WHEN NO MAN PURSUETH

Thomas Trumbull scowled with only his usual ferocity and said, "How do you justify your existence, Mr. Stellar?"

Mortimer Stellar lifted his eyebrows in surprise and looked about the table at the six Black Widowers whose guest he was for that evening. "Would you repeat that?" he said.

But before Trumbull could, Henry, the club's redoubtable waiter, had moved in silently to offer Stellar his brandy and Stellar took it with an absently murmured "Thank you." "It's a simple question," said Trumbull. "How do you justify your existence?" "I didn't know I had to," said Stellar. "Suppose you did have to," said Trumbull. "Suppose you were standing before God's great judgment seat." "You sound like an editor," said Stellar, unimpressed.

And Emmanuel Rubin, host for the evening, and a fellow writer, laughed and said, "No, he doesn't, Mort. He's ugly but he's not ugly enough." "You stay out of it, Manny," said Trumbull, pointing a forefinger. "All right," said Stellar. "I'll give you an answer. I hope that, as a result of my stay on Earth, I will have left some people a little more informed about science than they would have been if I had never lived." "How have you done that?" "By the books and articles I write on science for the layman." Stellar's

blue eyes glinted from behind his heavily black-rimmed glasses and he added with no perceptible trace of modesty, "Which are probably the best that have ever been written." "Theyre pretty good," said James Drake, the chemist, stubbing out his fifth cigarette of the evening and coughing as though to celebrate the momentary pulmonary release. "I wouldn't put you ahead of Garnow, though."

Tastes differ," said Stellar coldly. "I would." Mario Gonzalo said, "You don't write only about science, do you? It seems to me I read an article by you in a television weekly maga- zine and that was just humor." He bad propped up the caricature he had drawn of Stellar in the course of the meal. ne black-rimmed glasses were prominent and so was the shoulder-length, fading brown hair, the broad grin, and the horizontal lines across the forehead. "Good Lord," said Stellar. "Is that me?" "It's the best Mario can do," said Rubin. "Don't shoot him." "Let's have some order," said Trumbull testily. "Mr. Stellar, please answer the question Mario put to you. Do you write only about science?"

Geoffrey Avalon, who bad been sipping gently at his brandy, said in his deep voice which could, whenever he chose, utterly dominate the table, "Aren't we wasting time? We've all read Mr. Stellar's articles. it's impossible to avoid him. He's everywhere." "If you don't mind, Jeff," said Trumbull, "it's what I'm trying to get at in a systematic way. I've seen his articles and Manny says be has written a bundred-and-something books on all sorts of subjects and the point is why and bow?"

The monthly banquet of the Black Widowers was in its concluding phase-that of the grilling of the guest. It was a process that was supposed to be conducted along the simple, ordinary lines of a judicial cross-examination but never was. The fact that it so often dissolved into cbaos was a matter of deep irritation to Trumbull, the club's code expert, whose dream it was to conduct the grilling after the fashion of a drumhead court-martial. "Let's get into that, then, Mr. Stellar," be said. "Why the hell do you write so many books on so many subjects?"

Stellar said, "Because it's good business. It pays to be unspecialized. Most writers are specialists; they've got to be. Manny Rubin is a specialist; be writes mysteries-when he bothers to write at all."

Rubin's sparse beard lifted and his eyes widened with indignation behind his thick-lensed glasses. "I happen to have published over forty books, and they're not all mysteries. I've publisbed"-he began ticking off his fingers----"sport stories, confessions, fantasies-" "Mostly mysteries," amended Stellar smoothly. "Me, I try not to specialize. I'll write on any subject that strikes my fancy. It makes life more interesting for me so that I never go through a writer's block. Besides, it makes me independent of the ups and downs of fashion.

If one kind of article loses popularity, what's the difference? I write others."

Roger Halsted passed his hand over the smooth balding forepart of his head and said, "But how do you do it? Do you have set hours to write in?" "No," said Stellar. "I just write when I feel like. But I feel like all the time." "Actually," said Rubin, "you're a compulsive writer." "I've never denied it," said Stellar.

Gonzalo said, "But steady composition doesn't seem to be consistent with artistic inspiration. Does it just pour out of you? Do you revise at all?"

