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“The husband is always the last to know,” said Gonzalo sententiously.
Drake said, “If the affair was so well hidden, how did you find out, Mr. Servais?”
“Purest accident, I assure you,” said Servais. “An incredible stroke of misfortune for her in a way. I had a date for the evening. I did not know the girl well and it did not, after all, work out. I was anxious to be rid of her, but first— what would you have, it would not be gentlemanly to abandon her—I took her home in an odd corner of the city. And, having said good-by in a most perfunctory manner, I went into a nearby diner to have a cup of coffee and recover somewhat. And there I saw Mary Kaufman and a man.
“Alas, it jumped to the eye. It was late; her husband, I remembered at once, was out of town, her attitude toward the man— Accept my assurances that there is a way a woman has of looking at a man that is completely unmistakable, and I saw it then. And if I were at all unsure, the expression on her face, when she looked up and saw me frozen in surprise, gave it all away.
“I left at once, of course, with no greeting of any kind, but the damage was done. She called me the next day, in agony of mind, the fool, fearful that I would carry stories to her husband, and gave me a totally unconvincing explanation. I assured her that it was a matter in which I did not interest myself in the least, that it was something so unimportant that I had already forgotten it. —I am glad, however, I did not have to face the man. Him, I would have knocked down.”
Drake said, “Did you know the man?**
“Slightly,” said Servais. “He moved in our circles in a very distant way. I knew his name; I could recognize him.
“It didn't matter, for I never saw him after that. He was wise to stay away.”
Avalon said, “But why did she commit suicide? Was she afraid her husband would find out?”
“Is one ever afraid of that in such a case?” demanded Servais, with a slight lifting of his lip. “And if she were, surely she would end the affair. No, no, it was something far more common than that Something inevitable. In such an affair, gentlemen, there are strains and risks which are great and which actually add an element of romance. I am not entirely unaware of such things, I assure you.
“But the romance does not continue forever, whatever the story books may say, and it is bound to fade for one faster than for the other. Well then, it faded for the man in this case before it did for the woman—and the man took the kind of action one sometimes does in such affairs. He left—went—disappeared. And so the lady killed herself.”
Trumbull drew himself up and frowned ferociously. “For what reason?”
“I assume for that reason, sir. It has been known to happen. I did not know of the man's disappearance, you understand, till afterward. After the suicide I went in search of him, feeling he was in some way responsible, and rather promising myself to relieve my feelings by bloodying his nose—I have a strong affection for my partner, you understand, and I felt his sufferings—but I discovered the fine lover had left two weeks before and left no forwarding address. He had no family and it was easy for him to leave, that blackguard. I could have tracked him down, I suppose, but my feelings were not strong enough to push me that far. And yet, I feel the guilt—”
“What guilt?” asked Avalon.
“It occurred to me that when I surprised them—quite unintentionally, of course—the element of risk to the man became unacceptably high. He knew I knew him. He may have felt that sooner or later it would come out and he did not wish to await results. If I had not stumbled into that diner they might still be together, she might still be alive, who knows?”
Rubin said, “That is farfetched, Jean. You can't deal rationally with the ifs of history.—But I have a thought.”
“Yes, Manny?”
“After the suicide your partner was very quiet, nothing is important to him. I think you said that. But now he's quarreling with you violently, though he has never done that before, I gather. Something may have happened in addition to the suicide. Perhaps now he has discovered his wife's infidelity and the thought drives him mad.”
Servais shook his head. “No, no. If you think I have told him, you are quite wrong. I admit I think of telling him now and then. It is difficult to see him, my dear friend, wasting away over a woman who, after all, was not worthy of him. It is not proper to pine away for one who was not faithful to him in life. Ought I not tell him this? Frequently, it seems to me that I should and even must. He will face the truth and begin life anew. —But then I think and even know that he will not believe me, that our friendship will be broken, and he will be worse off than before.”
