"Fifty thousand dollars?'' Jasper Wilcox screamed. The Memphis Globe publisher's eyes were glaring, and he was chomping on the cigar that had become his trademark.        "Look chief," I said, "this could be big-- real big. If these diaries are authentic, we'll have the scoop of the century.''        He sat back in his chair and relaxed a bit.        "How do we know they're for real?'' he asked.        "We don't. It's a gamble. But I have a hunch . . . Although we could insist on an expert . . .''        "I don't know,'' said Wilcox. "Might scare him off. I'd hate to lose 'em if they turned out to be the real thing. We might just have to go with your 'gut instinct.' But at least see if you can buy a little time so we can do some snooping around. When are you going to talk to him again?''        "Tonight,'' I said.        My watch said 10:10. I was worried. I was actually beginning to like the phone booth. The phone rang.        I picked up the receiver and, sure enough, it was my boy.        "Vel, haf you made a decision?''        "I talked to the powers-that-be, and they are very interested. When can we pick up the material?''        "Bring the money in a small, unmarked suitcase. Your contact vill be at the northeast corner of the intersection of Elvis Presley Boulevard and Holmes Road this Sunday at 10 p.m.''        Five days, I thought to myself. "That would give me enough time to do some digging.''        "Now,'' the German continued, "there vill be a code. To make sure it's the right person, go up and say, 'Vell-a bless-a my soul, vhat's-a wrong with me?' He will respond: 'I'm itchin' like a man in a fuzzy tree.' After that, exchange packages.''        "Do I have to say that?''        "If you vant the diaries.''        "Okay, okay,'' I said. "But let me tell you one thing, pal. If these diaries are fakes, I'm going to find you. And when I do, I'm going to rearrange your digestive system.''        The phone went dead. I guess that wasn't the most tactful thing to say.        "Sunday, huh?'' Wilcox barked. "Well, we're going out on a limb on this one so, one way or another, I want a story out of this. I want you to live, breathe, and sleep Elvis this week. If these diaries turn out to be genuine, we're talking special edition here.''        His eyes always lit up when he said the words "special edition.''        "Now I'll get the money for you by then, but I'm putting a lot of faith in this gut feeling of yours. Fifty grand isn't chopped liver.''        Funny, his eyes always lit up when he said the words "chopped liver,'' too.        As I walked out of his office I had a strange feeling about the whole thing. I could only hope that this diary stuff turned out to be more than a wild goose chase.        As soon as I got back to my desk, the phone started ringing. I picked up the receiver. "Parrish, editorial,'' I said.        A gravelly voice came back. "Mr. Parrish, I wish to discuss the matter of a certain set of diaries. If you are interested, I'll be in the lobby of The Peabody hotel by the fountain in one hour.'' The line went dead.        "Great,'' I thought. "The plot is about to thicken and I haven't even had lunch yet.        "Hmmm . . . one hour--that's about sixty minutes from now.'' I threw on my jacket and sped off for a quick bite before venturing to The Peabody to meet the mysterious caller.