Stellar's face lowered and for a moment he seemed to be staring at his brandy glass. He pushed it to one side and said, "Everyone seems to worry about inspiration. You're an artist, Mr. Gonzalo. Jf you waited for inspiration, you'd starve." I

"Sometimes I starve even when I don't," said Gonzalo. "I just write," said Stellar, a bit impatiently. "It's not so difficult to do that. I have a simple, straightforward, unornamented style, so that I don't have to waste time on clever phrases. I present my ideas in a clear and orderly way because I have a clear and orderly mind. Most of all, I have security. I know I'm going to sell what I write, and so I don't agonize over every sentence, worrying about whether the editor will like it." "You didn't always know you would sell what you wrote," said Rubin. "I assume there was a time when you were a beginner and got rejection slips like everyone else." "That's right. And in those days writing took a lot longer and was a lot harder. But that was thirty years ago. I've been literarily secure for a long time."

Drake twitched his neat gray mustache and said, "Do you really sell everything you write now? Without exception?"

Stellar said, "Just about everything, but not always first crack out of the box. Sometimes I get a request for revision and, if it's a reasonable request, I revise, and if it's unreasonable, I don't. And once in a while-at least once a year, I think-I get an outright rejection." He shrugged. "It's part of the free-lance game. It can't be-ftelped." "What happens to something that's rejected, or that you won't revise?" asked Trumbull. "I try it somewhere else. One editor might like what another editor doesn't. If I can't sell it anywhere I put it aside; a new market might open up; I might get a request for something that the rejected article can fill." "Don't you feel that's like selling damaged goods?" said Avalon. "No, not at all," said Stellar.

"A rejection doesn't necessarily mean

an article is bad. It just means that one particular editor found it unsuitable. Another editor might find it suitable."

Avalon's lawyer-mind saw an opening. He said, "By that reasoning, it follows that if an editor likes, buys, and publishes one of your articles, that is no necessary proof that the article is any good." "None at all, in any one case," said Stellar, "but if it happens over and over again, the evidence in your favor mounts up."

Gonzalo said, "What happens if everyone rejects an article?" Stellar said, "That hardly ever happens, but if I get tired of submitting a piece, chances are I cannibalize it. Sooner or later I'll write something on a subject that's close to it, and then I incorporate parts of the rejected article into a new piece. I don't waste anything." "Then everything you write sees print, one way or another. Is that right?" And Gonzalo shook his head slightly, in obvious admiration. "That's about right." But then Stellar frowned. "Except, of course," he said, "when you deal with an idiot editor who buys something and then doesn't publish it."

Rubin said, "Oh, have you run into one of those things? The magazine folded?" "No, it's flourishing. Haven't I ever told you about this?" "Not as far as I remember." "I'm talking about Bercovich. Did you ever sell anything to him?" "Joel Bercovich?" "Are there likely to be two editors with that last name? Of course, Joel Bercovich." "Well, sure. He used to edit Mystery Story magazine some years ago. I sold him a few items. I still have lunch with him occasionally. He's not in mysteries any more." "I know he isn't. He's editing Way of Life magazine. One of those fancy new slick jobs that appeal to the would-be affluent." "Hold it. Hold it!" cried out Trumbull. "This thing's degenerating. Let's get back to the questioning." "Now wait," said Stellar, waving his hand at Trumbull in clear annoyance. "I've been asked a question as to whether everything I write sees print and I want to answer that because it brings up something I'm pretty sore about and would like to get off my chest." "I think he's within his rights there, Tom," said Avalon. "Well, go ahead, then," said Trumbull discontentedly, "but don't take forever."

Stellar nodded with a sort of grieved impatience and said, "I met Bercovich at some formal party. I don't even remember the occasion for it, or very much who was involved. But I remember Bercovich because we did some business as a result. I was there with Gladys, my

wife, and Bercovich was there with his wife and there were maybe eight other couples. It was an elaborate thing. "In fact, it was very elaborate, and deadly. It was formal. It wasn't black tie; they stopped short of that; but it was formal. The serving was slow; the food was bad;'the conversation was constipated. I hated it. -Listen, Manny, what do you think of Bercovich?"

