"But he isn't moralistic. They've all got outs. I don't know who the hell's getting the threats. I'm no better off than I was when I started." He shrugged. "It shows you, Kitten. Everybody imagines they can do anybody else's job much better. It isn't until you try that you find out. Damn it! I'm licked. All I can do is hope Fink'll pull us out of this jam before Sunday." "Tell me what everybody said when you pulled the letters on them." "To hell with it." "Let's write down how each one eliminated himself. Maybe we can add them up and find something." After some persuasion and another drink he gave me the facts. I wrote them down in a column: Big Dark Loud Moralistic Went to college Fancy and elegant Lives on the East side "Look at this," I said. Lennox looked. "Who does it add up to?" "I don't know." "I've got news for you," I said. "You may be an amateur, and it may not be as easy as we think to do another man's job, but you've done the job. You've found out who's getting the letters. The only trouble is, you're worse off than when you started." "What the hell are you talking about?" "You." "What about me?" "You're the guy who's getting the letters." He stared at me, looked at the list, then looked up again. "This adds up to me?" he whispered. I nodded. "Loud?" "They can hear you from the Bronx to the Battery." "Fancy? Elegant?" "As Mike Romanoff." "Moralistic?" "As a Puritan." "This is me? This is the way you see me?" "Yes." He got up without another word and walked out. I don't know what staggered him most ... the realization that he was the man being threatened, or the picture of himself as other people saw him. But I was right about one thing. He was a lot worse off than when he started. CHAPTER VII It took Lennox eleven hours to struggle through the script for the January 15th "Who He?" show. He consumed one ream of paper, half a pound of coffee, two quarts of ice cream, and answered the phone a dozen times. All of the calls were for Cooper. They were from unknowns who appeared to be phoning from the vicinity of juke boxes and spoke in hoarse underground voices. They used a jargon that was incomprehensible to Lennox and they seemed to be torturing Cooper. "They want material," he groaned. "You've got a trunkful stashed away. Submit it." "I can't. My old stuff stinks." "Then write new material." "I can't." "The hell you can't. You've arrived, son. Cash in." "Arrived? Sure, at the wrong station. I'm a fluke." Cooper was miserable. "You heard about the party Suidi's throwing for me?" "I'm coming. You'll hear me cheering in your corner." "Cheering. My God! They'll all be there.... Looking me over. Sizing me up. Me. A nothing. Making a fool of myself." "Stop that, Sam. You're loaded with talent." "Not me."