Rubin said, “You don't understand me. Might it not be that someone else has told him? How do you know you were the only one who knew?”
Servais seemed a bit startled. He considered it and said, “No. He would, in that case, certainly have told me the news. And I assure you, he would have told it to me with the highest degree of indignation and informed me that he at once attempted to strike the villain who would so malign his dead angel.”
“Not,” said Rubin, “if he had been told that you were his wife's lover. Even if he refused to believe it, even if he beat the informant to the ground, could he tell you the tale under such circumstances? And could he be entirely certain? Would he not find it impossible to avoid picking fights with you in such a case?”
Servais seemed still more startled. He said slowly, “It was, of course, not I. No one could possibly have thought so. Howard's wife did not in the least appeal to me, you understand.” He looked up and said fiercely, “You must accept the fact that I am telling you the truth about this. It was not I, and I will not be suspected. If anyone had said it was I, it could only be out of deliberate malice.”
“Maybe it was,” said Rubin. “Might it not be the real lover who would make the accusation—out of fear you would give him away? By getting in his story first—”
“Why should he do this? He is away. No one suspects him. No one pursues him.”
“He might not know that,” said Rubin.
“Pardon me.” Henry's voice sounded softly from the direction of the sideboard. “May I ask a question?”
“Certainly,” said Rubin, and the odd silence fell that always did when the quiet waiter, whose presence rarely obtruded on the festivities, made himself heard.
Servais looked startled, but his politeness held. He said, “Can I do anything for you, waiter?”
Henry said, “I'm not sure, sir, that I quite understand the nature of the quarrel between yourself and your partner. Surely there must have been decisions of enormous complexity to make as far as the technical details of the colony were concerned.”
“You don't know even a small part of it,” said Servais indulgently.
“Did your partner and you quarrel over all those details, sir?”
“N-no,” said Servais. “We did not quarrel. There were discussions, of course. It is useless to believe that two men, each with a strong will and pronounced opinions, will agree everywhere, or. even anywhere, but it all worked out reasonably. We discussed, and eventually we came to some conclusion. Sometimes I had the better of it, sometimes he, sometimes neither or both.”
“But then,” said Henry, “there was this one argument over the actual location of the colony, over the crater, and there it was all different. He attacked even the name of the crater fiercely and, in this one case, left no room for the slightest compromise.”
“No room at all. And you are right. Only in this one case.”
Henry said, “Then I am to understand that at this time, when Mr. Rubin suspects that your partner is being irritated by suspicion of you, he was completely reasonable and civilized over every delicate point of Lunar engineering, and was wildly and unbearably stubborn only over the single matter of the site—over whether Copernicus or the other crater was to be the place where the colony was to be built?”
“Yes,” said Servais with satisfaction. “That is precisely how it was and I s
ee the point you are making, waiter. It is quite unbelievable to suppose that he would quarrel with me over the site out of ill-humor over suspicion that I have placed horns on him, when he does not quarrel with me on any other point. Assuredly, he does not suspect me of ill-dealing. I thank you, waiter.”
Henry said, “May I go a little further, sir?”
“By all means,” said Servais.
“Earlier in the evening,” said Henry, “Mr. Rubin was kind enough to ask my opinion over the techniques of his profession. There was the question of deliberate omission of details by witnesses.”
“Yes,” said Servais, “I remember the discussion. But I did not deliberately omit any details.”
“You did not mention the name of Mrs. Kaufman's lover.”
Servais frowned. “I suppose I didn't, but it wasn't deliberate. It is entirely irrelevant.”
“Perhaps it is,” said Henry, “unless his name happens to be Bailey.”
Servais froze in his chair. Then he said anxiously, “I don't recall mentioning it. Sacred— I see your point again, waiter. If it slips out now without my remembering it, it is possible to suppose that, without quite realizing it, I may have said something that led Howard to suspect—”
Gonzalo said, “Hey, Henry, I don't recall Jean giving us any name.”
