Four o'clock in the morning after Christmas I was trying to see how
many different ways I could type NOW IS THE TIME FOR ALL GOOD MEN TO
COME TO THE AID OF THEIR PARTY when my phone rang. I was indignant but
I had to find out who'd be calling at that hour. I picked up the phone.
Lennox was on the other end.
"Kitten? Jake Lennox."
"What are you calling for?"
"Are you working?"
"No. I'm hung up on a script."
"Then I'm not interrupting. I want a favor." Jake was always direct on
the horn. "I'll tell you first, then you can say yes or no."
"Shoot."
"I think I left my gimmick book in the apartment of a woman named Aimee
Driscoll, 900 East 33rd. I can't get it myself."
"Why?"
"Just listen, Kit. I need somebody I can trust to go there and pick it
up for me first thing in the morning."
"Don't you trust Cooper?"
"I can't locate him."
"Isn't he home?"
"No. You ask too many questions, Kitten."
I admit I'm curious. That's how I got my nickname; but I'm always
annoyed when anyone throws it up to me.
"Ask Cooper when he comes home," I said. "And that's not a question."
"I can't." Lennox sounded a little strained. "That's why I'm asking
you. Yes or no."
"Do I owe you a favor?"
"No."
"Then I'll do it."
"As soon as possible, Kit."
"Nine o'clock in the morning."
"Thanks. Meet me in Grabinett's office at ten."
"Can't you wait a few hours, Jake? Ten's too early."
"Why?"
"It's like this. If I stay hung up I'll have to research in the library
for an idea. I can pick up the book first thing, but then I'd like to
get a few hours work done in the Reading Room."
"Right. Reasonable. Twelve o'clock?"
"Yes."
"Meet me at Sabatini's. I'll spring for a drink."
"Sabatini's at noon. What's that noise?" In the background I could hear
sound. I listened hard. It was music. Delius.
"Oh. I almost forgot," Lennox said. "I left a coat too. My burberry.
Will you latch on to it, Kit? Thanks. Goodnight."
He hung up hastily. I went down the hall and looked into the bedroom.
My wife was still up, reading. Robin has straight straw-colored hair
and is stacked like a Swede acrobat, a fact which always made me
nervous where Lennox was concerned.
"Put on a nightgown or pull up the sheet," I told her. "You're
demoralizing the neighbors." Robin grinned shamelessly. I closed the
blinds and turned on the bedside radio. "Find me Delius," I said. "I've
got to write down a name and address." I wrote it down, only I spelled
it Amy. Robin dialed through the stations one by one. No Delius. She
looked at me.
"Dig this," I said. "I happen to know Cooper hates Delius. Won't have
a record in the house. But Jake just phoned and there was Appalachia
blasting in the background. Big romantic stuff, and not from a radio
either." I told her about Jake's call. "All right, Robin, you guess
first."
"Do you think he's good in bed?"
"For God's sake! Women! Haven't you got any romance in you?"
"That was romance."
"It was not. You give us complexes. Is bed everything?"
"Yes."
"What about all the rest?"
"Bed first."
"I guess you're right," I said and I was an hour late getting to Aimee
Driscoll's apartment next morning.
I was lucky at that. She'd just gotten up and was in a vicious mood.
She handed me the freeze reserved for Squares and I handed it right
back. That gave us an understanding and put us on a basis of armed
neutrality as fellow members of the entertainment profession. The
blonde and I passed a few remarks about the Quaker. She called my
attention to the new television set and laughed it up because she'd
gotten it out of the Quaker for nothing; but I noticed that she laughed
angrily. I didn't know why.
The photograph should have tipped it. It stood on the set in a silver
frame, faded and vignetted, a costume piece, circa 1913. It was a
portrait of a man with heavy brows and a stern face and could have
been a photograph of Lennox in costume and makeup. The fact that
she'd placed it on the set Lennox gave her was significant, but I only
realized that after the death in the Venice theater.
"Who's the grim reaper?" I asked.
"My old man," Aimee answered. She darted a look of loathing at the
photograph. It was so poisonous that I wanted to ask more questions,
but before I could get started, she gave me the brush-final. I left
with Jake's gimmick book and burberry and didn't get to the library
until eleven....
Lennox marched into the Grabinett office at ten sharp. It was in a
small building off Madison Avenue in the fifties. Grabinett had started
there as a two-bit agent in a rat-hole, and when he hit the big money
it turned out that rentals were too tight for him to move into larger
quarters. He spread into stockrooms, broke through closets and halls,
had it all decorated and air-conditioned, and it still looked like a
blond wood rat-hole. They held daily rat-races there.
