Cooper attempted to speak, then gave it up and stormed into his room. He slammed the door so hard that half a dozen books bounced off the shelves. Lennox made no move to pick them up. The phone rang. Lennox made no move to answer it. After five peals, it stopped, and a moment later the P-lady called downstairs. Lennox picked up the living room extension. "Yes?" "Jake, this is Melvin Grabinett." "How are your associates?" "What?" "It's a question I've been wanting to ask you for years. Who the hell are your associates anyway? Helter and Skelter?" "Are you drunk?" "No. Unemployed." "Listen, I'm in Tom Bleutcher's suite at The Brompton House. Been here the whole Almighty morning. Olga wants you to have lunch with us." "Olga? Who she?" "His daughter. You made a big hit with her last time they was in town. Come on down." "Get the new writer." "I got no new writer. Anyway she yens for you. Come on down." "Why should I help entertain the client? I'm off the show. Remember?" "You still got a piece of the royalties. You want to keep on collecting? Help keep it on the air. Come on down." * * * * * Grabinett's relations with his client were shaky because they were based on marriage. Grabinett's wife was the daughter of Pan-American Export. Grabinett's father-in-law was the biggest single purchaser of Mode Shoes, exporting thousands of pairs each year to South American dealers. So long as Mode Shoes remained on Pan-American's catalogue, Tom Bleutcher would remain Blinky's client. But he didn't have to like it. He was a heavy man with a red face and thick iron-grey hair; a third generation German, and the Germans are the best shoe manufacturers in the world. They are also the most pig-headed manufacturers in the world. Bleutcher had formed his opinions in Chicago during the years 1900-1910. Nothing that had taken place subsequently had served to alter them. He did not believe in advertising. He did not believe in television. He was convinced that if a man builds a better mousetrap, the world will beat a path to his door. He ran his million dollar firm like a mousetrap maker and was the despair of his advertising staff. His daughter, Olga, youngest of a family of seven, was the Intellectual Bleutcher. She had just graduated from college, had had her year at the Sorbonne, and was the soul of the Brockton Literary, Marching & Chowder Society. She was plain, verging on ugly, with a broad saddle nose and wide clown mouth; but she had good teeth and magnificent cat's eyes. Her figure was so arresting that it had to be thought of as a body, and after sufficient contemplation of that body, most men raised their eyes above the neck and even found the face attractive.