CHAPTER XIV
Lennox awoke in the role of Mr. Lefty Leftwich from Brockton, Mass. He turned over in bed like a ship launched sideways and immediately began bellowing the ballad about feet, feet, marching up and down again, with which he had annoyed the patrons of the Baroque until Chris Barakatrones had been forced to throw him out.
Gabby heard the racket and ran into the bedroom and turned on the lights. Lennox winced, closed his eyes, and sneezed three times in stately waltz tempo. "Less light," he muttered. "A switch on Goethe. I am excessively educated. Need more crud in my blood." He began to roar again.
"Stop that noise, Lefty," Gabby called from the door. She came to the bed and sat down beside Lennox. She was wearing a grey skirt and a slate blue sweater. Lennox immediately reached up and seized her breasts with his heavy hands.
"The All-Mother," he laughed.
He hurt her. She eased his hands and said: "Yes, that's how they're tattooed, Lefty."
He began to wrestle with her, trying to tear off the sweater.
"Take it easy," she said. "Or do you want to hurt me?"
"No, no, lady," Lennox apologized. "Act of homage. 'Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast. To feel forever its soft fall and swell....' Etcetera. Etcetera. Sonnet by J. Keats. Theme song of L. Leftwich." He hauled her down on the bed. She kissed him once and then bit his ear until he roared with pain.
"Jesus!" he complained.
"Did I hurt you?" she inquired.
"Christ, yes!"
"I'm sorry, Lefty." She kissed the injured ear and bit the other until he roared again.
"Listen, lady," he said, half annoyed, half ecstatic, "No fair. You play Boys' Rules. I'm the fella. You're supposed to be the girl."
"Male Supremacy," Gabby said. "I am so the girl. Feel your fair love's ripening breast." She pulled his face down into her bosom and banged the back of his head with her fists. She rolled him over in bed and bit his mouth. He struggled up, protesting. She caught him and huffed and puffed against his bulk until he collapsed again.
"Fins," he said.
"You give up?"
"I give up. Fins."
She braced herself on her arms and looked down at him. He looked up and grinned. "You're the first one that played Boy's Rules with me. Why aren't there more like you, lady?"
"All girls want to, Lefty."
"Why don't they?"
"Because men won't let them."
"Why not?"
"They want girls to be girly-girly."
"Why?"
"Because it makes them feel manly."
"Crazy." He tapped the tips of her breasts. "Double-relish," he said.
"What's that mean, Lefty?"
"It's musical ornamentation," he explained after a moment's earnest concentration. "Friend of mine, Sam Cooper, said—" He collapsed and stared at her with his mouth open.
"Yes, Lefty? What did Sam Cooper say?"
"Gabby?" he faltered.
"Right here."
"But I thought you—I thought I—"
Lefty Leftwich fled back to Brockton.
"W-Where've I been?"
"Right here."
"Gabby...."
"Yes, darling?"
"I think I'm going to be sick."
She smacked her palm against his nose and thrust back determinedly. He grunted in pain.
"Still want to be sick?" she asked after a minute.
"No," he answered in patient agony.
She released his nose. "Hello, Jake," she said.
He began to cry. She soothed him. "It's all right, baby. Don't cry. What's the matter, darling? You don't have to cry."
"It's the first time you ever called me Jake," he said in a muffled voice.
"Is that why you're crying, sweetheart?"
"It's like we're finally meeting for the first time.... No ... I—I'm mixed up again. Like last week. What's today?"
"Sunday. New Year's day."
"What time is it?"
"Six o'clock."
"Morning?"
"Evening."
He digested that information, thought intensely and groaned. "I've lost the whole damned New Year's Eve. I'm blacked out again from ten o'clock last night. What filth am I going to start remembering now?"
"Don't be frightened," Gabby said briskly. "I was with you from midnight on."
"You were?"
She nodded.
"Did I do anything bad?"
She shook her head.
"Where did we meet?"
"You called for me here."
"And you went out with me? After that fight? After the lousy things I said to—"
She put her hand over his mouth. "Don't talk about that. We both apologized and made up."
"Honest?"
"You know I never lie."
"Did.... Did we run into Knott?"
"No."
