More Tales of the Black Widowers (18 page)

Presented their presents

With humble obeisance To the King of the Israelite nation.”

“King of the Jews,” muttered Avalon under his breath.

“You just tossed that off?” asked Brown.

Roger flushed a little. “It gets easy when you have the meter firmly fixed in your head.”

Brown said, “I don't know that that one's usable, but I sell one or two that are not too distant from that sort of thing.”

“I wish,” said Avalon, with a trace of discontent on his handsome, dark-browed face, “that you had brought some samples.”

Brown said, “I didn't know it would be the kind of dinner where that would be expected. If you want samples, though, my wife is the one for you. Clara is the real expert.”

“Is she in greeting cards too?” asked Gonzalo, his large, slightly protuberant eyes filled with interest

“No, not really. She grew interested in them through me,” said Brown. “She began to collect interesting ones, and then her friends began to collect them and send them to her. Over the last ten or twelve years, the thing has been getting more and more elaborate. Christmastime especially, of course, since that is greeting-card time par excellence. There isn't a holiday, though, on which she doesn't receive a load of unusual cards. Just to show you, last September she got forty-two Jewish New Year cards, and we're Methodists.”

Rubin said, “Jewish New Year cards are usually pretty tame.”

“Usually, but people managed to find some dillies. She put them up on the mantelpiece and you never saw such a fancy collection of variations on the theme of the Star of David and the Tablets of the Law. —But it's Christmastime that counts. She practically papers the walls with cards and the apartment becomes a kind of fairyland, if I may use the term without being misunderstood.

“In fact, gentlemen, if you're really interested in seeing samples of unusual greeting cards, you're invited to my apartment. We have open house the week before Christmas. All the people who send cards come around to see where and how theirs contribute. Practically everyone from the apartment house comes too, and it's a large one—to say nothing of the repairman, doorman, postman, delivery boys, and who knows how many others from blocks around. I keep telling her we'll have to get the apartment declared a national landmark.”

“I feel sorry for your postman,” said Drake in his softly hoarse smoker's voice.

Brown said, “Don't be. He takes a proprietary interest and gives us special treatment. He never leaves our mail in the box—even when it would fit there. He always takes it up the elevator after all the rest of the mail has been distributed, and gives it to us personally. If no one's home, he goes back down and leaves it with the doorman.”

Drake said, “That sounds as though you have to give him a healthy tip come Christmastime.”

“A very healthy one,” said Brown. He chuckled. “I had to reassure him yesterday on that very point.”

“That you would give him a tip?”

“Yes. Clara and I were due at a luncheon and we were late, which was annoying because I had taken time off from work to attend and we dashed out of the elevator at the ground floor just as the postman was about to step into it with our mail. Clara recognized it, of course—it's always as thick as an unabridged dictionary in December—and said, 'I'll take it, Paul, thank you,' and off she whirled. The poor old guy just stood there, so caught by surprise and so shocked that I said to him, 'It's all right, Paul, not one cent off the tip.' Poor Clara!” He chuckled again.

“Why poor Clara?” asked Trumbull.

“I know,” said Gonzalo, “it wasn't your mail.”

“Of course it was our mail,” said Brown. “It's the only mail old Paul ever takes up. Listen, the days he's off they hold back the greeting-card items so he can bring them himself the next day. He's practically a family retainer.”

“Yes, but why poor Clara?” asked Trumbull, escalating the decibels.

“Oh, that. We got into our car and, since it was a half-hour drive, she counted on going through the mail rapidly and then leaving it under the seat. —But the first thing she noticed was a small envelope, obviously a greeting card, sticking out from the rest of the mail, almost as though it were going to fall out. I saw it myself when she had snatched the mail from Paul. Well, we never get small greeting cards, so she took it out and said, 'What's this?'

“She flipped the envelope open and it was a Christmas card—the blankest, nothingest, cheapest Christmas card you ever saw—and Clara said, 'Who had the nerve to send me this?' I don't think she'd as much as seen a plain card in years. It irritated her so that she just put the rest of the mail away without looking at it and chafed all the way to the luncheon.”

Halsted said, “It was probably a practical joke by one of her friends. Who sent it?'

Brown shrugged. “That's what we don't know. —It wasn't you, Roger, was it?”

“Me? Think I'm crazy? I sent her one with little jingle bells in it. Real ones. Listen,” and he turned to the others, “you really have to knock yourself out for her. You should see the apartment on Mother's Day. You wouldn't believe how many different cards have tiny little diapers in them.”

“And we don't have any children, either,” said Brown, sighing.

“Wasn't there a name on that card you got?” asked Trumbull, sticking to the subject grimly.

“Unreadable,” said Brown. “Illegible.”

Gonzalo said, “I smell a mystery here. We ought to try to find out who sent it.”

“Why?” said Trumbull, changing attitude at once.

“Why not?” said Gonzalo. “It might give Mrs. Brown a chance to get back at whoever it is.”

“I assure you,” said Brown, “you'll find no hint to the sender. Even fingerprints wouldn't help. We handled it and so did who knows how many postal employees.”

“Just the same,” said Gonzalo, “it's a pity we can't look at it.”

Brown said rather suddenly, “Oh, you can look at it I've got it.”

“You've got it?”

“Clara was going to tear it up, but I had just stopped for a red light and I said, 'Let me see it,' and I looked it over and then the green light came on and I shoved it in my coat pocket and I suppose it's still there.”

“In that case,” said Halsted, “let's see it.”

“I'll get it,” said Brown. He retired for a moment to the cloakroom and was back at once with a square envelope, pinkish in color, and handed it to Halsted. “You're welcome to pass it around.”

