"Maybe it's just associated with army life. It's a march associated with the Revolutionary War," said Drake.
"Then why only with me, not with anyone else in the army?"
Rubin said, "Okay, let's pretend 'Yankee Doodle' means something in this connection. What can we lose? So let's consider how it goes. . . . For God's sake, Jeff, don't sing it."
Avalon, who had opened his mouth with the clear intention of singing, closed it with a snap. His ability to hold a true note rivaled that of an oyster and in his saner moments he knew it. He said, with a trace of hauteur, "I will recite the words!"
"Good," said Rubin, "but no singing."
Avalon, looking stern, struck an attitude and began declaiming in his most resonant baritone:
"Yankee Doodle went to town
A-nding on a pony.
Stuck a feather in his cap
And called it macaroni.
Yankee Doodle, keep it up,
Yankee Doodle dandy.
Mind the music and the step
And with the girls be handy."
Gonzalo said, "It's just a nonsense lyric."
"Nonsense, hell," said Rubin indignantly, and his straggly beard quivered. "It makes perfect sense. It's a satire on the country boy written by a city slicker. 'Doodle' is any primitive country instrument-a bagpipe, for instance-so a Yankee Doodle is a backwoods New Eng-lander who's no more sophisticated than a bagpipe. He comes to town on his pony intent on cutting a fine figure, so he wears what he thinks are city clothes. He wears a feather in his hat and thinks he's a real dude. And in the late eighteenth century, that's what a 'macaroni' was, a city hepcat dressed in the latest style.
"The last four lines are the chorus and show the country boy stepping it up at a city dance. He is mockingly told to stamp away and be gallant to the ladies. The word 'dandy,' which first came into use about mid-eighteenth century, meant the same as 'macaroni.' "
Gonzalo said, "Okay, Manny, you win. It's not nonsense. But how does it help Sam's case?"
"I don't think it does," said Rubin. "Sorry, Sam, but Klotz sounds like a country boy making a fool of the city slicker and he can't help but think of the derisive song and how he's turning the tables on you."
Davenheim said, "I presume, Manny, that you think he must be a country boy because his name is Klotz. By that reasoning you must be a rube because your name is Rubin. Actually, Klotz was born and brought up in Philadelphia and I doubt that he's ever seen a farm. No country boy, he."
"All right," said Rubin, "then I might have been looking at the wrong end of the stick. He's the city slicker looking down on you, Sam."
"Because I'm a country boy? I was born in Stoneham, Massachusetts, and went through Harvard right up to my law degree. And he knows that, too. He has made enough roundabout references to it in his matador moments."
Drake said, "Doesn't your Massachusetts birth and upbringing make you a Yankee?"
"Not a Yankee Doodle," said Davenheim stubbornly.
"He might think so," said Drake.
Davenheim thought about that a while, then said, "Yes, I suppose he might. But if so, surely he would hum it openly, derisively. The point is, I think he's humming it unconsciously. It has a connection with something he's trying to hide, not something he's trying to show."
Halsted said, "Maybe he's looking forward to a future when he's going to be enriched by his crimes and when he'll be able to strut his way to town; when he can 'stick a feather in his cap' in other words."
Drake said, "Or maybe Klotz is thinking that his treatment of you is a feather in his cap."
Gonzalo said, "Maybe some particular word has significance. Suppose 'macaroni' means he's hooked up with the Mafia. Or suppose 'with the girls be handy' means that some Wac is involved. They still have Wacs in the army, don't they?"
It was at this point that Henry said, "I wonder, Mr. Avalon, if, as host, you will permit me to ask a few questions."
Avalon said, "Come on, Henry. You know you can at any time."
"Thank you, sir. Would the Colonel grant me the same permission?"
Davenheim looked surprised, but said, "Well, you're here, Henry, so you might as well."
Henry said, "Mr. Avalon recited eight lines of 'Yankee Doodle'-four lines of a verse followed by the four lines of the chorus. But verse and chorus have different tunes. Did Private Klotz hum all eight lines?"
Davenheim thought a moment. "No, of course not. He hummed--uh-" He closed his eyes, concentrated, and went "Dum-dum dum-dum dum-dum-dum, dum-dum dum-dum dum-du-u-um-dum. That's all. The first two lines."
"Of the verse?"
"That's right. 'Yankee Doodle went to town, A-riding on a pony.'"
"Always those two lines?" "Yes, I think always."
Drake brushed some crumbs from the table. "Colonel, you say this humming took place when the questioning was particularly tense. Did you pay particular attention to exactly what was being discussed at those times?" "Yes, of course, but I prefer not to go into detail." "I understand, but perhaps you can tell me this. At those times, was it he himself who was under discussion or Sergeant Farber as well?"
"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.
Afterword
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.
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.
Hen
ry'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?"