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himself. His head was bowed over a tumbler of an amber liquid. I made my way to his side.
    “Binky,” I said, “may I join you?”
    He looked up and his loopy expression became a beam. “Archy!” he cried. “Just the man I wanted to see. Sit down, sit down, sit down!”
    “Once will do nicely,” I said, taking the bentwood chair opposite him. “What is that you’re drinking?”
    “Scotch,” he said.
    “With what?” I asked.
    “More Scotch.”
    “Binky,” I said, “we have been pals for a long time, but I must warn you that I shall not carry you home tonight. I am willing to call an ambulance, but that’s the extent of my responsibility. Why on earth are you getting hammered?”
    “I’ve got troubles,” he said darkly.
    “And pray, who does not?” I said, looking at him more closely.
    Binky usually wears a look of blithe unconcern, but now I could see his chops were definitely fallen. He’s a fair-haired lad with a wispy growth of blond hair on his upper lip that can be seen in a strong light. He’s a bit on the shortish, plumpish side, and if you can imagine a Kewpie doll with a mustache, that’s Binky.
    Though he may not be physically impressive, he’s a generous, good-hearted chap who’d give you the shirt off his back. But you probably wouldn’t want it since it was liable to be voile with alternating stripes of heliotrope and mustard. But how can one dislike a man whose bedroom walls are plastered with photos of Lupe Velez?
    “Binky,” I said, “what seems to be the problem?”
    He took a gulp of his drink. “It’s the Duchess,” he said mournfully. “She demands I get a job.”
    “A true cri de coeur,” I commented.
    “What’s that, Archy?”
    “Something like a kvetch,” I explained. “And did the Duchess suggest any particular field of gainful employment?”
    He shook his head. “She just said it’s time for me to earn a living. Archy, what am I going to do since it’s obvious I can’t do anything?”
    I should explain that Binky’s mother and father were lost at sea while attempting to sail their sloop to Curacao. Binky was a mere tot when the tragedy occurred, and he was raised by a wealthy maiden aunt, one of the grandest grande dames of Palm Beach.
    Everyone referred to her as the Duchess. She was not a real Duchess, of course, but could play one on TV. I mean, she was imposing, haughty, and rather frightening. Her customary greeting was not “How are you?” but “You’re not looking well.”
    But this Duke-less Duchess did provide for her brother’s son and grimly endured his being expelled from Princeton for pushing a pie (chocolate cream) into the face of a banquet guest who made a biting remark about Binky wearing a tie patterned with the crest of the Irish Royal College of Surgeons. Binky was obviously not Irish, Royal, or a sawbones. The target of his pie turned out to be a visiting British VIP, and the resulting foofarah ended with Binky being booted.
    Perhaps that was one of the reasons for our palship, since I had endured the same fate for a contretemps committed at Yale Law—a really minor misdeed. I had streaked naked (except for a Richard M. Nixon mask) across the stage during a performance by the New York Philharmonic.
    Since his expulsion from Princeton, Binky had spent most of his time traveling, engaging in harmless mischief, enjoying several romantic dalliances, and generally living the life of a happy drone. The Duchess granted him an openhanded allowance, paid for his profligacies— including gambling debts—and had made no objections other than stiff chidings—until now.
    “Archy,” Binky said gloomily, taking another swallow of his plasma, “what am I to do? You know I’m a complete klutz when it comes to work. That’s just a four-letter word to me.”
    “Haven’t the slightest idea, old boy,” I said, sipping my cognac and feeling my toes beginning to curl.
    “You work, don’t you? Investigations and all that. Like a