Grabinett was in his corner office eating Danish and coffee and reading
Red Channels. There was a stack of mail, Nielsen Reports, _Variety_,
_Billboard_, Radio and TV Newssheets on the desk before him. Lennox
tore off his coat, revealing that he was still wearing black tie. He
flung the coat on a chair piled with bundles of stenciled scripts.
Grabinett eyed Lennox with lively hatred and verged on continuing the
battle from the night before until his attention was distracted by the
dinner jacket.
"What's this?" he blinked.
"Costume."
"You're a panel expert?" Grabinett leaped up in dismay. "Jesus
Almighty! Don't tell me A&B sold another panel show to the network.
What have they got on Roy Audibon? Do they know where the body's
buried?"
Lennox didn't bother to answer. He pulled a sheaf of notes from his
inside pocket and glanced at them. "What's your schedule this morning,
Mel?"
"Loaded. I ain't got a minute."
"What about Kansas?"
"That's up to the network. I got a conference scheduled with Roy
Audibon for thissafter."
"Haven't you tried anything else?"
"What the hell else is there to try?"
"I've got an idea." Lennox reached across the desk and picked up
Grabinett's phone. He punched buttons until Patsy Lewis, the office
operator, answered him in a jaw-clenched Bennington drawl.
"Patsy? Jake Lennox. Good morning. You were monitoring that call to
Kansas last night?"
"Good morning, Mr. Lennox. Yes, I was."
"Remember the number?"
"Who could forget?"
"Get 'em for me, please. Right away." Lennox hung up.
"What the Almighty are you up to?" Grabinett cried. He reached for the
phone. Lennox reached for his wrist.
"Leave go. You know what a call to Kansas costs?"
"Less than a lawsuit. Let me try this, Mel. You can bill me for the
call if I louse it. Where's that love letter that came yesterday? Get
me the file."
"Who the hell do you think you are this morning? Jesus H. Napoleon?"
"What? Does it show?" Lennox smiled suddenly. "That's the trouble with
turning over a new leaf. You do it in the old style and people don't
understand."
"Are you drunk or something?"
Lennox looked at Grabinett keenly. "You're a lot more perceptive than
I thought, Mel. Yes, I'm something. Something as high as a kite. And
full of New Year's Resolutions." He tapped the sheaf of paper. "My list
of good deeds, waiting to be crossed off. Oh!" He looked closer at
the list and flushed. "Says here: Section One. People. Relations to.
Paragraph One. Grabinett. Attitude toward. Make it up to Blinky for
being a louse last night."
"What!"
"At the theater last night," Lennox said steadily. "I was a louse.
Please excuse me. I apologize."
"Who the hell are you calling Blinky?"
"Oh God!" Lennox groaned. "She's right. It takes practice."
The phone rang. He picked it up. It was the Kansas contestant with
her husband counseling her on an extension. It was eight o'clock in
the morning in Kansas, and bitter cold, but no colder than those two
litigants.
"Good morning. This is Jordan Lennox, the writer on the 'Who He?'
show," he began smoothly. Kansas sputtered. Lennox paused and then went
on: "Yes, I know. It was an unfortunate mistake last night, but of
course you'll get the prize. Mr. Grabinett has mailed your check out.
Anyway, it isn't important because I think you'll agree it was your
good luck when you hear the proposition I have for you. What?"
Lennox waited patiently while Kansas fumed. Finally he interrupted;
"I'm very sorry you feel that way. You see, the accident last night was
the springboard for a new TV show that we'd like to build around you. A
half-hour situation comedy about a real life couple that competes for
prizes."
Grabinett's jaw dropped and he blinked at Lennox. Jake winked and
continued: "The idea is to combine realism and comedy. You'll appear on
all the give-away shows and compete. We'll follow your adventures, show
what you do with the prizes, how your friends react, and so on. We were
planning on starting promotion with a publicity spread in one of the
picture magazines, but if you insist on suing I'm afraid we'd better
forget--What? Certainly I'm serious. I'm a writer. I know a solid idea
when it hits me in the face."
Lennox clamped a hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to Grabinett:
"Get that check in the mail. Airmail special." He unclamped the phone.
"Of course. Of course. I understand. Naturally you were upset; but we
can forget about that now. I'll arrange for a few words from Mr. Mason.
You'll get your check tomorrow and we'll start preparing your new show
immediately. Mr. Grabinett will send out contracts for you to sign. In
the meantime.... Happy New Year."
He hung up, reached for the list and crossed off an item.
"Cooled?" Grabinett blinked incredulously.