“Nor I,” said Henry. “You did not give the name, sir.”
Servais relaxed slowly and then said, frowning, “Then how did you know? Do you know these people?”
Henry shook his head. “No, sir, it was just a notion of mine that arose out of the story-you told. From your reaction, I take it his name is Bailey?”
“Martin Bailey,” said Servais. “How did you know?”
'The name of the crater in which you wished to place the site is Bahyee; the name of the city would be Camp Bahyee.”
“Yes.”
“But that is the French pronunciation of the name of a French astronomer. How is it spelled?”
Servais said, “B-a-i-l-l-y. —Great God, Bailly!”
Henry said, “In English pronunciation, pronounced like the not uncommon surname Bailey. I am quite certain American astronomers use the English pronunciation, and that Mr. Kaufman does too. You hid that piece of information from us, Mr. Servais, because you never thought of the crater in any other way than Bahyee. Even looking at it, you would hear the French sound in your mind and make no connection with Bailey, the American surname.”
Servais said, “But I still don't understand.”
“Would your partner wish to publicize the name, and place the site of a Lunar colony in Bailly? Would he want to have the colony called Camp Bailly, after what a Bailey has done to him?”
“But he didn't know what Bailey had done to him,” said Servais.
“How do you know that? Because there's an old saw that says the husband is always the last to know? How else can you explain his utterly irrational opposition to this one point, even his insistence that the name itself is horrible? It is too much to expect of coincidence.”
“But if he knew—if he knew— He didn't tell me. Why fight over it? Why not explain?”
“I assume,” said Henry, “he didn't know you knew. Would he shame his dead wife by telling you?”
Servais clutched at his hair. “I never thought— Not for a moment.”
“There is more to think,” said Henry sadly.
“What?”
“One might wonder how Bailey came to disappear, if your partner knew the tale. One might wonder if Bailey is alive? Is it not conceivable that Mr. Kaufman, placing all the blame on the other man, confronted his wife to tell her he had driven her lover away, even killed him, perhaps, and asked her to come back to him—and the response was suicide?”
“No,” said Servais. “That is impossible.”
“It would be best, then, to find Mr. Bailey and make sure he is alive. It is the one way of proving your partner's innocence. It may be a task for the police.”
Servais had turned very pale. “I can't go to the police with a story like that.”
“If you do not,” said Henry, “it may be that your partner, brooding over what he has done—if indeed he has done it— will eventually take justice into his own hands.”
“You mean kill himself?” whispered Servais. “Is that the choice you are facing me with: accuse him to the police or wait for him to kill himself?”
“Or both,” said Henry. “Life is cruel.”
9 Afterword
I got the idea for this one when I was in Newport, Rhode Island, attending a seminar on space and the future, sponsored by NASA. It got in the way, too.
I was listening, in all good faith, to someone who was delivering an interesting speech. Since I was slated to give a talk too, I had every reason for wanting to. listen. And yet, when the craters of the Moon were mentioned, my brain, quite involuntarily, began ticking, and after some fifteen minutes had passed I had “Earthset and Evening Star” in my mind in full detail and had missed the entire last half of the speech.
Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, alas, thought that the business with the craters was a little too recondite to carry the story and sent it back. I then took the chance that the craters might be just science-fictionish enough to interest Ed Ferman. I sent it to him, he took it, and it appeared in the October 1975 issue of F & SF.
To Table of Contents
10 Friday the Thirteenth
Mario Gonzalo unwound a long crimson scarf and hung it up beside his coat with an air of discontent.
“Friday the thirteenth,” he said, “is a rotten day for the banquet and I'm cold.”