"I could swear something about Knott is flitting around in the blackout. I—"
"Your imagination," Gabby said. "On your feet, Jake. Time to get dressed and have something to eat. We've got to catch the nine o'clock plane."
"What plane?"
"Don't you remember anything from last night? We made up our minds to fly down to Mexico today."
"Mexico? What for?"
"My divorce. Your wedding." Gabby looked at him sternly. "If you're pretending amnesia to get out of it, Jake, it won't work. I've got witnesses."
"I think," he said feebly, "I'd better have some coffee."
He stood up, still dizzy and blurry. Gabby tossed him clean shorts. He put them on and followed her to the kitchen where he drank coffee humbly and in a hushed voice reported what he remembered of his New Year's Eve ... the trip to Islip, his insane practical jokes ... he even blurted out all he remembered of his date with Olga Bleutcher, the body incarnate. Gabby was annoyed, the more so because his memory died at the point where the date with Olga began. She covered her chagrin with a laugh.
"The pigeons were a nuisance," she said, "But after the mothballs and the gelatine I got off lucky. You're a Monte Cristo, Jake."
"No," he insisted. "It wasn't revenge. I swear I was trying to spread sweetness and light." He looked at her for the first time with something like focus. "What happened to your right eye? It's all red."
"Caught cold in it last night," Gabby said briefly. "How did you manage to get rid of fatal Olga Bleutcher?"
"I don't know. We must have gone to parties. Probably I lost her somewhere."
"And before you lost her did you—" Gabby stopped.
"Did I what?"
"Nothing."
After a moment Lennox asked: "What time did I pick you up here?"
"Around midnight."
"That's two hours not accounted for."
"We won't try to account for them. We won't even ask Olga."
"No. I mean, do you think I ran into Knott while I—"
"Forget Knott," Gabby said. "You never ran into him and I don't think you ever will. The whole thing will blow over while we're in Mexico."
"What'll Roy do to you if you divorce him?"
"To hell with Roy. Now come on, Lefty. It's time to get dressed."
"Who's Lefty?"
"You."
"Since when?"
"Since last night. All of a sudden you turned to me and announced you were Lefty Leftwich from Brockton."
Lennox grunted. "A comic, that's what I am. A New Year's comic. If you tell me I put on women's hats, I'll hang myself."
"You didn't while you were with me. You can check with Olga some other time."
"You aren't jealous about Olga?" Lennox asked timidly.
"Yes," Gabby said. "I am. I could knock her block off."
"But we had that fight, and she pestered me until—"
"You listen to me, Jordan Lennox. We'll probably have a lot of fights in the future, but never for a minute imagine they'll give you any excuse to chase other women." She rapped him under the chin with her knuckles. "If I ever catch you, I'll knock your block off too."
"All of a sudden you're such a fighter, all of a sudden," he said in awe. "What happened?"
"Something."
"What?"
"I don't fight and tell. Now get dressed."
He dressed and admired her for bringing him his clothes. He admired her most for preserving his sacred gimmick book from loss, theft and other catastrophe. As he placed it in his inside pocket and flexed his right arm, Gabby handed him a long white envelope.
"This is our expense money," she said. "You had a hundred and eight dollars left from last night. I borrowed another two hundred. We can make bank arrangements in Mexico. Somebody I know at the airport—"
"An eclectic Chinaman?"
"No." She laughed.
"Hasty Hawaiian?"
"No. It's a woman I met at a WVL meeting. She got me the tickets on some kind of credit. We can settle up when we get back."
"You're leveling about Mexico?"
"Of course I am. Now, it's seven o'clock. We have two hours to pick up our tickets and get weighed in. I packed your fortnighter and brought it down. It's out in the foyer...."
"By God, you were busy today."
"By God, you don't know how busy. All I have to do is finish packing myself. Then we'll start. Wash the dishes, Jake. Oh, and give those pigeons their freedom or something."
He swallowed. "I can't do it, Gabby."
"Don't be silly. Just take the cage to the window and open it. Nature'll do the rest."
"I mean I can't go to Mexico tonight."
"Don't be obstinate, darling. Just clean up the kitchen and keep out of my way."
"I can't go tonight, Gabby." He took her shoulders and held her. "And don't think I'm playing noble on account of Roy. I love you so much I'll marry you even if it ruins us. I'll marry you any time or any place you say ... but I can't go tonight."
