More Tales of the Black Widowers by Isaac Asimov Read Free Book Online

too.”
    Rubin snorted and said, “You might have told us you had a man in the kitchen.”
    “I might have,” said Bunsen, “but Tom told me it would be best to tell you as little as possible and let you think from scratch.”
    Avalon said, “If you had incorporated a tiny radio transmitter in the object—”
    “Then we would have been characters in a James Bond movie. Unfortunately, we must allow for expertise on the other side as well. If we had tried any such thing, they would have tumbled to it. No, the trap had to be absolutely clean.” Bunsen looked depressed. “I put a hell of a lot of time and effort into it.” He looked about and the depression on his face deepened. “Well, Tom, are we through here?”
    Trumbull said unhappily, “Wait a minute, Bob. Damn it, Henry—”
    Bunsen said, “What do you want the waiter to do?”
    Trumbull said, “Come on, Henry. Doesn't anything occur to you?”
    Henry sighed gently. “Something did, quite a while back, but I was hoping it would be eliminated.”
    “Something quite plain and simple, Henry?” said Avalon.
    “I'm afraid so, sir.”
    Avalon said, turning to Bunsen, “Henry is an honest man and lacks all trace of the devious mind. When we are through making fools of ourselves over complexities, he picks up the one straight thread we have overlooked.”
    Henry said thoughtfully, “Are you sure you wish me to speak, Mr. Bunsen?”
    “Yes. Go on.”
    “Well then, when your Mr. Smith left the restaurant, I assume that your men inside did not follow him out.”
    “No, of course not. They had their own work inside. They had to make sure he had left nothing behind that was significant.”
    “And the man in the kitchen stayed there?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well then, outside the restaurant, the taxi driver was your man; but it would seem fair to suppose that he had to keep his eye on the traffic so as to be able to be in a position where he could maneuver himself to the curb just in time to pick up Smith; no sooner, no later.”
    “And a very good job he did. In fact, when the doorman hailed him, he neatly cut out another cab.” Bunsen chuckled softly.
    “Was the doorman one of your men?” asked Henry.
    “No, he was a regular employee of the restaurant.”
    “Did you have a man on the street at all?”
    “If you mean actually standing on the street, no.”
    “Then surely there was a moment or two after Smith had left the restaurant, and before he had entered the taxi, when he was not being watched—if I may call it so—professionally.”
    Bunsen said with a trace of contempt, “You forget that I was across the street, at a window, with a pair of binoculars. I saw him quite well. I saw the taxi man pick him up. From the door of the restaurant to the door of the taxi took, I should say, not more than fifteen seconds, and I had him in view at every moment.”
    Rubin suddenly interrupted. “Even when you were distracted watching the taxi man maneuver to the curb?” He was universally shushed, but Bunsen said, “Even then.” Henry said, “I don’t forget that you were watching, Mr. Bunsen, but you have said you do not have the proper appearance for that kind of work. You do not watch, professionally.”
    “I have eyes,” said Bunsen, and there was more than merely a trace of contempt now. “Or will you tell me the hand is quicker than the eye?”
    “Sometimes even when the hand is quite slow, I think.—Mr. Bunsen, you arrived late and did not hear Mr. Gonzalo's tale. He had paid a taxi driver exactly the fare recorded on the meter, and so customary is it to pay more than that, that every one of us was shocked. Even I expressed disapproval. It is only when the completely customary is violated that the event is noticed. When it takes place, it is apt to be totally ignored.”
    Bunsen said, “Are you trying to tell me that something was wrong with the taxi driver? I tell you there wasn't.”
    “I am sure of that,” said Henry earnestly. “Still,