Halsted studied it. It had not been carefully pasted and the flap had come up without tearing. On the back was the address in its simplest possible form:

BROWN

354
cps
21C

NYC
 
10019

The handwriting was a just-legible scrawl. The stamp was a Jackson 100, the postmark was a black smear, and there was no return address.

The other side of the envelope was blank. Halsted removed the card from within and found it to be a piece of cardboard folded down the middle. The two outside surfaces were the same pink as the envelope and were blank. The inner surfaces were white. The left-hand side was blank and the right-h.ind side said “Season's Greetings” in black letters that were only minimally ornamented. Underneath was a scrawled signature beginning with what looked like a capital
D
followed by a series of diminishing waves.

Halsted passed it to Drake on his left and it made its way around the table till Avalon received it and looked at it. He passed it on to Henry, who was distributing the brandy glasses. Henry looked at it briefly and handed it back to Brown.

Brown looked up a little surprised, as though finding the angle of return an unexpected one. He said, “Thank you,” and sniffed at his brandy delicately.

“Well,” said Gonzalo, “I think the name is Danny. Do you know any Danny, Mr. Brown?”

“I know a Daniel Lindstrom,” said Brown, “but I don't think his own mother ever dared call him Danny.”

Trumbull said, “Hell, that's no Danny. It could be Donna or maybe a last name like Dormer.”

“We don't know any Donna or Donner.”

“I should think,” said Avalon, running his finger about the rim of his brandy glass, “that Mr. Brown has surely gone over every conceivable first and last name beginning with D in his circle of acquaintances. If he has not come up with an answer, I am certain we will not. If this is what Mario calls a mystery, there is certainly nothing to go on. Let's drop the subject and proceed with the grilling.”

“No,” said Gonzalo vehemently. “Not yet. Good Lord, Jeff, just because you don't see something doesn't mean there's nothing there to be seen.” He turned in his seat “Henry, you saw that card, didn't you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Henry.

“All right, then. Wouldn't you agree with me that there is a mystery worth investigating here?”

“I see nothing we can seize upon, Mr. Gonzalo,” said Henry.

Gonzalo looked hurt. “Henry, you're not usually that pessimistic.”

“We cannot manufacture evidence, surely, sir.”

“That's plain enough,” said Avalon. “If Henry says there's nothing to be done, then there's nothing to be done. Manny, continue the grilling, won't you?”

“No, damn it,” said Gonzalo, with quite unaccustomed stubbornness. “If I can't have my book of limericks, then I'm going to have my mystery. If I can show you where this card does tell us something—”

“If pigs can fly,” said Trumbull.

Halsted said, “Host's privilege. Let Mario talk.”

“Thanks, Roger.” Gonzalo rubbed his hands. “We'll do this Henry-style. You listen to me, Henry, and you'll see how it goes. We have a signature on the card and the only thing legible about it is the capital
D
. We might suppose that the
D
is enough to tell us who the signer is, but Mr. Brown says it isn't. Suppose we decided then that the
D
is the only clear part of the signature because it's the only thing that's important.”

“Wonderful,” said Trumbull, scowling. “Where does that leave us?”

“Just listen and you'll find out. Suppose the greeting card is a device to pass on information, and it is the
D
that's the code.”

“What does
D
tell you?”

“Who knows? It tells you what column to use in a certain paper, or in what row a certain automobile is parked, or in what section to find a certain locker. Who knows? Spies or criminals may be involved. Who knows?”

“That's exactly the point,” said Trumbull. “Who knows? So what good does it do us?”

“Henry,” said Gonzalo, “don't you think my argument is a good one?”

Henry smiled paternally. “It is an interesting point, sir, but there is no way of telling whether it has any value.”

“Yes, there is,” said Avalon. “And a very easy way, too. The letter is addressed to Mr. Brown. If the
D
has significance, then Mr. Brown should know what that significance is. Do you, Mr. Brown?”

“Not the faintest idea in the world,” said Brown.

“And,” said Avalon, “we can't even suppose that he has guilty knowledge which he is hiding, because if that were the case, why show us the card in the first place?”

Brown laughed. “I assure you. No guilty knowledge. At least, not about this card.”

Gonzalo said, “Okay, I'll accept that. Brown here knows nothing about the
D
, But what does that show? It shows that the letter went to him by mistake. In fact, that fits right in. Who would send a card like that to someone who makes her apartment into a Christmas card show place? It had to have gone wrong.”

Avalon said, “I don't see how that's possible. It's addressed to him.”

“No, it isn't, Jeff. It is not addressed to him. It is addressed to Brown and there must be a trillion Browns in the world.” Gonzalo's voice rose and he was distinctly flushed. “In fact, I'll bet there's another Brown in the building and the card was supposed to go to him and he would know what the
D
means. Right now this other Brown is waiting and wondering where the devil the greeting card he's expecting is and what the letter is. He's in a spot. Maybe heroin is involved, or counterfeit money or—”

“Hold on,” said Trumbull, “you're going off the diving board into a dry pool.”

“No, I'm not” said Gonzalo. “If I were this other Brown, I would figure out that it probably went to the wrong Brown, I mean the right one, the one we've got here, and I would go up to the apartment to search for it. I would say, 'I want to look at the collection,' and I would poke around but I wouldn't find it because Brown has the card right here and—”

Brown had been listening to Gonzalo's fantasy with a rather benign expression on his face, but now it was suddenly replaced by a look of deep astonishment He said, “Wait a minute!”

Gonzalo caught himself up. He said, “Wait a minute, what?”

“It's funny, but Clara said that someone had been poking around the cards today.”

Rubin said, “Oh no. You're not going to tell me that Mario's nonsense has something to it. Maybe she's just imagining it.”