"I want to go tonight, Jordan."
"I'm sorry. I can't. I can't run out on the show."
"You can so run out on the show. They fired you."
"That isn't what I mean. I can't run out on those threats. I've got to stay and face Knott."
"Jordan, believe me, there isn't any Knott."
"How do you know?"
"I just know it."
"You mean you just hope it. Who's writing the letters? Who's threatening me?"
"No one. It's some kind of silly joke."
"A joke! That filth?"
"So it's a filthy joke; but we can't take it seriously."
"I'm taking it seriously. I want to meet the joker who's picked me out for his filthy humor. I'm going to meet him tonight."
"Jordan, please! I want to go to Mexico tonight."
"If he doesn't show up," Lennox continued grimly, "I'll drag Aimee Driscoll down to the precinct and we'll beat the truth out of her. We'll pry it out of Sam, too. There's got to be a pay-off tonight."
"Jordan!" Gabby shook his arms frantically. "I want to leave tonight. I want it more than anything else. Will you do this for me?"
"I can't, sweetheart. I've got too much to settle up first."
"And you'll find another excuse tomorrow and the day after and the day after that...."
"You know that's not true."
"Remember what you said about politics? To hell with politics because we're more important. I agree, Jordan. That's the truth. And to hell with Knott and his letters too."
"No."
"Oh, why are you so stubborn?"
"I have to do what has to be done," Lennox said patiently. "You go ahead and finish packing. We'll leave as soon as I've called the lunatic who's been crucifying me. I'm going up to the theater now. I'll phone you when we're off the air."
"No," Gabby said quietly. "The packing can wait. I'll go with you."
It was seven-thirty when they arrived at the Venice Theater. More than a hundred ticket-holders were already queued up before the main lobby, waiting for the nine o'clock show. When the doors opened at eight-thirty, there would be at least five hundred more. As Lennox took Gabby around to the stage door he passed down the length of that line, staring into each strange face, searching for his hidden enemy.
To the deaf doorman he spoke in a low flat drone that was more effective than any shouting. He was expecting a Mr. Fu, a Mr. Hamburger, and a Mr. Eugene K. Norman. If they came to the stage door they were to be admitted and given seats. If anyone else asked for him ... A Mr. Knott, say ... Lennox was to be called at once. He repeated these instructions three times. Gabby bit her lip.
The stage door opened into a small square foyer. To the left was the narrow corridor which led down the left hand side of the theater to the green room and thence to the right wings of the stage. There is no paradox in this reversal of left and right. Since the actor faces the audience, right and left are reversed as you cross from the theater to the stage.
A broad curtained arch led from the stage door foyer directly into the theater orchestra, opening out into the left aisle. The curtain was not drawn now. Through the arch, Lennox could see little islands of people scattered through the orchestra ... a clump of dancers in costume, four cameramen drinking coffee from cartons, Oliver Stacy with Olga Bleutcher, Ween and Grabinett with Mason's gag writers, Avery Borden and Ned Bacon en rapport with the client.
Lennox took Gabby's arm and marched into the orchestra. He refused to be inconspicuous. It was like running the gauntlet but he made a full circuit of the house, meeting every hostile glance with an arrogant smile. He threw the smile in their faces, daring them to accept the challenge. Every hackle in the theater arose, but before the battle could be joined, Raeburn Sachs started a muffled uproar on the P.A.:
"Dress, please. Dress. Everybody on stage for dress."
The dancers and Stacy returned to the stage. The cameramen returned to their cameras. Johnny Plummer put on his ear-phones and stammered to the orchestra on the low platform at the foot of the right aisle. The gag writers assembled in the center aisle, just behind the dolly-track of the No. 2 camera, to simulate contestants for the dress rehearsal. Lennox seated Gabby and excused himself to go backstage. He did not slip around through the green room. As the orchestra began its opening fanfare, he went down to the edge of the old orchestra pit, climbed up on the rail and leaped to the stage in full view.
He turned and grinned into the lights. "Poison eaters!" he said contemptuously and walked toward the prop table in the right wings. Mason passed him on the way from his dressing room to open the dress.
