Bleutcher nodded ponderously.
"Just leave word for Olga," Miss Bleutcher whispered.
Lennox nodded absently.
In the lobby of The Brompton House, Grabinett darted to a phone booth and called the network. Audibon had not yet returned from lunch. Grabinett came out of the booth, blinking anxiously.
"He's been trying to get me all morning too. What the Almighty mischief is he up to? What a business! Come on, Jake. Let's take care of Bacon first."
Avery Borden's office had the quality of a court room. His high-backed desk chair looked like a judge's bench. Against one wall was a line of mahogany armchairs that looked like a jury box. When they entered, Bacon was sprawled on two of the chairs, confiding a thief-type revelation to Borden who was leaning against a window, glasses in hand, fascinated. Lennox and Grabinett sat down quietly and waited. No matter how savage warfare may be on The Rock, there is one sacred law that is never broken. No man ever kills the point of another man's story.
When it was over and Borden had reacted satisfactorily, Bacon stood up and began to swagger back and forth across the office. He preferred to sit when other men were standing, and to stand when other men were sitting. Borden obligingly seated himself behind the desk.
"Now we're all here to read the up-state returns," Bacon drawled. "The show isn't sick yet, but when you pull out the thermometer any interne can read the temperature. It hasn't broken a hundred, but it will if we don't yank the substitutes and send in the regulars."
Borden's phone buzzed. He picked it up, murmured for a minute, put it down and apologized.
"You can't run a variety show like a girl's weeny roast," Bacon continued. "Sooner or later some eager beaver is going to get a fork in her eye and drop the marshmallows into the fire."