Lennox nodded. "As soon as they deposit that check we're safe. Have
a couple of exclusive service contracts made out to them for a show
called.... Oh, let's see.... 'The Man and Woman from--' No. 'The Couple
From Missouri.' That'll keep 'em happy."
"Genius Almighty! What was that about Mason?"
"They'll settle for an apology on the show next Sunday."
"An apology from Mason? He'll never do it."
"We'll worry about that at the show conference." Lennox consulted his
list. "Can I see the letter now, Mel? That's our real problem."
"Napoleon," Grabinett muttered and went to the wall safe. He twirled a
dial perfunctorily and swung the door open. He withdrew a manila folder
and brought it to the desk, handling it as though it were crawling with
roaches.
"The top letter," he said.
"Thanks. See about the check and the contracts, will you, Mel? Let's
get the minor rap all squared off. I'll get out of your way now. Where
can I go read the letter?"
"Stay here!" Grabinett exclaimed. "Don't let it out of here." He left
the office and slammed the door.
Lennox opened the folder. It contained six pale blue envelopes and six
sheets of blue letter paper. The quality of the paper was good. The
quality of the writing was bad; clumsy scrawlings, jagged, hysterical,
sick. The pirates on The Rock are notorious for the freedom of their
language, but there is a vast gulf separating profanity from malignity.
The first five letters had been filthy gutter abuse. This last was
comparatively clean, but even more sickening for the naked venom of its
hatred.
Dear Who He:
Do you remember me yet?
Are you feeling the pain?
I'm going to kill you.
I'll tear your guts out
and rip your eyes and
listen to you scream. Your
bones will smash and your
blood will run and the
fancy filth in you will
pour out like sewers like
rot like ruin. I promise
there will never be any
Happy New Year for you!
This is the last warning.
Be killing you New Years.
Guess Who
Lennox closed the folder. There was no need to re-read the earlier
letters. He remembered them and they were more revolting, if less
specifically threatening. He took a deep breath, then went to the
corner sink behind a screen and washed his hands. He had been carried
down into the sewers of a sick mind. It was not a new experience, but
Lennox could never accustom himself to it. Grabinett came back into the
office.
"Well, Napoleon? How about that one?"
"It's the pay-off." Lennox shook himself. "We can't stall, Mel. We've
got to go to the police."
"No."
"I'll go. Get a girl in here. The letters ought to be photostated
before I take them."
"Not the cops, Jake. For crank letters?"
"They aren't crank letters any more. They're threats."
"Against who?"
"Somebody on the show."
"Which?"
"One of the permanents who's on every week. Mig. Stacy. Kay Hill...."
"Kay? A dame?"
"Why not? You read the letters. They could be written to a man or a
woman."
"Yeah. I guess you're right."
"Then there's Johnny Plummer. Raeburn Sachs...."
"Nobody sees Ray. He ain't ever on camera."
"It has to be someone who's seen every week or whose name appears every
week. Ray's name is on the credit drum after every show. So is yours."
"Me!" Grabinett cried in astonishment.
Lennox nodded. "Every week. 'A Melvin Grabinett Production.'"
"That's a goddam lie. Those letters ain't to me."
"You say. How do I know? Maybe that's why you don't want to go to the
police. Maybe you're covering."
"Would I show 'em to you if I was? Would I--You get a credit too.
'Written by Jordan Lennox.'"
"That's right. Let's include me too. That makes seven. Who else
appears every week ... name or face? Oh. Charlie Hansel, the dance
director. That's all. A total of eight. One out of the eight is getting
threatening letters and we've got to do something about it before
everything blows up in our face next Sunday."
"Throw 'em off the show, goddam 'em!"
"All eight of us?"
"No. The one that's getting wrote to."
"Which?"
"Find out which."
"How?"
"I don't know how. You're The Thinker. You think it up how."
"I can't. Not off-hand. It wouldn't do any good to ask. Who'd tell the
truth with something dirty as this in their past?"
"God damn!" Grabinett blinked furiously. "Why hasn't anything happened
before? Why wait 'till now?"
"I don't know, Mel. They're crazy letters. Go figure a lunatic mind.
Maybe the police can. We're sitting on dynamite. The fuse is lit. We
know the blow-up's coming next Sunday. We've got to do something to
stop it."
"How do you know for sure next Sunday?"
"You read the last letter. It's plain. Be killing you New Years'. What
more do you want? We have to go to the police."
"I don't believe it."
"You can't run away from it, Mel. I'll draw you a picture. Look ...
it's next Sunday night. Mig's doing the drama spot, the 'Man Without
A Country' question. They're working on No. 2 Camera dollied back for
the full courtroom shot. Ray's in the controls calling shots to Sol
Eggleston. Sol's on the Party-Line talking to the camera crews. Johnny
Plummer's got the music soft. You're with the agency men in the back of
the control booth.... Yes?"
