CHAPTER XII
By five o'clock Saturday morning, Lennox had walked himself to exhaustion. He slipped into the apartment in 33 Knickerbocker Square and went to bed. At nine o'clock he was shot out of bed as by a cannon. He dressed, went downstairs, picked up his mail and left the house. Two envelopes were from the Grabinett office. They contained his script fee and his royalty for the "Who He?" show of December 18th, a total of seven hundred and fifty dollars.
The banks were closed on Saturday. Lennox went to a bookie he knew on 14th Street who also operated a check cashing office. There, he converted his checks into fifties and twenties.
"Getting set for a big New Year's Eve, hey?" the bookie laughed.
"No," Lennox told him. "I'm going to be murdered tomorrow."
He stepped into the nearest saloon and had two brandy Alexanders.
"Startin' early, hey?" the bartender laughed.
"No," Lennox said. "I'm having my last fling. I'm going to be murdered tomorrow."
On the way uptown he had a couple of more Alexanders and then breakfast at Androuet's on Persian melon, coffee, and Croque Monsieur Roquefort, which is a blend of Roquefort, Brie and cream, broiled on Virginia ham. It is usually taken with wine. Lennox finished a bottle of Muscadet and ordered another pot of coffee and a telephone. When the phone was plugged in at his table, he called the East River Airport and chartered a plane.
"You are celebrating the New Year en l'air, M'sieur Lennox?" his waiter inquired in astonishment.