Rubin shrugged. "He's an editor. That limits his good points, but I've known worse. He's not an idiot." "He isn't? Well, I must admit that at the time be seemed all right. I bad vaguely beard of him, but he knew me, of course." "Oh, of course," said Rubin, twirling his empty brandy glass. "Well, be did," said Stellar indignantly. "It's the whole ppint of the story that he knew me, or he wouldn't have asked me for all -article. He came up to me after dinner and told me that he read my stuff and that he admired it, and I nodded and smiled. Then he said, 'What do you think of the evening?' "I said cautiously, 'Oh well, sort of slow,' because for all I knew he was the hostess' lover and I didn't want to be needlessly offensive. "And he said, 'I think it's a bomb. It's too formal and that doesn't fit the American scene these days.' Then he went on to say, 'Look, I'm editor of a new magazine, Way of Life, and I wonder if you couldn't write us an article on formality. If you could give us, say, twenty-five hundred to three thousand words, that would be fine. You could have a free hand and take any approach you want, but be lighthearted.' "Well, it sounded interesting and I said so, and we discussed price a little, and I said I would try and he asked if I could have it in his office within three weeks, and I said maybe. He seemed very anxious."

Rubin said, "When was all this?" "Just about two years ago." "Ub-buh. That was about when the magazine started. I look at it occasionally. Very pretentious and not worth the money. I didn't see your article, though."

Stellar snorted. "Naturally you haven't." "Don't tell me you didn't write it," said Gonzalo. "Of course I wrote it. I bad it in Bercovicb's office within a week. It was a very easy article to do and it was good. It was lightly satirical and included several examples of stupid formality at which I could fire my shots. In fact, I even described a dinner like the one we had." "And be rejected it?" asked Gonzalo.

Stellar glared at Gonzalo. "He didn't reject it. I had a check in my hands within another week." "Well then," said Trumbull impatiently, "what's all this about?"

"He never printed it," shouted Stellar. "That idiot has been sitting on it ever since, for nearly two years. He hasn't published it; he hasn't even scheduled it." "So what," said Gonzalo, "as long as he's paid for it?"

Stellar glared again. "You don't suppose a one-time sale is all I'm after, do you? I can usually count on reprints here and there for additional money. And then I publish collections of my articles; and I can't include that one until it's published." "Surely," said Avalon, "the money involved is not very important." "No," admitted Stellar, "but it's not utterly unimportant either. Besides, I don't understand why the delay. He was in a hurry for it. When I brought it in be slavered. He said, 'Good, good. I'll be able to get an artist on it right away and there'll be time to do some strong illustrations! And then nothing happened. You would think he didn't like it; but if he didn't like it, why did be buy it?"

Halsted held up his coffee cup for a refill and Henry took care of it. Halsted said, "Maybe he only bought it to buy your good will, so

to speak, and make sure you would write other articles for him, even

though the one you wrote wasn't quite good enough."

Stellar said, "Oh no. . . . Oh no. . . . Manny, tell these innocents that editors don't do that. They never have the budget to buy bad ar-

ticles in order to buy good will. Besides, if a writer turns out bad articles you don't want his good will. And what's more, you don't earn good will by buying an article and burying it."

Trumbull said, "All right, Mr. Stellar. We listened to your story and you'll note I didn't interrupt you. Now, why did you tell it to us?" "Because I'm tired of brooding over it. Maybe one of you can figure it out. Why doesn't he publish it? -Manny, you said you used to sell him. Did he ever hold up anything of yours?" "No," said Manny, after a judicious pause. "I can't recall that he did. -Of course, he's bad a bad time." What kind of a bad time?" "nis dinner took place two years ago, you said, so that was his first wife you met him with. She was an older woman, wasn't she, Mort?"

Stellar said, "I don't remember her. That was the only time we ever met."

4dIf it was his second wife, you'd remember. She's about thirty and very good-looking. His first wife died about a year and a half ago. She'd been ill a long time, it turned out, though she'd done her best

to hide it and I never knew, for instance. She bad a heart attack and it

broke him up. He went through quite a period there." "Oh! Well, I didn't know about that. But even so, he's married again, right?" "Sometime last year, yes." "And she's a good-looking person and he's consoled. Right?" "The last time I saw him, about a month ago-just in passing-he looked all right." "Well then," said Stellar, "why is he still holding out?"

Avalon said thoughtfully, "Have you explained to Mr. Bercovich the advantages of having your article published?"

