"Oh," the old man said. "Lost and Found. That's different. You come with me." The old man led Malone in silence to a cave deep in the bowels of the theater, where he went behind a little desk, took up a pencil as if it were a club, held it poised over a sheet of grimy paper, and said: "Name?" Malone said: "I just want to find a notebook." "Got to give me your name, youngster," the old man said solemnly. "It's the rules here. After all." Malone sighed: "Kenneth Malone," he said. "And my address is--" The old man, fiercely scribbling, looked up. "Wait a minute, can't you?" he said. "I ain't through 'Kenneth' yet." He wrote on, and finally said: "Address?" "Statler Hilton Hotel," Malone said. "In Manhattan?" the old man said. "That's right," Malone said wearily. "Ah," the old man said. "Tourist, ain't you? Tourists is always losing things. Once it was a big dog. Don't know yet how a dog got into this here theater. Had to feed it for four days before somebody showed up to claim it. Fierce-looking animal. Part bloodhound, part water spaniel." Fascinated in spite of himself, Malone said: "That's impossible." "Nothing's impossible," the old man said. "Work for a theater long enough and you find that out. Part bloodhound, I said, and part water spaniel. Should have seen that dog before you start talking about impossibilities. What a strange-looking beast. And then there was the time--" "About the notebook," Malone said. "Notebook?" the old man said. "I lost a notebook," Malone said. "I was hoping that--" "Description?" the old man said, and poised his pencil again. Malone heaved a great sigh. "Black plastic," he said. "About so big." He made motions with his hands. "No names or initials on it. But the first page had my name written on it, along with Lieutenant Peter Lynch." "Who's he?" the old man said. "He's a cop," Malone said. "My, my," the old man said. "Valuable notebook, with a cop's name in it and all. You a cop, youngster?" Malone shook his head. "Too bad," the old man said obscurely. "I like cops." He stood up. "You said black plastic? Black?" "That's right," Malone said. "Do you have it here?" "Got no notebooks at all here, youngster," the old man said. "Empty billfold, three hats, a couple of coats and some pencils. And an umbrella. No dogs tonight, youngster, _and_ no notebooks." "Oh," Malone said. "Well ... wait a minute." "What is it, youngster?" the old man said. "I'm busy this time of day. Got to sweep and clean. Got work to do. Not like you tourists." With difficulty, Malone leashed his temper. "Why did I have to describe the notebook?" he said. "You haven't got any notebooks at all." "That's right," the old man said cheerfully. "But you made me describe--" "That's the rules," the old man said. "And I ain't about to go against the rules. Not for no tourist." He put the pencil down and rose. "Wish you were a cop," he said. "I never met a cop. They don't lose things like people do."