Polesov joined his hands as though praying.
"What's your political credo?"
"Always!" replied Polesov delightedly.
"You support Kirillov, I hope?"
"Yes, indeed." Polesov stood at attention.
"Russia will not forget you," Ostap rapped out.
Holding a pastry in his hand, Ippolit Matveyevich listened in dismay to Ostap, but there was no holding the smooth operator.
He was carried away.
He felt inspired and ecstatically pleased at this above-average blackmail.
He paced up and down like a leopard.
This was the state in which Elena Stanislavovna found him as she carted in the samovar from the kitchen.
Ostap gallantly ran over to her, took the samovar without stopping, and placed it on the table.
The samovar gave a peep and Ostap decided to act.
"Madame," he said, "we are happy to see in you . . ."
He did not know whom he was happy to see in Elena Stanislavovna.
He had to start again.
Of all the flowery expressions of the Tsarist regime, only one kept coming to mind-"has graciously commanded".
This was out of place, so he began in a businesslike way.
"Strict secrecy.
A state secret."
He pointed to Vorobyaninov.
"Who do you think this powerful old man is?
Don't say you don't know.
He's the master-mind, the father of Russian democracy and a person close to the emperor."
Ippolit Matveyevich drew himself up to his splendid height and goggled in confusion.
He had no idea of what was happening, but knowing from experience that Ostap Bender never did anything without good reason, kept silent.
Polesov was thrilled.
He stood with his chin tucked in, like someone about to begin a parade.
Elena Stanislavovna sat down in a chair and looked at Ostap in fright.
"Are there many of us in the town?" he asked outright. "What's the general feeling?"
"Given the absence . . ." said Polesov, and began a muddled account of his troubles.
These included that conceited bum, the yard-keeper from no. 5, the three-eighths-inch dies, the tramway, and so on.
"Good!" snapped Ostap. "Elena Stanislavovna!
With your assistance we want to contact the best people in the town who have been forced underground by a cruel fate.
Who can we ask to come here?"
"Who can we ask!
Maxim Petrovich and his wife."
"No women," Ostap corrected her.
"You will be the only pleasant exception.
Who else?"
From the discussion, in which Polesov also took an active part, it came to light that they could ask Maxim Petrovich Charushnikov, a former Tsarist town councillor, who had now in some miraculous way been raised to the rank of a Soviet official; Dyadyev, owner of Fastpack; Kislarsky, chairman of the Odessa Roll Bakery of the Moscow Bun Artel; and two young men who were nameless but fully reliable.
"In that case, please ask them to come here at once for a small conference. In the greatest secrecy."
Polesov began speaking.
"I'll fetch Maxim Petrovich, Nikesha, and Vladya, and you, Elena Stanislavovna, be so good as to run down to Fastpack for Kislarsky."
Polesov sped off.
The fortune-teller looked reverently at Ippolit Matveyevich and also went off.
"What does this mean?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
"It means," retorted Ostap, "that you're behind the times."
"Why?"
"Because!