"Who's writing them, Kay?"
"How should I know?"
"They're to you, aren't they?"
"No."
"Don't lie, damn you. You're halfway into a strait jacket and this is what's doing it to you."
She smiled wearily. "Clever Jordan Lennox. Mummy's favorite bright boy." She got up and kissed his brow chastely. "We'll pickle it."
Lennox followed her to the bar. "They're written to you, Kay. I came up here to help you out, but you've got to level with me. Who's writing them? Who's threatening you?"
"I told you. I don't know."
"This isn't anything to fool with, Kay. It's loaded with dynamite and it's set to go off Sunday."
"What the hell do I care what happens Sunday," she blazed. "The whole damned show can bloody off Sunday. Give me the damned letters." She snatched the photostats from him. "They're not to me. Look at this line in Number four. 'You black-headed lying etcetera.' Is that me?" She jabbed at her red hair angrily. "That's red. It's always been red. If you don't believe me I can show you the convincer. Go look for somebody else, Lennox."