The second telecast had the anticipated effect. The day after, Friday, nearly a hundred thousand letters and telegrams had been received, and Cave’s life had been threatened four times over the telephone.
I was awakened at five o’clock on Friday morning by a newspaper man begging an interview. Half-asleep, irritably, I told him to go to hell and hung up though not before I’d heard the jeer: “Thought you fellows did away with hell.” This woke me up and I made coffee, still keeping my eyes half-shut in the dim winter light, hoping sleep might return to its accustomed perch; but more telephone calls demoralized my fragile ally and I was left wide awake, unshaven, with fast-beating heart beside the telephone, drinking coffee.
Every few minutes there was a call from some newspaper man or editor requesting information: they had all been shocked by the telecast. When I told them they should get in touch with Cave himself, or at least with Paul’s office, they only laughed: thousands were trying to get to speak to Paul, tens of thousands to Cave; the result was chaos. Shakily, I took the phone off its hook and got dressed. When I opened my door to get the morning paper, a thin young man leaped past me into my living room and anchored himself to a heavy chair.
“What....” I began; he was only too eager to explain the what and the why.
“And so,” he ended, breathlessly, “the Star has authorized me to advance you not only that money but expenses, too, for an exclusive feature on Cave and the Cavites.”
“I wish,” I said, very gentle in the presence of such enthusiasm, “that you would go away. It’s five in the morning....”
“You’re our only hope,” the boy wailed. “Every paper and news service has been trying to get past the gate out on Long Island for three weeks and failed. They couldn’t even shoot him at long range.”
“Shoot him.”
“Get a picture. Now please....”
“Paul Himmell is your man. He’s authorized to speak for Cave. He has an office in the Empire State Building and he keeps respectable hours; so why don’t you....”