Grabinett nodded, fascinated.
"And then there's a wild yell in the house and a lunatic comes charging
down the center aisle. He's got a gun. He jumps up on the stage, and
he's right on camera. He's cursing and swearing. The audience realizes
it isn't a gag and starts screaming. Before Master Control can pull
us off the air, he starts shooting.... Who? What difference does it
make? Thirty million people see it. And when the police start asking
questions you'll have to say: 'I was warned. I got letters, but I
didn't do anything about it.' How long would you stay in the business
after that?"
Grabinett blinked for half a minute, then pressed a button on his desk.
The office door opened and his secretary came in three steps and waited.
"Got something for photostat," Grabinett said faintly.
Lennox placed the folder inside a large script envelope and handed it
to the girl. "This is a rush job, please. Three copies. Tell them to
handle the material as little as possible, in case of fingerprints."
The secretary's face brightened with interest as she took the envelope.
Lennox added sharply: "Don't read any of it. You'll be sorry if you do.
This isn't for little girls."
He put on his coat and buttoned it up to the neck. As he left the
office, he muttered: "It isn't for little boys, either."
He went home. Cooper wasn't in the apartment, but his bed had been
slept in and the animals had been fed. Monday was the one day of
vacation for the entire "Who He?" staff, and there was no telling where
anyone might be on this blessed day of release from the rat-race.
Lennox changed, then went to the phone and dialed Houseways, Inc.
"Miss Valentine, please."
"Who's calling?"
"Frank Lloyd Wright."
There was a pause, then Gabby's voice, soft and reproachful. "You
shouldn't have said that."
"I know. There's something about a phone that always makes me lie.
Being invisible, I suppose. Do draftsmen come under the Women's
Employment Regulations?"
"Why ... there's no such law."
"Of course there is. You know the one I mean, sweetheart. You lectured
all about it just before I spilled the coffee. Where they have to let
women out for five minutes every hour to use the bathroom."
"Oh. You mean--"
"Where's your bathroom?"
"Jordan! For Heaven's sake!"
"I can't wait till tonight to see you. I borrowed full drag from
Costume. Cloth coat with fur collar. Spike heels. Eugenie hat. I'll
meet you in the john. I'll smuggle in brownies and coke. We'll have a
spread."
Gabby began to laugh.
"What do you say?"
"Go away. I have to work."
"Chicken! How about lunch?"
"Darling, I'm sorry. You know I can't. I told you last night."
"How about Elevenses?"
"Go away."
"Tea?"
"No."
"What do you look like when you work? Smock and beret and a calabash
pipe?"
"Not nearly so glamorous. More like 'Out Of The Inkwell.'"
"Who He?"
"The old movie cartoon."
"Oh. We'll have to do something about that. I can't hang up."
"Neither can I."
"Let's be strong."
"I don't know how."
"I'll count to three. Then we'll both hang up."
"Count to ten."
"No. Three. That's the way to be strong. Ready?"
"Yes."
"One.... Two.... What comes after two?"
"Ten," Gabby said and hung up.
Lennox nodded to himself approvingly. She knew how to tag a scene. He
called Robin.
"Robin? Jake Lennox. Did Kit pick up my stuff?"
"What time is it?" Robin mumbled.
"Eleven."
"For God's sake, Jake! I'm not up yet."
"Did Kit go downtown this morning?"
"I think so. Yes. He did. Now get lost. You're stunting my growth."
"Can you write?"
"I forget."
"Well memorize this. A call for 'Who He?' next Sunday. Show-time nine
to nine-thirty at the Venice Theater. Pick up your script at the office
tomorrow and they'll give you the rehearsal schedule. The job pays two
bills. Can you fit it into your schedule?"
"Can I!" Robin exclaimed.
"Pleasant dreams," Lennox chuckled and hung up. He knew how to pay for
a favor.
He took a cab uptown, bought a beret and smock in Saks and a calabash
pipe in Dunhill's, and had them delivered to Gabby Valentine at
Houseways, Inc. Then he went up to the network studios and walked in on
the morning rehearsal of "The People Against--" the radio show produced
and directed by Ned Bacon, his partner on "Who He?"
Bacon was a short, stocky Irishman in his mid forties. He had an
impudent boyish face on which he had superimposed an expression of
pugnacious cynicism. He seemed to regret that he had not been a bad boy
and spent his life making up for it. There is an ancient and honorable
association of Fire-Buffs, amateurs who are fascinated by firemen and
run after fires. Bacon was a Thief-Buff. He spent his nights on 3rd
Avenue running after crooks, cops and crime.
