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. "No," Lennox answered. "I'm taking a last trip home." It was cold and still on the East River. A heavy grey ceiling hung low in the sky. As Lennox climbed from the dock to the pontoon of the tiny Cub and then into the cabin, the pilot looked dubious. "There's fog coming in at Montauk," he said. "I hope we can beat it." He swung the Cub out into the river and taxied frantically toward the 59th Street bridge. Lennox wondered whether they were going under or over the bridge when suddenly the buffeting of the chop ceased and they shuddered their way sky-ward. Instantly The Rock was transformed into a make-believe city ... a toy on a table. They flew east over Long Island City and Jamaica and then northeast from Freeport up Great South Bay, past Amityville and Babylon to the Bay Shore Harbor where the Cub landed in Great Cove and taxied in. "I won't be an hour," Lennox told the pilot. He went to a white clapboard fish-house on the dock, phoned for a cab and waited in the bar. There was an enormous coal fire glowing in the fireplace grate and an enormous jolly proprietor glowing behind the bar. He looked like a benevolent wrestler. "If you were drinking your last bottle on earth," Lennox asked him, "what would it be?" "Irish," the wrestler answered promptly. Lennox sampled the Irish until the taxi honked its horn outside the fish-house. He got into the car and they drove through Bay Shore to Islip and then down a bleak road to the Champlin Marshes.