Stellar said, "He knows the advantages. He's an editor." "Well then," said Avalon, just as thoughtfully, "it may be that on second reading he found some serious flaw and feels it is not publishable as it stands. Perhaps be's embarrassed at having bought it and doesn't know bow to approach YOU."

Stellar laughed but without liumor. "Editors don't get embarrassed and they're not afraid to approach you. If he found something wrong on second reading, he'd have called me and asked for a revision. I've been asked for revisions many times." "Do you revise when they ask for it?" said Gonzalo. "I told you. . . . Sometimes, when it sounds reasonable," said Stellar.

James Drake nodded as though that were the answer he would have expected and said, "And this editor never asked for any revision at all?" "No," said Stellar explosively, and then almost at once he added, 'Well, once! One time when I called him to ask if it were scheduled -1 was getting pretty edgy about it by Then-be asked if it would be all right if he cut it a little, because it seemed diffuse in spots. I asked where the hell it was diffuse in spots, because I knew it wasn't, and be was vague and I was just peeved enough to say, no, I didn't want a word touched. He could print as it was or be could send it back to me." "And he didn't send it back to you, I suppose," said Drake' "No, he didn't. Damn it, I offered to buy it back. I said, 'Send it back, Joel, and I'll return the money.' And be said, 'Oh, come, Mort, that's not necessary. I'm glad to have it in my inventory even if I don't use it right away.' Damn fool. What good does it do either him or me to have it in the inventory?" "Maybe be ,s lost it," said Halsted, "and doesn't want to admit it." "There's no reason not to admit it" said Stellar. "I've got a carbon; two carbons, in fact. Even if I wanted to keep the carbons-and

they come in handy when it's book time-it's no problem these days to get copies made."

There was a silence around the table, and then Stellar's brow furrowed and be said, "You know, he did ask once if I had a carbon copy. I don't remember when. It was one of the more recent times I called him. He said, 'By the way, Mort, do you have a carbon copy? -just like that, 'By the way,' as if it were an afterthought. I remember thinking he was an idiot; does he expect a man of my experience not to have a carbon copy? I bad the notion, then, that he was getting round to saying he had mislaid the manuscript, but be never said a word of the kind. I said that I bad a carbon copy and he let the subject drop." "Seems to me," said Trumbull, "that all this isn't worth the trouble you're taking." "Well, it isn't," said Stellar, "but the thing bothers me. I keep careful files of my articles; I've got to; and this one has been in the 'to be published' file for so long I can recognize the card by the fact that its edges are dark from handling. It's a sort of irritation. -Now why did he ask me if I had a carbon copy? If he'd lost the manuscript, why not say so? And if he hadn't lost it, why ask about the carbon?"

Henry, who had been standing at the sideboard, as was his custom after the dinner had been served and the dishes cleared away, said, "'May I make a suggestion, gentlemen?"

Trumbull said, "Good Lord, Henry, don't tell me that this nonsense means something to you?"

Henry said, "No, Mr. Trumbull, I'm afraid I no more understand what it's all about than anyone else in the room. It merely strikes me

as a possibility that Mr. Bercovich may have been prepared to tell Mr. Stellar that the manuscript was mislaid-but perhaps only if Mr. Stellar had said that he had no carbon. It might have been the fact that Mr. Stellar did have a carbon that made it useless to lose or, possibly, destroy the manuscript." "Destroy it?" said Stellar in high-pitched indignation. "Suppose we consider what would happen if he published the manuscript, sir," said Henry. "It would appear in print," said Stellar, "and people would read it. That's what I want to happen." "And if Mr. Bercovich had rejected it?" "Then I would have sold it somewhere else, damn it, and it would still have appeared in print and people would have read it." "And if he returned it to you now, either because you refused revi-

sion or because you bought it back, then again you would sell it somewhere else and it would appear in print and be read." "Damn right." "But suppose, Mr. Stellar, the editor bought the article as he did and does not publish it. Can you then sell it elsewhere?" "Of course not. It's not mine to sell. Way of Life has bought first serial rights, which means they have the full and sole right to publish it before any other use is made of it. Until they publish it, or until they formally relinquish the right to do so, I can't sell it anywhere." "In that case, Mr. Stellar, does it not seem to you that the only conceivable way in which Mr. Bercovich can keep the article from being generally read is to do exactly as be has done?" "Are you trying to tell me, Henry," said Stellar, with naked incredulity in his voice, "that he doesn't want it read? Then why the hell did he ask me to write it?"