His crime show had been an outstanding leader in radio for fifteen
years, and only the advent of television which was strangling all
night-time radio was now bringing it to an end. In the old days "The
People Against--" had owned the network on Mondays. It was their
prized show. Its studio was sacred and officiously guarded. Inside, the
orchestra minded its manners, a rare thing for musicians, and the cast
worked in terror of Bacon who swaggered through rehearsals with his hat
cocked over one eye.
Now, all was changed. The studio doors were unprotected. No actors
stood before them waiting for a chance to smile at Bacon. Inside, the
full orchestra was reduced to an organ and two instruments. The studio
itself was crammed with stored television sets, leaving just enough
working space around a couple of microphones before the control booth.
Half of Bacon's cast was in makeup and costume. They had obviously
sandwiched "The People Against" in and were earnestly memorizing lines
for TV shows. But Bacon still swaggered with his hat cocked over one
eye.
Lennox sat down quietly in a corner and waited. Bacon was directing an
actor in the style that had made him famous.
"You don't understand it," Bacon spoke confidentially. "You don't feel
it like a gimpster. Let's have the line again."
"I want my vigorish, doll!" the actor snarled.
Bacon shook his head and sidled up to the actor like a pick-pocket.
"Vigorish," he explained, "is thief talk for percentage. See? You're
filing a beef about your cut in the caper. But it has to mean something
more. Make like you're pimping for the broad when you say that. You've
got your hands up her skirt. You're naked but you're not catching any
colds. Think about her naked and warm up. Then we'll try it again."
He swaggered over to Lennox. "So Mason blew it last night," he said.
Lennox nodded. Bacon eyed him pugnaciously. "It's time we separated the
men from the boys."
"Oh?"
"Sachs has got to go."
"Are you going to start that again?"
"Jake, that varsity cheer-leader is turning everything into a
clam-bake. He's so busy playing the genius routine he's tuned in on
dead air. Next Sunday's his last show. I'm taking over after the first
of the year."
"Directing?"
Bacon nodded. "I'm from radio," he said bitterly. "I'm not supposed to
know anything about the theater. TV's one of the Mysteries, and I don't
know the pass-words. That's the line these Johnny-Come-Lately fags in
TV are handing out. If you haven't got talent, turn the business into a
secret fraternity so real talent can't get in. Well, the old man from
radio is coming out of his cave."
"Does Blinky know?"
"He'll be notified. I got the agency on the horn this morning. Avery
Borden's with me. How about you?"
"What have I got to do with it?"
"Between us we own half the show. If it comes to a Mexican stand-off
with Blinky, we can swing the vote with Avery in our corner."
"I'm not ready to hassle about that yet, Ned. I've got something more
important to worry about."
"This is important."
"Mine's worse."
"I thought we were partners," Bacon said angrily. "Are you welshing on
me?"
"No. I'm trying to keep our show from falling apart."
"So am I. Either you're with me or agin' me. Make up your mind."
"Damn it, Ned. This is no time for Civil War. We're sitting on a blast
right now."
"You gutless Summer Soldier!"
"Will you listen! The show's in a jam. We're all in a jam. We're being
threatened. It's going to hit the fan next Sunday. I came here to
get the name of that detective friend of yours over at the Precinct
Station."
Bacon's face lost its rage and kindled. "Oh? Threats? What kind?
Extortion? Blackmail? Is it one of the Heavies or a Con? I know all the
rackets, Jake. That's my business. Why the hell didn't you tell me?"
"I'm telling you now."
"What rumbled? Who blew the gaff?"
"We can't discuss it here. I'll see you later and let you have
everything. What's the name of the detective?"
"Fink. Sergeant Robert Fink. Tell him Ned Bacon sent you. Ned Bacon
from...." He paused for a soundless fanfare. "'The People Against--.'"
"Right."
Bacon escorted him to the studio door. "Tell Bob to take you out on the
case. Meet the people, Jake, People are your business. Get a load of
life. Break out of that Ivory Tower. Rub elbows with the marketplace."
Lennox looked at him contemptuously. "You love this, don't you, Ned?
Threats.... Rackets.... Crooks.... The spittoon life."
"It's people, Jake. It's life. It's my business."
"I like my life just the way it is," Lennox said. "That's why I'm going
to see your detective ... for salvation, not masturbation."
Bacon flushed angrily. "You're never the genial type, Jake, but there's
times when you fill me with death wishes."
"Be seeing you, Scarface." Lennox exchanged a level glance of loathing
with his partner and left the studio.
"Salvation!" he repeated emphatically. "Yes, by God! Now we know where
we're going."