The Interpretation Of Murder (37 page)

    Nora Acton rose from her bed at
two-thirty that morning, unmolested but unable to sleep. Through her window,
she could see the policeman patrolling the sidewalk. There were three in all
tonight: one in front, one in back, and one stationed on the roof, who came on
when night fell.

    By candlelight, Nora composed a short
letter, set down in her neat hand on a piece of white stationery. This she
sealed in a little envelope, which she addressed and stamped. Then she stole
downstairs and slipped the envelope through the front door mail slot, whence it
dropped into the box outside. The mail came twice a day. The postman would pick
up her letter before seven that morning; it would be delivered well before
noon.

    I had no idea how enormous it would
be. Blue gas flames dotted the caisson's walls, casting webs of flickering
light and shadow into the rafters above and the puddled floor below. From the
elevator, we climbed down a steep ramp. Littlemore had a hard time of it,
grimacing every time he had to put weight on his right leg. We were at the hub
of a half dozen wooden plank walkways, leading out in all directions. Room
after room could be seen in the distance.

    'How long we got, Doc?' asked
Littlemore.

    'Twenty minutes,' I said. 'After
that, we have to decompress on the way up.'

    'Okay. It's Window Five we want. The
numbers should be on them. Let's split up.'

    The detective set off, limping badly,
in one direction, I in another. At first all was silence, an eerie and
cavernous silence, punctuated only by echoing drips of water and Littlemore's
uneven receding footfalls. Then I became conscious of a deep bass rumble, like
the growl of some enormous beast. It was coming, I think, from the river
itself: the sound of deep water.

    The caisson was strangely empty. I
had expected machines, drills - signs of work and excavation. Instead there was
only the occasional crowbar and broken shovel, lying abandoned among scattered
boulders and pools of dark water. I passed into a large chamber, but it must
have been an internal one, for I saw none of the debris chutes Littlemore
called windows. A plank broke under my shoe as I stepped on it. The crunch was
followed by what sounded like scurrying. Could there be mice down here, a
hundred feet below the earths surface?

    The scurrying ceased so abruptly I
wasn't sure if it had been real or in my head. I passed through to another
chamber, as empty as the last. My walkway came to an end. I had now to step
through puddles of water on the muddy ground, each splash amplified by echoes.
In the next room, a series of three large steel plates a couple of feet up from
the floor lined the farthest wall; I had found the windows. An array of chains,
pull cords of some kind, hung beside and between them. The first had the number
seven etched on it. The next had a six. As I bent to look at the last, a hand
seized my shoulder.

    'We found it, Doc,' said the detective.

    'Christ, Littlemore,' I said.

    He unlatched the plate numbered five
and pulled up on its handle. It rose like a curtain, disappearing into the
wooden wall above it. Inside was a coffin-sized space, two feet high and six
feet wide, iron-clad on every side, littered with stones, rags, and rubble. The
far wall of the compartment was clearly an outer hatch, giving out onto the
river: one of the pull chains would doubtless open it-

    'There's nothing here,' I said.

    'Not supposed to be,' answered
Littlemore. With considerable difficulty, he sat down and began taking off his
shoes. 'Okay, soon as I'm inside, you close the window and flush it. You give
me one minute, Doc, exactly one minute, then -'

    'Wait - you're not going in the
water?'

    'I sure am,' he said, rolling up his
trouser legs. 'Her body's right outside the outer hatch. Got to be. I'm going
to pull her back in. Then you'll pop me out, and we'll be home free.'

    'With your leg?'

    'I'm okay.'

    'You can barely walk,' I said.
Swimming by itself would have been painful for him, given the condition of his
leg - I feared a hairline fracture - but wrestling with debris or a dead body
underwater, a hundred feet down, was out of the question. A strong current
would carry him off.

    'Only way,' said Littlemore.

    'No, it's not,' I said. 'I'm going.'

    'Not on your life,' said the
detective. He hunkered down to squeeze himself into the compartment, but he
couldn't bend his right leg. He turned around and tried, vainly, to shimmy into
the compartment backward. He looked at me helplessly.

    'Oh, get out of there,' I said.
'You're the one who knows how to work this contraption anyway.'