Henry said, "He asked you to write an article, sir. He did not know the exact article you would write till he saw it. Isn't it possible that, once he read the article you did in actual fact write, he realized that he didn't want it read and therefore took the only action possible to keep it unpublished, perhaps forever unpublished? He probably did not expect you to be the kind of writer who would hound an editor over such a matter."

Stellar spread out his hands, palms upward, and looked about at the faces of the Black Widowers in a kind of semi-humorous exasperation. "I never beard of anything so ridiculous."

Avalon said, "Mr. Stellar, you don't know Henry as we do. If this is his opinion, I suggest you take it seriously." "But why should Joel want to destroy the thing or bury it? It's a perfectly harmless article."

Henry said, "I merely advance a possible explanation for what has gone on for two years." "But yours is not an explanation that explains, Henry. It doesn't explain why he wants the article to be left unread." "You had said, sir, that he asked for permission to cut the aruL a little and you refused. If you bad agreed, be would perhaps have changed it so as to render it really innocuous and then be would have published it." "But what did he want cut?" "I'm afraid I can't say, Mr. Stellar, but I gather that he wanted to do the cutting. That may have been in order not to call your attention to the precise passage he wanted altered."

Stellar said, "But if he made the cuts himself, I'd still see what he had done once the article appeared."

Henry said, "Would you be likely to read the article once publisbed and compare it sentence by sentence with the original manuscript sir?" "No," admitted Stellar reluctantly. "And even if you did, sir, there might be a number of small changes and you would have no reason to suppose that one change was more significant than the others."

Stellar said, "You know, this is a more peculiar mystery than the first, Henry. What could I have said to bother him?" "I cannot say, Mr. Stellar," said Henry.

Avalon cleared his tbroat in his best lawyer-like fashion and said, "It is rather a pity, Mr. Stellar, that you didn't bring the carbon copy of your manuscript with you. You could have read it to us and perhaps we could then spot the critical passage. At the very least, I'm sure we would have been entertained."

Stellar said, "Who thought this sort of thing would come up?" Gonzalo said eagerly, "If your wife is at home, Mr. Stellar, we might call her and have her read the article to Henry on the phone. The club could afford the charge."

Henry seemed to be lost in thought. Now be said slowly as though the thinking bad surfaced but was still a private colloquy be was holding with himself, "Surely it couldn't be anything impersonal. If the tenets of good taste had been broken, if the policy of the magazine had been violated, he would have seen that at once and asked for specific changes. Even if he had bought it after a hasty reading and then discovered these impersonal errors afterward, there would have been no reason to hesitate to ask for specific changes, surely. Could it be that some superior officer in the publishing firm bad vetoed the article and Mr. Bercovich is embarrassed to tell you that?" "No," said Stellar. "An editor who isn't given a free hand by the front office is very likely to quit. And even if Bercovich didn't have the guts to do that be would be only too glad to use upstairs interference as an excuse to return the manuscript. He certainly wouldn't just hold onto it." "T'lien," said Henry, "it must be something personal; something that has meaning to him, an embarrassing meaning, a horrifying meaning." "'nere's nothing of the kind in it," insisted Stellar. "Perhaps there is no significance in the passage to you or to anyone else; but only to Mr. Bercovich." "In that case," interrupted Drake, "why should Bercovich care?" "Perhaps," said Henry, "because, if attention were called to it, it

would come to have significance. Tlat is ,vby be dared not even tell Mr. Stellar what passage be wanted cut." "You keep inventing perbapses," muttered Stellar. I just don't believe it."

Gonzalo said abruptly, "I believe it. Henry has been right before and I don't bear anyone suggesting any other theory to account for the fact that the article isn't being published."

Stellar said, "But we're talking about nothing. What is the mysterious passage that is bothering Joel?"

Henry said, "Perhaps you can recall some personal reference, since that is what we suspect it would have to be. Did you not say that included in your article was an account of a dinner rather like the one that had inspired Mr. Bercovich to ask for the article in the first place?" "Aba," said Gonzalo, "got it! You described the dinner too accurately, old boy, and the editor was afraid that the host would recognize it and be offended. Maybe the host is an old and valued friend of the publisher and would get the editor fired if the article appeared."

