He fumbled in his pockets for matches, listening for the sound of footsteps. He heard faint echoes far ahead, and ran forward, meanwhile pulling a book of matches out and trying to light one. "What a Christmas," he muttered and blundered against a wall with a stunning impact. The matches flew from his hand. He clung to the wall, waiting for the crashing in his head to subside. "Tooky! Mel!" he called. "Hurry up with the lights!" There was no answer. There was no light. "There must be an easier way to earn a living," he told himself and began to grope blindly. Suddenly he lost control again. For the second time in that monstrous day he was attacked by panic. It was inexplicable and gut-chilling. "No," he said. "No. Please." He was blacked-out and could not withstand this second blow. He began to wilt and fight for breath. The mass of the theater overhead pressed down on him, slowly collapsing, painfully crushing. He clawed at the wall and searched feebly for the stairs. He turned a corner, another, a third. He was lost forever. A hard hand thrust into his neck. Lennox cried out and jerked his arm up. He was struck savagely across the forearm by something stiff and wooden. He backed away from this menace and blundered into a jagged field of metal bones that rattled and clashed. Lennox sagged to his knees and cried shamelessly. That was how Sam Cooper found him half an hour later; kneeling in a cellar storeroom amidst overturned music stands, sobbing before an imperious wooden Indian. Without a word, Cooper pulled Lennox to his feet, brushed him off and led him back to the cellar stairs. His flashlight played erratically on the glistening tunnels and rotting wooden doors. In the days of past glory, the Venice had been one of the big musical houses and its vaults were stuffed with the jetsam of ancient hits: Congo masks, Hessian boots, racks of tarnished costumes, ear-trumpets, Civil War muskets, an entire Merry-Go-Round with peeling poles and blind horses. "Love to steal them and deal them out to Mig's audience some night," Cooper murmured. "The guns?" "The ear-trumpets." Cooper helped Lennox up the concrete stairs. As he thrust open the bulkhead door, he said: "Easy. Gone home. The dancers." "Get reporters," Lennox said. "I found Judge Crater." They entered the empty dressing room which was still lit. Cooper sat Lennox down before a bulb-ringed mirror, handed him a box of cleansing tissue and a comb. Lennox cleaned himself wearily and pretended to comb his hair. Cooper lit a cigarette and thrust it between Jake's lips. "I don't smoke," Lennox said, handing it back. "You smoke when you're plastered." "I'm not plastered." "It says here." Cooper took a drag. "They've got an old Bechstein Grand in that cellar," he said softy. "I'm going to take your tape recorder down some night and break it up with an axe. The Bechstein. Could sell a dub to every pianist in town. Wish fulfillment." "Do me a favor," Lennox said. "Name it."