"You lousy burglar!" Mason shouted in a whisper. Even feuds must be conducted sotto voce during rehearsal.
Irma was a step behind Mason. "You lousy burglar," she whispered. "We'll fix you for those lights."
"What's the matter?" Lennox inquired. "Didn't you have cameras?"
From out front came the echo of Mason's voice, the cackle of the dummy, the brassy punctuation of the orchestra. The empty house put every sound on echo. Kay Hill, in a 1920 evening gown, passed Lennox on her way to take her place on the Clara Bow "Charleston" set.
"So you helped him add another one to his score," she hissed, her acid eyes raking Lennox.
"Who?" he asked, bewildered.
"The Bleutcher."
"Maybe she added him to her score."
The ballet girls came down the stairs from their balcony dressing room in geisha costumes, and clustered around the rosin box, shuffling their feet. Across, in the left wings, the ballet boys assembled, dressed in Lt. Pinkerton whites. Stacy ran off stage, stripping off his dinner jacket to change for his second spot.
"Thanks, pal!" he whispered bitterly.
"For what?"
"For Typhoid Olga. Ask me a favor some time."
"I'll tell Kay."
Grabinett shot out from behind a drop, arguing furiously and soundlessly with the uniformed theater fireman. He stopped long enough to blink at Lennox.
"And you'll pay for them Almighty signs too," he whispered. "Defacing my office!"
"I'll tell the painter."
Bacon swaggered in from the green room with the client and the client's daughter. He was explaining the workings of the theater like an old showman from way back. As they drifted around behind the drops, he gave Lennox one venomous glance that disemboweled him. Olga stopped long enough to confront Jake.
"You filthy pig!" she said in a clear voice.
"Shhh! Rehearsal! All insults in a whisper, please."
She slapped his face and followed her father.
"I'll tell mother," Lennox said.
Tooky Ween waddled across the temporary bridge from the orchestra to the stage with the notes he had made for Mason's opening spot. He shook his fist at Lennox. Lennox blew him kisses. The hatreds and the hostilities were recharging him. He felt alert and stimulated. He lounged against the prop table, looking sardonic and unyielding, carrying his naked weapons ready for quick murder.
Mason came off the stage, followed by Irma. Lennox applauded soundlessly and asked for his autograph. Mason lifted the dummy to hit him, thought better of it, and continued to his dressing room, shrugging out of his tuxedo. The orchestra blared. Irma kicked Lennox in the leg.
"That's the wooden one," he smiled.
Stacy rushed out in a scarlet Grenadier's uniform.
"Olga went that way," Lennox said.
Kay Hill came back from the Clara Bow.
"Oliver went that way," Lennox said.
The orchestra blared and segued into dance tempo. The geishas and Lt. Pinkertons took position before the No. 2 camera. Raeburn Sachs tore down the center aisle from the control booth and leaped up on stage. He came back into the wings.
"Wardrobe!" he hissed. "Where's the wardrobe mistress? I told her Household Guards, not Grenadier."
"Same thing," Lennox said.
Sachs looked at him.
"Don't argue with me," Lennox said mildly. "You have a talent that terrifies me. It always puts me in the wrong."
Sachs turned, leaped across the pit and ran back to the controls.
The orchestra fanfared. The dancers came off and ran up to the balcony. Mason charged out of his dressing room, buttoning up his Philip Nolan uniform. Across the stage a group of actors were assembling on a courtroom set before the No. 3 camera. Lennox waved to Robin, picked a bunch of artificial flowers off the prop table and threw it to her. The flowers were intercepted by Oliver Stacy's face.
Stacy spread his shoulders and telegraphed the punch. Lennox stepped inside and hooked his right to Stacy's heart. Then he caught him before he could fall and disrupt the dress. They clinched.
"Rehearsal! Rehearsal!" Lennox whispered.
Stacy broke away and ran into his dressing room. Lennox massaged his fist happily. The stage manager appeared and returned the flowers to the prop table in a marked manner. Kay Hill came out in black lace court dress, ruff and cap to take position before the No. 1 camera with an Extra dressed in leather and carrying an axe. The wardrobe mistress appeared.
"Not Grenadier. Household," Lennox told her severely.