Stellar said, with no effort to hide his contempt "In the first place, I'm an old band at this. I don't write anything either actionable or embarrassing. I assure you I masked that dinner so that no one could reasonably speak of a resemblance. I changed every major ebaracteristic of the dinner and I used no names. -Besides, if I had slipped and made the damned thing too real, why shouldn't he tell me? That sort of thing I would change in a shot."

Henry said, "It might be something more personal still, He and his wife were at the dinner. What was it you said about them?" "Nothing!" said Stellar. "Do you suppose I would make use of the editor to whom I was submitting the article? Give me that much credit. I didn't refer to him under any name or any guise; didn't refer to anything be said or did at all." "Or anything about his wife either, sir? as e enry. "Or about his wife- Well, wait, she may have inspired one small exchange in the article, but of course I didn't name her, describe her or anything of the sort. It was entirely insignificant."

Avalon said, "Nevertheless, that may be it. The memory was too poignant. She bad died and he just couldn't publish an article that reminded him of-of-2'

Stellar said, "If you're about to finish that sentence with 'the dear departed,' I walk out. Tlat's tripe, Mr. Avalon. With all respectno, without too damn much respect-That's tripe. Why wouldn't be

ask me to take out a sentence or two if it roused too keen a memory? I would do it."

Avalon said, "Just because I phrase the matter in sentimental fashion, Mr. Stellar, doesn't mean it can't have significance all the same. His failure to mention it to you might be the result of a certain shame. In our culture, such things as sorrow over lost love are made fun of. You've just made fun of it. Yet it can be very real."

Stellar said, "Manny Rubin said she died about a year and a half ago. That means at least half a year after I wrote the article. Time enough to have it printed by then, considering his anxiety to have me meet an instant deadline. And it's been a year and a half since and be's married a beautiful woman. -Come on, bow long does one sorrow over a lost love after one has found another?" "It might help," said Henry, "if Mr. Stellar could tell us the passage in question." "Yes," said Gonzalo, "call your wife and have her read it to Henry." "I don't have to," said Stellar, who had only with difficulty withdrawn the wounded stare he had been directing at Avalon. "I've read the damn thing again a couple of weeks ago-about the fifth timeand I have it reasonably fresh in my mind. What it amounts to is this: we had. been served the roast at a kind of snail's pace and I was waiting for others to be served before beginning. A few weren't quite that formal and were eating. Finally I broke down and salted it and was going to eat when I noticed that Mrs. Bercovicb, who was on my right, bad still not been served. I looked surprised and she said she had a special request and it was delayed in getting to her and I offered her my plate and she said, 'No, thank you, it's been salted.' I told that passage, without names, just so I could get across my funny line, which I remember exactly. It went, 'She was the only one at the table who objected to the salt; the rest of us objected to the meat. In fact, several of us scraped off the salt, then ate it in a marked manner."'

No one laughed at the funny line. Trumbull went to the trouble of simulating nausea.

Halsted said, "I certainly don't see any great sentimental value in that." "I should say not," said Stellar, 'and that's every last mention of her, without name or description, and none of Joel himself."

Henry said, "Yet Mr. Rubin said that the first Mrs. Bercovich died of a heart attack, which is rather a catch-all reference to circulatory disorders in

general. She may well have had seriously high blood pressure and have been put on a low-salt diet."

"Which is why she refused Stellar's salted meat," said Gonzalo. "Right!" "And why she was waiting for a special dish," said Henry. "And this is something to which Mr. Bercovich desperately wants no attention drawn. Mr. Rubin said Mrs. Bercovich bad done her best to hide her condition. Perhaps few people knew she was on a low-salt diet."

Stellar said, "Why should Joel care if they know?" "I must introduce another perhaps, sir. Perhaps Mr. Bercovich, weary of waiting and, perhaps, already attracted by the woman who is now his second wife, took advantage of the situation. He may have salted her food surreptitiously, or, if she used salt substitute, he may have replaced it, at least in part, with ordinary salt-2' "And killed her, you mean?" interrupted Avalon.

