The dramatist squashed a cigarette in the tray, his fifth or sixth-I had lost count. “Very painful, this is,” he said. He was a tenor. “Nauseous. We opened on Broadway February 25th last year, and when I say we had a smash hit I’m merely giving the record like Mr Harvey. Around the middle of May the producer, Al Friend, got a letter from a man named Kenneth Rennert. The mixture as before. It said he had sent me an outline for a play in August 1956, entitled ‘A Bushel of Love,’ with a letter asking me to collaborate with him on writing it. He demanded a million dollars, which was a compliment. Friend turned the letter over to me, and my lawyer answered it, telling Rennert he was a liar, which he already knew. But my lawyer knew about the three cases you have just heard described, and he had me take precautions. He and I made a thorough search of my apartment on Sixty-fifth Street, every inch of it, and also my house in the country at Silvermine, Connecticut, and I made arrangements that would have made it tough for anybody trying to plant something at either place.”
Oshin lit a cigarette and missed the ashtray with the match. “That was wasted effort. As you may know, a playwright must have an agent. I had had one named Jack Sandier that I couldn’t get along with, and a month after