    Thus, astonishingly, a minute later,
the person squeezed inside the window was myself, stripped to the waist, shoes
and socks off too. I examined the compartment as closely as I could, knowing
that in a moment I would be immersed in cold water. An iron handle stuck out
from the ceiling. To this I held on tightly. Rubber tubes protruded from the
walls. I told myself I would venture into the water for the shortest possible
time. After sixty seconds, Littlemore would reopen the window from the inside.
I strongly suspected I would find no corpse to haul back in. Littlemore's
theory now seemed totally implausible. The window's plates were much too heavy
and strong. I didn't see how a girl's body could possibly obstruct its
operation.

    Littlemore called out a final check.
From behind me the inner hatch fell shut with a clang. The blackness was so
total it was disorienting. Somehow I had managed not to realize I would be in
the dark. The rumble from the river outside was much louder now, echoing inside
my cell. I heard a thump on the wall, Littlemore s signal that he was about to
open - or try to open - the outer hatch.

    That instant, I felt a hideous
misgiving: we should have tested the window first. We knew there was something
wrong with it. What if Littlemore couldn't open the window again after I was
turned out into the water? I banged my fist against the wall to make Littlemore
stop. But either he didn't hear or he interpreted my signal as an affirmative
response to his. For there came next a grating of chains and a sudden shock of
impossibly cold water. The entire compartment inverted, and I was churned out,
irresistibly, into the depths of the river.

    Outside the wrought-iron fence
enclosing Gramercy Park, a tall, dark-haired man stood in the shadows. It was
three in the morning. The park was empty, sporadically illuminated by gas lamps
scattered within it. Most of the surrounding houses were dark, although in one
of them - the home of the Players Club - lights were shining and music playing.
Calvary Church was black and silent, its steeple a mass of rising darkness.

    The dark-haired man observed the
police officer patrolling in front of the Actons' house. In the small circle of
light thrown by a streetlamp, Carl Jung saw this officer converse with another
policeman, who after several minutes walked away, turning a corner at an alley
apparently leading to the back of the house. Jung considered his options. After
several minutes, he turned around and, frustrated, returned to the Hotel
Manhattan.

    Littlemore had a sudden horrible thought.
He had been told Window Five wasn't working right. A picture came to him of
Younger underwater, pounding desperately on the hull of the caisson, eyes
bulging, while he, Littlemore, stood within, jerking helplessly at the chains.
What was he thinking not to have gone himself?

    After exactly one minute, Littlemore
manipulated the pulleys in rapid succession, righting the window and closing
the outer hatch. The mechanism worked perfectly. He threw open the inner hatch.
Gallons of water gushed out. This he expected. He did not, however, expect what
he found inside the compartment: namely, nothing.

    'Oh, no,' said Littlemore. 'Oh, no.'

    He slammed the window shut, opened
the outer hatch, counted off ten seconds, and then reversed the process. He flung
open the window. More water: no Younger. In a mad rush, Littlemore did it all
again, but now with a difference. He prayed. With all his heart and might, he
prayed that he would find the doctor inside the window. 'Please, God,' he
begged. 'Let him be there. Forget everything else. Just let him be there.'

    For the third time, Littlemore threw
open the steel plate of Window Five, soaking his shoes and trouser bottoms as
he did so. The compartment was now well washed. Its four metal walls were
glistening. But it remained quite empty.

    The detective read his watch: two and
a quarter minutes had passed. His father's record had been just that - two
minutes, fifteen seconds - but his father was floating, without exertion, in a
warm and placid pond. Dr Younger could never have survived so long. Littlemore
knew this but could not accept it. Numbly, mechanically, he went through the
motions a fourth time and a fifth, all to the same effect. He sank to his
knees, staring into the empty metal compartment. He didn't notice the pain in
his leg. He did notice, but never moved, when the million-ton frame of the
caisson suffered a powerful concussion far above him. The concussion was
followed by a scraping - a protracted metallic scraping - equally far above his
head. It was as if the roof of the caisson had been struck by the bottom of a
passing submarine.

    When this sound ceased, however, he
became aware of another. A faint sound. A tapping. Littlemore looked around; he
could not identify the source. He crept to his left on hands and knees, holding
his breath, not daring to hope. The taps were coming from behind the steel
plate of Window Six. From his knees, Littlemore worked the pulleys, unlocked
the plate, and pushed it open. Another windowful of water poured out, directly
into the kneeling detective's face, and out of the window tumbled a large black
trunk, which knocked him flat on his back. This was followed by Stratham
Youngers head, a rubber hose in his mouth.

