"Mig! Don't you understand? These are threatening letters. I think they're written to you. You're in danger."
"Me?" Mason was fascinated. "Me? I never...." He put the dummy down and stared at Lennox.
"Yes, you. Did you read that last one? There's going to be dynamite Sunday. I'm here to help you. I want to do all I can. Who's writing them to you, Mig? Do you know?"
"Sure they're to me. Sure. I should of realized." Mason nodded with growing conviction. "Stars always get anonymous letters. Like presidents." He began to get excited. "It hits the fan on the Sunday show, huh? This is sensational, Jake. Can we have a couple of reporters there?"
"Reporters!"
"Wait a minute. Wait a minute." Mason grabbed the photostats and ran through them again. "I just thought of something. Yeah. Here. You better not let the reporters see this one, Jake. Number three."
"Don't let the reporters see...." Lennox echoed faintly.
"Uh-huh. Keep it back. They'll know I'm not getting the letters if they see this one, but I ought to be getting them. That Spanish faker was getting blackmailed every night when he worked The Chert Room and I got twice his billing."
"You're not getting the letters?"
"Sure I'm getting the letters. Except Number three. Here's the line. 'You east-side so-and-so.' See? This one can't be to me. I live on the west side. But the reporters don't have to know. Hold that one out on them." Mason clapped Lennox on the shoulder appreciatively. "If I ever made a crack about you thinking, Jake, it was only for laughs. You got a head on you I admire. We'll get a spread out of this if we get any action Sunday. I tell you what. Let's be smart. Hire a guy. I bet you thought of that already, huh, Thinker?"