And I said, "All right." And I did. So this story, "Miss What?", is dedicated to Anita Summer.

For the first time in the history of the Black Widowers, the monthly banquet was being given in a private apartment. Emmanuel Rubin had insisted and his straggly straw-colored beard had waggled strenuously as he argued it out in parliamentary fashion.

He was going to be the next host, he said, and the host was an absolute monarch within the wording of the bylaws and nowhere in the bylaws was the place of meeting specifically fixed.

"According to tradition," began Geoffrey Avalon with the kind of solemnity that befitted his profession as patent lawyer, "we have always met right here."

"If tradition is the master," said Rubin, "why the bylaws?"

And in the end he had had his way, carrying it finally when he pointed out that he was a gourmet cook and Mario Gonzalo had grinned and said, "Let's go and smell him burn the hamburgers."

"I do not serve hamburgers," said Rubin body, but by that time everyone had conceded the point.

So Avalon and James Drake, who had both come in from across the Hudson on the same train, stood in the lobby of Rubin's West Side apartment house and waited for the doorman to pay attention to them. It was quite clear that they could not get in without the doorman's permission by anything short' of violence.

Avalon muttered, "It's the fortress mentality. It's all over New York. You can't go anywhere without having to pass the gimlet eye and being frisked for weapons."

"I don't blame them," said Drake in his soft, hoarse voice. He lit a cigarette. "It's better than being mugged in the elevator."

"I suppose so," said Avalon gloomily.

The doorman turned to them. He was short, round-faced, and bald-headed, with a gray fringe of hair that was repeated in his mustache, which was as short and bristly as Drake's but which occupied a more generous space of upper lip. He did not look in the least formidable but his gray uniform lent him the cachet of authority and, presumably, that was enough to quell the intruder.

"Yes?" he said.

Avalon cleared his throat, and spoke in his most impressively rich baritone in order to conceal the shyness that no one could believe anyone as tall, straight, and impressive as he could have. "We are Dr. Drake and Mr. Avalon calling on Mr. Emmanuel Rubin in 14-AA."

"Drake and Avalon," repeated the doorman. "One minute." He moved to the bank of apartment bells and spoke into the intercom.

The squawking sound of Rubin's voice came clearly. "Send them up. Send them up."

The doorman held the door open for them, but Avalon hesitated on the threshold. "Do you have many incidents here, by the way?"

The doorman nodded importantly. "Sometimes, sir. No matter what you do, things happen! Apartment on the twentieth floor was robbed last year. There was a lady got hurt in the laundry room not too long ago. Things like that happen."

A voice said gently, "May I join you, gentlemen?"

Drake and Avalon both turned to look at the newcomer. There was a perceptible moment in which neither recognized him. And then Drake chuckled briefly, and said, "Henry, when you're not waiting on us at the restaurant, you're beautiful."

Avalon said, considerably more explosively, "Henry! What are you doing…?" He choked it off and looked uncomfortable.

"Mr. Rubin invited me, sir. He said that as long as the dinner was not to be held in the restaurant and I could not have the privilege of waiting on you, then I would be his guest. I believe that was his purpose in insisting the dinner be held here. One would not think it, but Mr. Rubin is a sentimental gentleman."

"Splendid," said Avalon with great enthusiasm, as though to make up for his previous surprise. "Doorman, this gentleman is with us."

Henry hung back. "Would you like to inquire of Mr. Rubin, sir?"

The doorman, having held the door patiently through this, said, "No, that's all right. You go right ahead."

Henry nodded, and all three advanced through the large blue lobby to the bank of elevators.

Drake said, "Henry, I haven't seen an outfit like yours in years. They'll mob you in New York if you go around dressed like that."

Henry looked down upon himself briefly. His suit was a charcoal brown and cut so conservatively that Drake was clearly wondering where the establishment could be found that would have such garments for sale. The shoes were a sober black, the shirt a gleaming white, and the tie, a narrow and somber gray held with a neat tie clip.

Crowning it all was the dark-brown derby which Henry now doffed, holding it lightly by the brim.

"I haven't seen a derby in a long time," said Avalon.

"Or a hat at all," said Drake.

"It is the freedom of the times," said Henry. "We each do our thing now, and this is mine."

Avalon said, "The trouble is that some people consider the thing to do to be molesting women in laundries."

"Yes," said Henry, "I heard what the doorman said. At least we can hope there will be no trouble today."

One of the elevators arrived at the lobby and a lady with a dog got off. Avalon looked inside, right and left, then entered. They rose to the fourteenth floor without trouble.

They were all gathered, or almost all. Rubin was wearing his wife's apron (it had a large "Jane" crocheted on it) and he was looking harried. The sideboard had a full collection of bottles and Avalon had appointed himself an impromptu bartender, after fending off Henry.

"Sit down, Henry," said Rubin in a loud voice. "You're the guest."

Henry looked uncomfortable.

Halsted said, with his very slight stutter, "You've got a nice apartment, Manny."

"It's all right-let me get past you for a minute-but it's small. Of course, we don't have children, so we don't need it much larger, and being in Manhattan has its conveniences for a writer."

"Yes," said Avalon. "I listened to some of the conveniences downstairs. The doorman said women have trouble in the laundry."

"Oh, hell," said Rubin contemptuously. "Some of the dames here want trouble. Ever since the Chinese delegation to the United Nations took over a motel a few blocks down, some of the dowagers here see the yellow menace everywhere."

"And robberies, too," said Drake.

Rubin looked chagrined as though any slur against Manhattan were a personal attack. "It could happen anywhere. And Jane was careless."

Henry, the only one sitting at the table, and with an as yet untouched drink before him, looked surprised-an expression which somehow did not put a single wrinkle into his unlined face. He said, "Pardon me, Mr. Rubin. Do you mean your apartment was entered?"

"Well, yes, the apartment lock can be opened with a strip of celluloid, I think. That's why everyone puts in fancy locks in addition."

"But when was this?" asked Henry.

"About two weeks ago. I'm telling you, it was Jane's fault. She went down the hall to see someone about recipes or something and didn't double-lock the. door. That's just asking for it. The hoodlums have ah instinct for it, a special ESP. She came back just as the bum was leaving and there was a hell of a fuss."

"Did she get hurt?" asked Gonzalo, his ordinarily prominent eyes bulging slightly.

"Not really. She was shook up, that's all. She yelled like anything-about the best thing she could have done. The guy ran. If I'd been there, I'd have taken after him and caught him, too. I'd have-"

"It's better not to try," said Avalon austerely, stirring his drink by moving the ice with his forefinger. "The end result of a chase could be a knife in the ribs. Your ribs."

"Listen," said Rubin, "I've faced guys with knives in my time. They're easy to ban- Hold it, something's burning." He dashed into the kitchen.