    The incoming water did not entirely
stop; it kept streaming in from the window as from an overflowing bathtub.
Littlemore, with the trunk on his stomach, looked speechlessly up at the
doctor. Younger spat out the hose.

    'Br-breathing tubes,' said the
doctor, so cold he could not control his shaking. 'Inside the w-windows.'

    'But why didn't you come back through
number five?'

    'C-c-couldn't,' said Younger, his
teeth chattering. 'Outer hatch w-wouldn't open far enough. S-s-six was open.'

    Extricating himself from the trunk,
Littlemore said, 'You found it, Doc! You found it! Will you look at this!' The
detective was wiping the mud from the trunk. 'It's just like the one we found
in Leon's room!'

    'Open it,' said Younger, his head
still poking out of Window Six.

    Littlemore was about to respond that
the trunk's hasps were padlocked when another tremendous shudder ran through
the caisson, followed once more by the loud metallic scraping overhead.

    'What was that?' asked Younger.

    'I don't know,' said Littlemore, 'but
it's the second time. Come on. Let's get going.'

    'Slight problem,' said Younger, who
had not budged from the window, from which water was still streaming out. 'My
foot is stuck.'

    The outer hatch of Window Six had
slammed shut like a bear trap on Younger s ankle. That was why water continued
to stream in through the bottom of the window: the outer hatch remained ajar,
and Younger's foot was protruding out into the river. With his free leg,
Younger pushed at the hatch as hard as he could, but it was unmovable.

    'No sweat,' said Littlemore, limping
over to the pull chains on the wall. 'I'll open it for you. Give me one
second.'

    'Look out,' replied Younger. 'We're
going to get a ton of water.'

    'I'll shut it again the second you
get your foot in. Ready? Here goes. Uh-oh.' Littlemore was tugging vainly on
the chain. It wouldn't budge. 'Maybe you can't open the outer hatch unless you
close the inner hatch first. Get your head back in there.'

    Younger complied unhappily. He drew
his head back into Window Six and clamped his jaw around the breathing tube,
preparing himself for another deluge. But now Littlemore couldn't close the
inner hatch. He pulled on the handle with all his might, but the plate would
not come down. Perhaps, Younger suggested, the inner hatch was inoperable when
the outer hatch was still open.

    'But they're both open,' said
Littlemore.

    'So they're both inoperable.'

    'Great,' said the detective.
Littlemore attempted to wrench Younger's ankle out. He tried yanking it out
directly, and he tried twisting it out. This produced no effect except to cause
the doctor several stabs of intense pain.

    'Littlemore.'

    'What?'

    'Why are the lights going out?'

    An entire bank of blue gas flames, on
the other side of the chamber, had diminished from torch strength to flickering
match lights. Then they went out completely. 'Someone's turning off the gas,'
said the detective, having slid out of the window.

    Once more, a vicious, ugly noise of
metal abrading wood came from overhead. This time, the scraping terminated in a
distant clang, which was followed by a new sound. Littlemore and Younger both
looked up at the dimly lit rafters; they heard what sounded like the thundering
approach of a subway train. Then they saw it: a column of water, perhaps a foot
in diameter, falling gracefully down from the ceding. When it hit the ground,
it make a colossal smash, exploding up in all directions. The East River was
pouring into the caisson.

    'Holy Toledo,' said Littlemore.

    'Great God,' added Younger.

    The East River was not only pouring
into their chamber. From a half dozen apertures spread throughout the caisson,
similar cataracts were crashing down. The roar was deafening.

    What had happened was this: the work
in the Manhattan Bridge caisson had come to an end. That was the reason Younger
had seen no machinery or tools. The plan had always been to flood the caisson
after work within it was completed. A short time ago, however, Mr George
Banwell had abruptly decided to hasten that event. He woke up two of his
engineers with late-night orders. Following these orders, the engineers went to
the Canal Street site and started up long-idle engines.

    These engines operated what was
essentially a sprinkler system built into the caisson's twenty-foot-thick roof.
Because of the dynamiting to be done in the caisson, its designers were
concerned about fire. Their precaution proved justified: the caisson had in
fact caught fire once and was saved only by flooding its internal chambers.
Three tiers of cut iron plate had to be opened to let water in; this was what
caused the three separate scraping noises.

    The flood was already shin deep and
rising steadily. Younger strained harder to tear his foot free but could not.
'This is unpleasant,' he said. 'You don't have a knife, do you?'

