"It's smart to be scared. You don't know who they're written to?" "No. Like I told you, it could be a choice of eight." "Maybe." Fink smiled. "We'll see if we can find out who's writing them. You've got all the letters in this folder?" "Yes." "If you're worried about next Sunday why don't you keep the public out of your theater?" "We can't do it, Sergeant.... Mr.... Which is it?" "Bob." "I didn't know you people were so informal." "We're not. It's code." "Code! You're kidding. I don't believe it." Fink nodded. "Say you're in my office being questioned. One of my associates walks in and he doesn't know who you are. I have to warn him to be careful what he says. Instead of calling him by his first name I call him Mister. That's the tip-off." "I'm flattered. You make me feel like a deputy." "If you're worried about next Sunday why don't you keep the public out of your theater?" "How do you know I'm not a crook, Bob? Why'd you teach me your code?" "Any friend of Ned's." "No. Honestly." "You know everybody in your business, don't you?" "Practically." "I know everybody in my business." "But suppose I tell other people and it gets out?" "What difference? We're protecting ourselves. We don't care who knows it. If you're worried about next Sunday why don't you keep the public out of your theater?" The third repetition of the question, identically phrased, made Lennox aware of a tenacious quality in this quiet little man. He could not be diverted. "It's a comedy show," Lennox explained. "We have to have an audience. Our star wouldn't work without one." "He could try." "He wouldn't want to try." "You can ask him." "I'll ask him, but I know the answer. I thought ... well, that you might put some of your men in the house Sunday night." "For eight hundred people? It wouldn't do much good." Fink smiled haphazardly. "How do you hand out the tickets?" "Mostly through the network. They're requested by mail." "They never keep any record. Doesn't your sponsor get tickets too?" "I'll let you in on our code," Lennox grinned. "We never call them the sponsor. Always the client. In case you want to pass as a TV artist." "Thanks. Doesn't your sponsor get tickets too?" "He gets a batch. So does the agency. Also the producer, Mel Grabinett." "How far ahead do you hand out tickets?" "About two weeks." "Then they're all out for next Sunday?" "Yes." Fink smiled. "Well.... We'll see if we can find out who's writing them. You've got all the letters in this folder?" "All. Oh. I had them photostated. Is that all right?" Fink nodded and parked the car before a small butcher store in a run-down tenement. He opened the glove compartment, placed the manila folder inside, then carefully locked the compartment. They got out of the car and he locked the doors carefully. "Need any more from me, Bob?" "The letters are enough." "Then I'll be going." "What's your hurry? Come on in."