Henry shook his head. "Who can tell? She might have died at the same moment anyway. He, however, may feel he contributed to the death and may now be in panic iest anyone find out. The mere mention of a woman refusing salt at that table may, in his eyes, be a shrieking out of his guilt-2'

Stellar said, "But I didn't name her, Henry. There's no way of telling who she was. And even if somehow one were to find out that it was she, bow could anyone suspect anything out of the way?" "You are perfectly right, Mr. Stellar," said Henry. "The only reason we have come to suspect Mr. Bercovich now is because of his peculiar behavior with respect to the article and not to anything in the article itself. -But, you know, we have biblical authority to the effect that the wicked flee when no man pursueth."

Stellar paused a moment in thought, then said, "All this may be, but it's not getting my article published." He pulled out a black address book, turned to the Bs, then looked at his watch. "I've called him at his home before and it isn't ten yet."

Avalon raised his hand in an impressive stop sign. "One moment, Mr. Stellar. I trust you are not going to tell your editor about what we've said here. It is all strictly confidential in the first place, and it would be slander in the second. You would not be able to W'Port it and you may get yourself into serious trouble."

Stellar said impatiently, "I wish all of you would take it for granted that an experienced writer is aware of what libel and slander are. -Is there a

telephone handy, Henry?" "Yes, sir," said Henry. "I can bring one to the table. -May I also suggest caution?" "Don't worry," said Stellar as be dialed. He waited a moment, then, "Hello, Mrs. Bercovich? This is Mort Stellar, one of the

writers for your husband's maga2ine. May I speak to Joel? -Oh, sure, I'll wait." He did not look up from the telephone as he waited. "Hello, Joel, sorry to call you at home, but I've been going over the piece on formality. You don't have it scheduled yet, do you? -Well, all right, I didn't feel like waiting on this because I didn't want to weaken. You can shorten it if you want. --Oh, sure, that's all right. -No, Joel, just a minute, no. I don't want you to do it. I've got some things I want cut out and maybe that will satisfy you. -For instance, that line I have about eating the salt instead of the meat isn't funny, now that I think of it. -Yes, that's right. Suppose I cut out that part about the woman refusing the salted meat Will you publish it if I cut that out?"

There was a pause at this moment and now Stellar looked up at the others, grinning. Then he said, "All right, Joel. -Sure I can do it. How about 11L A.M.? -Okay, see you then.'

Stellar looked complacent. "It hit him right between the eyes. He repeated the line to me. You can't tell me that he remembered that passage, in an article he bought two years ago, right off the top of his head, unless it had special meaning to him. I'll bet you're right after all, Henry. -Well, I'll cut it. The important thing is that I'll get my article into print."

Avalon frowned and said with heavy dignity, "I should say that, from the standpoint of public morality, the really important thing is that a man may have tried to kill his wife and may even have actually done so and will get away with it."

Trumbull said, "Don't get virtuously aggrieved, Jeff. If Henry is right, then there's no way of proving that he did anything, or that if he did tamper with the salt it actually contributed to her death, so what is there to do? In fact, what do we have to do? The really important thing is that Stellar has done it all. He's given the man two years of agony, first by writing the article and then by being constantly after him to publish it."

Henry said, "ne really important thing, sir, may be that Mr. Bercovich will, as a result of all this, be discouraged from attempting similar experiments in the future. After all, he has a second wife now, and he may grow tired of her too."

I am sometimes asked whether any of the regular members of the Black Widowers is modeled on me. The answer is, No! Definitely notl

Some people have thought that talkative know-it-all Manny Rubin is the author in disguise. Not at alli He is actually reminiscent of someone else, someone who is a dearly loved (talkative, know-itall) friend of mine.

In "When No Man Pursueth" (which appeared first in the March .1974 issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine) I took the liberty of introducing myself as the guest. Mortimer Stellar is as close as I could get to myself in appearance, profession, attitude, and so on.

I showed the story to my wife, Janet, after I had written it and asked her how well she thought I bad caught the real me. She said, "But the character you drew is-arrogant, vain, nasty, petty, and completely self-centered."

I said, "See how close I got?" She said, "But you're not like Mortimer Stellar at all. You're-2' And she went on to list a string of nice adjectives I won't bore you with. "Who'd believe that?" I said, and let the story stand as written.

Incidentally, since I introduced myself into the story, I had better make sure no unwarranted conclusions are drawn. I have lived through some rotten banquets and, at an editor's suggestion, I have written an article entitled "My Worst Meal," but that editor is a pussycat who published the article promptly and who in no way resembles Bercovich in either word, thought, or deed.