Mrs. Munson’s nephew sauntered through the outer office. About twenty, Joe thought, and wondered if he’d copied the rakish panama and the cane from Ambrose Carver. Wylie stood in the doorway, dark and brooding.
“I’ll see you now, kid.”
Joe knew how a man on trial must feel when he rises to hear the verdict of the jury. Sue Davis Against the World scripts were scattered across Wylie’s desk. How many had the producer given Mrs. Munson’s nephew to read? The knife that turned in him now was a cold knife, blue with chill and frosted with apprehension.
Vic Wylie, behind the desk, enacted a one-man tragedy. He talked to himself in scorn; he began to laugh—short, savage outbursts of derision. He put a coy finger under his chin, smirked, and said something in a falsetto simper. Abruptly he began to growl indistinguishable words. He picked up the Sue Davis scripts, held them a moment and hurled them at the desk.
Joe picked them up from the floor.
Wylie stared at him, shook his head so that the reddish hair tumbled left and right, and ran a hand across his forehead. When he took the hand down his eyes had grown calm.
“Kid,” he said, “Carver has a knife out for you a yard long.”
All at once suspicion whetted the knife. Joe thought in dismay: “No; it can’t be.” But suspicion grew. Amby Carver, trying to force Mrs. Munson’s nephew into the cast, was understandable; through the doting aunt, Amby hoped to ease himself into a fat Munson job. But why should Amby have a knife out for him? Wasn’t he one of Amby’s assets? Vic Wylie, posturing and simpering, began to look like an actor playing a scene well rehearsed.
“Mr. Wylie,” Joe said with an effort, “there’s something here I don’t get.”
“You’re afraid you do get it, kid. I don’t fool easy. You’re afraid I’m using Carver as a stage prop to give you the hook.”