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small round mouth. He gave the impression of vast jovialness until Mrs. Pollifax looked directly into his eyes and found them curiously empty, like stones.
    “I’m Mrs. Pollifax,” she said. “May I come in? I was told that …” She paused doubtfully. He stood blocking her entrance; she stopped and waited.
    “Something nice, I hope?” he asked with a second wink.
    “Told that I might talk with you,” she said, and firmly walked past him into his living room. It was very bold of her, but she had already gained the impression that Mr. Bemish was not in full command of his faculties. “About a job,” she said. “As my guide for several days.”
    Off to the right a door closed, but not before she had caught a glimpse of a drab, mouse-like little woman fleeing the room; a cleaning woman, perhaps, although the apartment did not look as if it had been cleaned in years.
    “I couldn’t be less interested,” said Carleton Bemish, following her into the room. “I’m otherwise occupied. Busy. Very busy.”
    And very prosperous, too, noticed Mrs. Pollifax as her glance fell on a heavily draped round table in the center of the room. On it stood a silver bucket with a bottle of champagne protruding from it. It was a startling sight in such a shabby room. She said mechanically, “I’m sorry, you’re expecting someone?”
    “My dear woman, of course I’m expecting someone,” he said pompously, rocking a little on his heels. “A man like myself has many important friends. Many.”
    Her glance fell to the couch near the table and she saw long white cardboard boxes piled there. From one of them spilled the shimmering folds of a brocade dressing gown. His glance followed hers and he beamed. “Not bad, hmm?” he said, walking over to the couch. He pulled the robe from the box and held it up. “They’re not underestimating Carleton Bemish any more! Look at it–pure silk!”
    “Ah, you’ve inherited money,” suggested Mrs. Pollifax.
    He draped the robe across his shoulders and winked at her. “What I’ve inherited is a news story–the biggest–and I’ve made the news story myself. I feel surprisingly like God!” He came near to Mrs. Pollifax, the robe streaming behind him like a train, his breath suffocatingly alcoholic. With intense scorn, and breathing heavily at her, he said, “They’re no longer saying ‘Good old Bemish, nice old Bemish’…. They treat me with respect now, I can tell you.” He tapped his right temple meaningfully. “Brains. Wit. That’s what it takes to survive, Mrs.–what’s your name?”
    “Pollifax.”
    “The thing is,” he said defiantly, “I’m not up for hire. Carleton Bemish is no longer a has-been. You understand?”
    Mrs. Pollifax sighed. “I understand. You’re no longer a has-been.”
    He peered suspiciously into her face. “That sounds damn impertinent.”
    “You’re standing on my right foot,” said Mrs. Pollifax frankly.
    He jumped back. “Oh–sorry.”
    She nodded. “I quite understand now that you’re not available, and so I’ll just run along. In the meantime I’ll be looking forward to reading your news story.”
    He beamed appreciatively. “
With
by-line. Already posted–to London, Paris, New York. But not,” he added owlishly, “in Sofia. Not in this country. Pity about that.”
    Thoroughly tired of this, Mrs. Pollifax moved to the door; he was suddenly there before her, his mood changed again. “Wait a minute,” he said suspiciously. “Who did you say you are?”
    “Mrs. Pollifax,” she sighed. “I came to see you about guiding–”
    He relaxed. “Oh yes, I remember.”
    Someone else had arrived at Mr. Bemish’s door and was knocking. “My guest!” said Carleton Bemish happily, and threw open the door, exclaiming in Bulgarian to the man who stood there illuminated by the overhead hall light. His face was clearly outlined and Mrs. Pollifax stared at him in surprise. She knew him. He in turn glanced at her with barely concealed