He touched his head and felt a swelling bruise, but the dizziness was nearly gone. It kept fading as he slid into the laughing, chattering crowd that was pouring out from the theater’s afternoon show. No shoeshine plan was necessary to get backstage this time—just a simple break-in. He weaved through the crowd until he was in the foyer and glanced about, searching for a way. Seeing a door, he ducked across, checked that no one was looking, and pushed the handle up. Not even locked. He slid through and closed the door behind him. He was in a dimly lit corridor. He climbed a rickety staircase. More corridors, more staircases flashed by, and pipes, hundreds of them, throbbed and wobbled around him. Harry stared at them because almost everything Wesley had said seemed suspicious now, and the stuff about the plumbing improvements was no exception. Finding another staircase, he recognized it as the one he had climbed with Wesley Jones that morning and swiftly scrambled to the door at the top, placed an ear against it, and, checking no one was inside, crept in.