"I'm having trouble with Cooper."
"What's the matter?"
"He won't get into costume."
"Where's he dressing?"
"Up in Nine."
Lennox ran up the iron steps to the balcony, three at a time. He passed the dancers' dressing room and had a flashing glimpse of naked flat-chested girls juggling into can-can costumes. He knocked once on the door of Nine and burst in. It was the size of a privy. Cooper sat on a stool before the bulb-ringed mirror staring at a red and white blazer and a scarlet banded straw hat. His face bore a ghastly expression.
"What the hell, Sam?"
Cooper looked at him without changing expression.
"Your spot comes up in five minutes."
Cooper shook his head.
"What's the matter? Speak."
"I'm sick."
"Stage-fright, hey? Don't worry, I'll see you through." Lennox picked up the blazer. "Come on. Change."
Cooper made no move. Lennox took his shoulder and shook him. "Wake up, boy. You're on in five minutes. Take off your coat."
"Leave me alone!" Cooper knocked Jake's hand away.
"Take it easy, Wolfgang. Don't get panicky. I told you I'd see you through."
"See me through what? More hell?"
"It may be hell, but it's worth it. We're promoting you, son."
"Promoting me?" Cooper laughed hysterically. "You're an expert, aren't you? You've promoted yourself to hell."
"Maybe I have, but I'm not quitting on the way down. Don't you quit on the way up." Lennox glared at him. "For Christ's sake, Sam! Do I have to fight for both of us? Don't you have any strength of your own?"
Cooper started to his feet in horror.
"Get that coat off." Lennox jerked the coat off, spun Cooper around and put him into the red and white blazer. He cocked the straw hat on his head, tapped it into a rakish tilt and shoved him out of the dressing room. Cooper trudged to the stairs like a sleepwalker. The stage manager below beckoned frantically and he increased his pace going down the stairs.
Lennox nodded and picked Cooper's jacket up to hang it away. Three slips of paper had fallen out of the pocket in the tussle. He was about to return them; then he stopped short as his eye caught the familiar hysterical writing. He smoothed the slips out and examined them fearfully. His heart began to pound. There were fragments, phrases, names, numbers; all scrawled in that sick hand: SUIDI ... $$$ ... MOST ... MERRY XMAS ... AMPMAMPM ... ROX ... §§§3 ... ¶7 ... MY HEART & ... BLOOD. SWEAT. TEARS ... WHO WHO WHO WHO HE?
Lennox went black with rage. He placed the slips in his pocket and burst out of the dressing room. Down on the main floor he left the stage, leaped down the short flight of steps to the empty green room and called Sergeant Fink on the pay phone.
"Bob? Jake Lennox."
"Yeah. Hello. We'll be over in time for the program."
"Get over now. I've found out who's writing the letters."
"You don't say?"
"I do say. And I've got proof."
Lennox hung up. He glanced at the green room monitor. Cooper and one of the dancers had started their duet. Lennox turned up the speaker volume and watched, his face drawn and savage. The spot started badly. Cooper and the dancer missed their cue, the orchestra had to wait for them, they came in off beat. Their singing was inaudible and ragged. Cooper moved like a St. Vitus dancer. Even on the monitor his shaking was obvious.
"Varsity show talent," Lennox snarled.
After two agonizing minutes, the voice of Avery Borden cut through the orchestra and singing with the clarity of exasperation: "No! No! No! This is impossible."
Cooper and the dancer stopped and peered out into the theater.
"Get them out of here!" Borden shouted. "What is this? Amateur Night?"
"So they stink," Grabinett's voice came faintly from another part of the theater. "What can we do? We got three Almighty minutes to fill."
"I'd rather fill three minutes with dead air than that no-talent. Sweep 'em off the stage."
"This is a dress rehearsal!" Sachs roared on the P.A.
"This is a goddam trappisty!" Grabinett answered.
The dancer began to weep. Cooper left her and staggered off camera. Lennox ran up the steps from the green room to the stage and met him as he came into the wings. There was a confused uproar in the theater punctuated by Raeburn Sachs' repeated commands to the staff to stop their clocks. Lennox took Cooper by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back to the green room. He flung him into a chair and stood over him. Cooper shook and gasped for air.
