He elbowed his way from the bar, left The Fantasy and continued down Third Avenue. Below 42nd Street he made up his mind and turned east. He came to a dim stationery and candy store with K N O T T spread across the window in an arc of brass letters. He entered and staggered against the marble soda fountain, peering blearily at the faded woman who was just closing up. "Wanna write a letter," he said. "Spehshul d'liv'ry letter. Wanna best paper'n'envelope inna house. Pen too. Teach'm a lesson." The faded woman looked at Lennox, recognized him, and without a word produced a sheet of blue paper, a blue envelope and a cheap fountain pen which she filled. She took a three cent stamp and a special delivery stamp out of a cash box and affixed them to the envelope. Lennox picked up the pen, paper and envelope, placed five dollars on the counter and staggered out. He entered the Baroque through the side door, stared around wildly and located an empty chair at the table behind the telephone booth. He swam to the chair through the smoke and the noise and sat down. With his breast pocket handkerchief he mopped the table dry. He looked up. Seated across the table from him was a blonde who appeared to be a Swede farm girl. She was looking at him. "Hiya Goldilocks," he said. "Hiya," she said. "Long time no see." "Jus' got in from Brockton." "Where?" "Brockton, Mass." "Since when?" "Since always," he said. "Live'air all my life. Inna shoe business. Permit me innaduce myself. Lefty Leftwich." "What the hell!" she exclaimed. "You got three names?" "Lefty. Leftwich." Lennox counted on his fingers. "Is on'y two." "Skip it, Lefty." She laughed and covered her teeth with her hand. "Scuse me, Goldilocks. Gotta 'portant letter to write." She watched with increasing interest as he placed the paper and envelope on the table, unscrewed the pen, took it in his left hand and began to write in a sick, hysterical scrawl: Dear Who He.... This is your last warning. I'm going to kill you, you fancy filth, you penny pimp, you garbage from a fancy barrel.... CHAPTER XIII Gabby had gone to bed early Saturday night. The work of catching twelve white pigeons and cleaning up their droppings had exasperated and exhausted her. By five o'clock Sunday morning she was half awake and positive that she heard thumpings at her door. She got up, put on a pyjama top and padded out to the studio room. The pigeons rustled and cooed in their cage. The thumpings continued. She put the chain on the door, opened it an inch and peeped out into the corridor. A large man was squirming restlessly on her door mat trying to get comfortable. It was Lennox. She bit her lip, debated with herself, and finally unchained the door and pulled him in. He was semi-conscious, incoherent, rank with alcohol, sweat and vomit. Gabby locked the door and tried to get Lennox on his feet. He got to his hands and knees and no further.