Emmanuel Rubin, who had arrived earlier at the monthly banquet of the Black Widowers, and who had had a chance to warm up both externally and internally, said, 'This isn't cold. When I was a kid in Minnesota, I used to go out and milk cows when I was eight years old—”
“And by the time you got home the milk was frozen in the pail. I've heard you tell that one before,” said Thomas Trumbull. “But what the devil, this was the only Friday we could use this month, considering that the Milano is closing down for two weeks next Wednesday, and—”
But Geoffrey Avalon, staring down austerely from his seventy-four inches of height, said in his deep voice, “Don't explain, Tom. If anyone is such a superstitious idiot as to think that Friday is unluckier than any other day of the week, or that thirteen is unluckier than any other number, and that the combination has some maleficent influence on us all—then I say leave him in the outer darkness and let him gnash his teeth.” He was host for the banquet on this occasion and undoubtedly felt a proprietary interest in the day.
Gonzalo shook back his long hair and seemed to have grown more content now that most of a very dry martini was inside him. He said, “That stuff about Friday the thirteenth is common knowledge. If you're too ignorant to know that, Jeff, don't blame me.”
Avalon bent his formidable eyebrows together and said, To hear the ignorant speak of ignorance is always amusing. Come, Mario, if you'll pretend to be human for a moment, I'll introduce you to my guest. You're the only one he hasn't met yet.”
Speaking to James Drake and Roger Halsted at the other end of the room was a slender gentleman with a large-bowled pipe, a weedy yellow mustache, thin hair that was almost colorless, and faded blue eyes set deeply in his head. He wore a tweed jacket and a pair of trousers that seemed to have been comfortably free of the attentions of a pressing iron for some time.
“Evan,” said Avalon imperiously, “I want you to meet our resident artist, Mario Gonzalo. He will make a caricature of you, after a fashion, in the course of our meal. Mario, this is Dr. Evan Fletcher, an economist at the University of Pennsylvania. There, Evan, you've met us all.”
And as though that were a signal, Henry, the perennial waiter at all the Black Widowers' banquets, said softly, “Gentlemen,” and they seated themselves.
“Actually,” said Rubin, attacking the stuffed cabbage with gusto, “this whole business about Friday t
he thirteenth is quite modern and undoubtedly arose over the matter of the Crucifixion. That took place on a Friday and the last Supper, which had taken place earlier, was, of course, a case of thirteen at the table, the twelve Apostles and—”
Evan Fletcher was trying to stem the flow of words rather ineffectively and Avalon said loudly, “Hold on, Manny, I think Dr. Fletcher wishes to say something.”
Fletcher said, with a rather apologetic smile, “I just wondered how the subject of Friday the thirteenth arose.”
“Today is Friday the thirteenth,” said Avalon.
“Yes, I know. When you invited me to the banquet for this evening, it was the fact that it was Friday the thirteenth that made me rather eager to attend. I would have raised the point myself, and I am surprised that it came up independently.”
“Nothing to be astonished about,” said Avalon. “Mario raised the point. He's a triskaidekaphobe.”
“A what?” said Gonzalo in an outraged voice.
“You have a morbid fear of the number thirteen.”
“I do not” said Gonzalo. “I just believe in being cautious.**
Trumbull helped himself to another roll and said, “What do you mean, Dr. Fletcher, in saying that you would have raised the point yourself? Are you a triskai-whatever too?”
“No, no,” said Fletcher, shaking his head gently, “but I have an interest in the subject. A personal interest.”
Halsted said in his soft, somewhat hesitant voice, “Actually, there's a very good reason why thirteen should be considered unlucky and it has nothing to do with the Last Supper. That explanation was just invented after the fact.
“Consider that early, unsophisticated people found the number twelve very handy because it could be divided evenly by two, three, four, and six. If you sold objects by the dozen, you could sell half a dozen, a third, a fourth, or a sixth of a dozen. We still sell by the dozen and the gross today for that very reason. Now imagine some poor fellow counting his stock and finding he has thirteen items of something. You can't divide thirteen by anything. It just confuses his arithmetic and he says, 'Oh, damn, thirteen! What rotten. luck!'—and there you are.”