"You son of a bitch!" Lennox shouted.
"Stand by me, Jake. I'm in a bad way."
"You're going to be in a worse way, you bastard."
"Please, Jake...."
Lennox pulled the telephone slips out of his pocket and shook them in Cooper's face. "Look at these. Look at them, you filthy Judas."
"Jake ... I need a drink. I'm in a bad way."
Cooper tried to get out of the chair. Lennox backhanded him across the jaw. Then, in his fury, he yanked him up and cuffed his face. When he let him go, Cooper collapsed.
"So it was you writing them," Lennox shouted. "What's inside you? What in God's name did you have against me? Why couldn't you come out into the open instead of sticking a knife in my back and twisting it?"
"The ... letters?"
"Yes, the letters. The threats. The filth." Lennox thrust the slips before Cooper's face again. "I found these in your pocket. It's the same writing. Your disguised hand, yes? What are they, practice sheets?"
"No," Cooper said faintly. "I ... Jake, I've got to tell you. You're writing them. You're writing those letters yourself. Not me. You."
Lennox burst out laughing.
"It's true, Jake. Those times when you get drunk and black out.... That's when you write yourself those letters. So help me, Jake. I've been trying to keep it from you, but—"
"I thought we were friends," Lennox broke in fiercely. "I thought we were working together ... standing by each other ... backing each other up. I thought we were two sane men bucking the rat-race and beating them at their own game. I believed in us. I'd have killed myself to keep it from being destroyed. I should have killed you before you destroyed it. You're not sane. You're like all the rest of them ... sick, vicious, living on hate and poison."
"For God's sake, Jake! Will you listen to me?" Cooper struggled up out of the chair and put his arm around Jake's shoulders. "You're the sick one. You're the one who's destroying everything. You—"
Lennox twisted away from Cooper and looked at him with hatred. "You can think of more vicious ways to knife a man in the back than a fag. Why didn't you dress under the stage with the other queens? That's where you belong!"
"Mr. Lennox," the doorman called in his deaf voice. "Man here for you. Mr. Fink or such."
"Be right out," Lennox answered. He showed his teeth to Cooper. "Wait here. I've got a surprise for you."
He ran out to the stagedoor foyer. Fink was standing there with his swarthy colleague, Salerno.
"He's in the green room," Lennox said. "This way."
"Just a minute," Fink smiled. "Who's in this green room?"
"Guy who was writing the letters. You were right, Bob. It was Cooper. Sam Cooper who lives with me. Look at this." Lennox waved the telephone slips. "I found them in his pocket. It's the same writing. You see? You see, Mr. Salerno? Come on."
"Oh Jesus," Salerno grunted.
"Come out to the car a minute," Fink said.
"What for?"
"To talk."
"What about?"
"Tell you when we get there. Come on."
"What the hell is this?" Lennox looked from Fink to Salerno. "I tell you who's writing the letters and you want to talk. Go talk to him."
Salerno slipped behind Lennox and caught his arm in a paralyzing grasp. "Come on out to the car," he said softly.
"I will like hell come out to the car. What's the matter with you two?"
"You want it tough?" Fink asked.
Lennox was bewildered. In the background, the orchestra echoed brilliantly.
"Tell him," Salerno said.
"Now don't blow your top." Fink smiled. "We want to drive you down to City Hospital for a check-up."
"Me? City Hospital?"
"Just for a couple of days. Won't cost you a cent."
"What are you talking about?"
"Come on, Lennox. Don't make it tough."
"I asked you what the hell you're talking about. City Hospital! Is this your idea of a funny?"
"Tell him," Salerno repeated.
"We know you're writing these letters," Fink said.
"You know I'm writing—" Lennox was staggered. "You know I'm writing the letters? To myself?"
Fink nodded.
"You always smile at the wrong time," Lennox said slowly. "This is a joke-type joke at the wrong time. Yes?"
"We'll talk it over down at the hospital."
"What makes you think I'm writing the letters?"
"Tell him," Salerno said impatiently. "Maybe he'll listen to reason."
"Will you behave yourself if I show you?" Fink asked.
Lennox nodded. There was a last fanfare off and then dead silence as the dress ended. Fink took a manila envelope out of his pocket and produced the poison pen letters. He unfolded one and pointed to the hysterical scrawl.