    Littlemore scrambled for his pocket
knife and eagerly handed it over. Younger cast a disapproving eye at the three-
inch blade.

    'This won't do it.'

    'Do what?' shouted the detective.
They could hardly hear each other over the din of the flood.

    'Thought I might cut it off,' yelled
Younger.

    'Cut what off?' The water was now at
his knees and rising ever more quickly.

    'My foot,' said the doctor. Still
looking at Littlemore's knife, he added, 'I guess I could kill myself. Better
than drowning.'

    'Give me that,' said the detective,
snatching the pocket knife out of Younger s hand. The rising water was now only
inches from the bottom of the window. 'The breathing tube. Use it.'

    'Oh, right. Good thinking,' said
Younger, putting the hose back in his mouth. Immediately he took it out again:
'Wouldn't you know it? They've shut off the air.'

    Littlemore grabbed another of the
hoses and tested it himself. The results of his test were no different.

    'Well, Detective,' said Younger,
propping himself up, 'I think it would be a good time for you to -'

    'Shut up,' Littlemore replied. 'Don't
even say it. I'm not going anywhere.'

    'Don't be a fool. Take that trunk and
get back on the elevator.'

    'I'm not going anywhere,' Littlemore
repeated.

    Younger reached out and grabbed
Littlemore by the shirt, drew him in close, and whispered fiercely into his
ear. 'Nora. I left her. I didn't believe her, and I left her. Now they're going
to lock her up. Do you hear me? They're going to put her away - either that or
Banwell will kill her.'

    'Doc -'

    'Don't call me Doc,' said Younger.
'You have to save her. Listen to me. I can die. You didn't make me come down
here; I wanted to see proof. You're the only one who believes her now. You have
to make it out. You
have
to. Save her. And tell her - oh, never mind.
Just get out!'

    Younger pushed Littlemore away so
hard the detective staggered back and fell into the water. He stood. The rising
water had edged up over the bottom of the window. Littlemore gave the doctor a
long look, then turned, and strode away, as best he could, past the cataract
and through the thigh-high water. He disappeared.

    'You forgot the trunk!' Younger
shouted after him, but the detective didn't seem to hear him. The flooding was
more than halfway up the window now. With great effort, Younger was able to
hold his head an inch or two above the water. Then Littlemore reappeared. In
his arms he held a five-foot length of lead pipe and a boulder.

    'Littlemore!' shouted Younger. 'Go
back!'

    'Ever hear of Archiemeeds?' said the
detective. 'Leverage.'

    He splashed over to Younger and set
the boulder down in the window, which was now full almost to the brim. Plunging
his head into the ever-gathering water, Littlemore wedged one end of his pipe
under the outer hatch, next to Younger's trapped ankle, and positioned the rest
of the pipe over the boulder, lever-style. With both hands, he pushed down on
the free end of the pipe. Unfortunately, the only effect was to pop the boulder
out from under the pipe. 'Damn,' said Littlemore, emerging from the water.

    Younger's eyes were still above
water, but his mouth was not. Neither was his nose. He raised an eyebrow at
Littlemore.

    'Oh, boy,' said the detective. He
took a breath and plunged in again. He repositioned his boulder and pipe in the
same way and gave the pipe a downward tug. This time the boulder stayed in
place, but still the outer hatch did not move. Littlemore sprang up out of the
water as high as he could and came down with all his weight on the lever. But
the lead pipe was badly corroded, and the force of Littlemore's weight upon it
broke it clean in two. The moment before the pipe snapped, however, the window's
outer hatch inched upward - just enough to free Younger s foot.

    Both men came out of the water at the
same time, but Littlemore was gulping air and thrashing about wildly while
Younger barely stirred the water. He took a single lung- filling breath and
said, 'That was melodramatic, wasn't it?'

    'You're welcome,' replied Littlemore,
straightening himself.

    'How's that leg?' the doctor
inquired.

    'Fine. How's your foot?'

    'Fine,' said Younger. 'What do you
say we blow this hellhole?'

    Dragging the trunk behind them while
fighting through columns of crashing water, they made their way back to the
central chamber. The steep ramp to the elevator was already half submerged.
Water gushed down from the top of the elevator as well, spilling down the ramp
and making a curtain around the car. Yet behind that curtain, the elevator
cabin itself appeared dry.