting my teeth.

I was getting more and more irritated at it and might have worked myself into an ulcer when it occurred to me that I might use it as the central point of a short story. So I did. This one.

Now when I hear the banging (it isn't really so often or so bad) I just shrug cheerfully and remember that it supplied me with a story. Then I don't mind it at all.

It was general knowledge among the Black Widowers that Geoffrey Avalon had served as an officer in World War II and had reached the rank of major. He had never seen active service, as far as any of them knew, however, and he never talked about wartime experiences. His stiff bearing, however, seemed suited to the interior of a uniform, so that it never surprised anyone to know that he had once been Major Avalon.

When he walked into the banquet room with an army officer as his guest, it seemed, therefore, entirely natural. And when he said, "This is my old army friend Colonel Samuel Davenheim," everyone greeted him cordially without so much as a raised eyebrow. Any army buddy of Avalon's was an army buddy of theirs.

Even Mario Gonzalo, who had served an uneventful hitch in the army in the late fifties, and who was known to have acerbic views concerning officers, was pleasant enough. He propped himself on one of the sideboards and began sketching. Avalon looked over Gonzalo's shoulder briefly, as though to make sure the artist member of the Black Widowers would not, somehow, draw the Colonel's head upward into a crown of ass's ears.

It would have been most inappropriate for Gonzalo to have done so, for there was every indication of clear intelligence about Davenheim. His face, round and a little plump, was emphasized by outmoded hair, short above and absent below. His mouth curved easily into a friendly smile, his voice was clear, his words crisp.

He said, "I've had you all described to me, for Jeff, as you probably all know, is a methodical man. I ought to be able to identify you all. For instance, you're Emmanuel Rubin since you're short, have thick glasses, a sparse beard-"

"Straggly beard," said Rubin, unoffended, "is what Jeff usually calls it because his own is dense, but I've never found that density of facial hair implies-"

"And are talkative," said Davenheim firmly, overriding the other with the calm authority of a colonel. "And you're a writer… You're Mario Gonzalo, the artist, and I don't even need your description since you're drawing… Roger Halsted, mathematician, partly bald. The only member without a full head of hair, so that's easy… James Drake, or, rather, Dr. James Drake-"

"We're all doctors by virtue of being Black Widowers," said Drake from behind a curl of cigarette smoke.

"You're right, and Jeff explained that carefully. You're Doctor Doctor Drake because you smell of tobacco smoke at ten feet."

"Well, Jeff should know," said Drake philosophically. "And Thomas Trumbull," said Davenheim, "because you're scowling, and by elimination… Have I got everyone?"

"Only the members," said Halsted. "You've left out Henry, who's all-important."

Davenheim looked about, puzzled. "Henry?"

"The waiter," said Avalon, flushing and staring at his drink. "I'm sorry, Henry, but I didn't know what to tell Colonel Davenheim about you. To say you're the waiter is ridiculously insufficient and to say more would endanger Black Widower confidentiality."

"I understand," said Henry agreeably, "but I think it would be well to serve the Colonel. What is your pleasure, sir?"

For a moment the Colonel looked blank. "Oh, you mean drinks? No, that's all right. I don't drink."

"Some ginger ale, perhaps?"

"All right." Davenheim was plainly grasping at straws. "That will be fine."

Trumbull smiled. "The life of a non-drinker is a difficult one."

"Something wet must be pressed on one," said Davenheim wryly. "I've never managed to adjust."

Gonzalo said, "Have a cherry put in your ginger ale. Or better yet, put water in a cocktail glass and add an olive. Then drink and replace the water periodically. Everyone will admire you as a man who can hold his liquor. Though, frankly, I've never seen an officer who could-"