"See? Five words to a line. In every letter. Five words to a line, no more, no less. That's an old telegrapher's habit, from counting ten word messages. We checked this program. You're the only ex-telegrapher working it. You're a professional telegrapher from twenty years back, when you were a kid in this town on Long Island."
"Islip," Lennox croaked. "Yes."
"And we found your prints in the envelopes."
"I handled the envelopes," Lennox said desperately. "When Grabinett showed me the letters."
"I didn't say on the envelopes. I said in the envelopes. We found your prints inside, under the flap, but the envelopes were slit open at the end. The only one who could leave prints inside there is the one that put the letter in the envelope and sealed it. Now come on, Lennox. Don't make it tough."
"For God's sake, Bob! How could I write them and not know about it? I was scared. I was out of my mind trying to find who it was. How could it be me?"
"They'll tell you down at the hospital. Come on."
"The lunatic ward?"
"Don't get jumpy. You won't be in a strait jacket."
"Yeah," Salerno said. "Nice down there. Pretty nurses."
"But—"
"Come on," Fink said, and for the first time a terrifying hardness manifested itself under the surface of his mildness.
Lennox whirled and wrenched himself out of Salerno's grasp. He didn't so much hit him as catapult him back into Fink with a bull thrust. He ran through the arch into the orchestra, whipping the heavy curtain across the arch behind him for cover. He squirmed through an empty row of seats to the center aisle and yelled: "Gabby!"
She turned. Everybody turned and stared through the gloom.
"Out!" Lennox roared. "Out!"
Behind him, Fink called sharply: "Lennox! You'll be sorry!"
Lennox sprinted up the center aisle, knocking aside the vague figures that blundered into his path. He cut around the glass corner of the control booth and headed for the bronze doors that led out to the theater lobby. At that moment, the doors opened and the studio audience poured into the theater in a solid mass, fighting and elbowing for the best seats.
Lennox was slammed back against the control booth. He lowered his head and tried to charge through that unyielding wave. He could hear Fink and Salerno struggling near him and shouting orders to the network pages, the house manager, the theater fireman. Lennox was carried back again and shunted to the right where the broad stairs led up to the balcony. He started up the stairs. The fireman appeared above him and came down after him. Lennox turned and ran around the foot of the stairs to the right aisle, searching for fire exits.
He went down the steep slope of the aisle toward the stage. There were no exits he could reach through the crowd. Fink and Salerno were calling to each other. The studio audience was in an uproar. Lennox leaped up on the orchestra platform at the foot of the aisle, battered his way through musicians, stands and chairs, and vaulted onto the stage. Gabby began screaming.
Lennox started across the stage to the right wings. He tripped on the No. 3 Camera cables, fell, rolled over and was on his feet again. Salerno appeared in the right wings. Lennox stopped short and turned downstage. Fink was coming at him up the No. 2 Camera dolly-track. Lennox turned to the left wings. The fireman was advancing on him from that side. He backed up, panting, trapped. As Fink came onto the stage, the curtains swept in from either side, narrowly missing him.
Lennox looked around wildly, searching the stage for a loop-hole ... left, right, back, up. Suddenly he was transfixed. Still staring up into the flies, he screamed: "Sam! Sam!"
Every eye on the stage looked up. Fifty feet overhead, a figure in a red and white blazer balanced precariously on the criss-cross bars of the iron grid. Cooper teetered and sat down on a bar, his feet dangling through the opening of the three foot square. Then he thrust himself off and came plummeting down, feet first, arms outstretched. There was a sharp crack and his body was jerked up in mid-flight. His shoes flew off and clattered down. The arms flailed, the body shuddered once as though the bones were trying to burst out of the skin; and then it was still, swinging gently, the feet just a yard above the edge of the teaser that masked the top of the stage from the audience.
Lennox sank to his knees and began to sob. The appalled silence was jarred by a fanfare from the orchestra on the other side of the curtain. Oliver Stacy, in dinner jacket, paused long enough to vomit in the wings, then slipped through the curtain, white-faced and smiling. There was a burst of applause. His voice rang out in cheerful greeting, and the warm-up for the New Year's Day "Who He?" show began.