Miss Robb “found” him. Curt Lake arrived out of breath.
“Laryngitis,” the producer croaked. “The house sold out and the kid gets laryngitis. The part’s got to be dropped. I’ve got to have new script. You see what time it is?”
The script-writer whipped out of his coat. “Two o’clock, Vic?”
“With the show going on at four-thirty? Can I send them on cold? I want script at noon.”
“Noon? Do you think I pick ideas out of the air? You’ll want another script to-night for to-morrow.”
“Do I get script or do I get an alibi?” Wylie screamed.
Radio’s absolute master, the clock, was goading them with pressure and tension. Come high water or low, storm or calm, sickness or health, at four-thirty the Munson show had to go on.
Miss Robb appeared and closed the inner office door. Joe thought with useless regret: “If I hadn’t gone to the train....” Curt Lake was scowling and Wylie was glaring.
Suddenly Wylie was halfway across the desk. “How is this, Curt? In the story you’ve had this son soaking stamps off discarded envelopes, pasting them in an album—”
The script-writer swung around eagerly. “That’s it, Vic. Last night we left them in a bad way. Almost broke, and the guy that wants the property putting on the pressure. The son’s desperate. He decides to take his stamp collection to a dealer in the city, two hundred miles away. He’s already gone when the script opens—”