The Memorial Hall Murder (28 page)

“Oh, my God,” said Charley, “that's right. We've got to guard the doors.”

“Every bloody door. How many doors are there? Jesus, there are doors all over the place. There must be fifty doors.”

“No, no,” said Vick. “Not that many. And I've got more people coming. We've got the Organ Society. The whole Organ Society is coming, and Betsy has this friend in the band. Her friend is calling up the whole band.”

They went over the list of doors. “There's these two here,” said Miss Plankton, flapping her mittens at both ends of the memorial corridor.

“Zuh two vuns at zuh end of zuh great hall,” said Mrs. Esterhazy.

“The copy center door,” said Tim.

“The one that goes downstairs past the ticket window,” said Jennifer.

“The fire escape,” said Charley Flynn. “Don't forget the fire escape up at the top of Sanders.”

“And the door that goes right into WHRB from Quincy Street,” said Vick.

“And the service entrance on the other side,” said Mary.

“How many is that?” said Homer. “Two, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. We need one person at every door. Now look, if he comes in, don't try to stop him. fust keep track of him until you can get help from the rest of us. Now, how are we going to search the building and cover all the entrances at the same time? We haven't got enough people.” There was a trumpet blast and a thump at the door. “Aha! Here comes the band.”

Homer's second expedition to the tower was noisier than the first, because Betsy wanted to hear the echoes in the great open spaces of the tower. She sang all the way to the top of the ladder stair, showing off as hard as she could for Charley Flynn.
“Rejoice, rejoice,”
warbled Betsy. Her voice rattled against the trap door to the bell chamber and battered back at them.

“Oh, can it, Betsy,” said Tim.

“Oh, damn,” said Homer. He poked at the lock of the trap door with his finger. “Look what I've done now. I broke the key off in the lock. It's stuck in there. It won't come out. I always was a clumsy fool with keys.”

“Here, let me try it.” Charley Flynn squeezed past Homer on the narrow ladder stair. Charley couldn't fix it either.

“Well, never mind,” said Homer. “I suppose they'll have to get some locksmith up here on the top of the ladder to fix it. Come on. Let's go down.”

And then on the way down Betsy discovered the upside-down vaults, and she screamed with delight. “Oh, isn't that fabulous! Oh, don't they look really incredible! Oh, isn't that disgusting, the way people throw things into them! Just look at those disgusting old lunch bags and popcorn boxes. Oh, I wish I had a penny. It's like a wishing well, where you throw a penny in and make a wish. Oh, Charley, give me a penny!”

Charley Flynn gave Betsy a penny. Tim Swegle gave Betsy a quarter. Betsy threw the penny and the quarter down. They clattered on the sloping sides of one of the wooden vaults and disappeared among the trash in the narrow tapering cavity at the bottom. Betsy leaned out from the ladder and shrieked, summoning the spirit of the upside-down vaults. “I wish to sing like an angel so everybody will love me!”

“Watch it there, girl,” said Charley Flynn.

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Betsy,” said Tim Swegle. “Come on down before you break your fool neck.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

Jennifer's post was the south entry. She sat on a folding chair just within the doorway, squinting at her sewing. In the dim light of the chandeliers she felt drowsy. She didn't know what she would do if the man she had seen poking a feather duster at the benches in Sanders Theatre should come in the door. She didn't much care. All she could think of was the baby thumping around inside her.

“You look like Madame Defarge,” said Homer.

“Oh, no,” said Jennifer. “Madame Defarge was a knitter. Besides, I don't know how she knitted all those names into a sweater anyway. I don't think it's possible at all. I think Dickens was really just bananas.”

“Well, keep an eye on everybody going and coming. Good for you, Jennifer.”

Homer went down the broad south stairs and crossed the bridge over Cambridge Street. Then he turned around and looked back at Memorial Hall. To the northwest above the snarl of traffic the sun was setting like some barbarous jewel, shining on the west end of the building. The bricks glowed a violent harsh red. A cold sea breeze from the east was blowing sea gulls in a flock away up over the roof. That way too lay the moon, nearly full, looming over East Cambridge, dented like a hammered salver. Salome's plate, thought Homer, red with blood.

Had he really covered all the entrances? On the cloister porch at this end Homer could see Mrs. Esterhazy marching up and down like a general, shouting at her children, who were running back and forth, little blobs of green and blue. Mary was on the other side, sitting on the steps inside the service entry to the basement, reading over a typed sheaf of index pages. Mr. Proctor was holding the fort at the north door. Jennifer was there at the south. A couple of bassoonists were supposed to be taking care of the entrance to the copy center and the lecture hall. Miss Plankton was camped on a folding stool at the basement entrance to WHRB, keeping her ears warm in her big fur hat. Rosie Bell had parked herself in the balcony of Sanders Theatre beside the door to the fire escape. Betsy and Tim were plainly visible at the ticket office entrance, and above the traffic Homer could hear Betsy's canary voice. She was showing off again to the whole world.

It was a three-hour shift. At seven o'clock Vick's warm-up exercises would begin on the stage of Sanders, and a new batch of sentries recruited from the Organ Society and the band would take over the watch. Homer lifted his head. Who was that, moving around the building, carrying something? Oh, of course, it was just Jack Fox. He had passed the hat. He had made a trip to Elsie's for emergency rations. He was going from door to door, passing out sandwiches. And someone else was scuttling out of the south door, running down the steps, hurrying away up Cambridge Street, a small crouching figure. “Rats desert a sinking ship,” murmured Homer. But it wasn't one of Ham's Rats, of course. It was Jerry Crawley. Homer looked at his watch. Four-thirty. Hardly quitting time yet, but it was typical of Crawley.

The wind was really whistling down Cambridge Street. Homer wedged himself into a niche where a fountain was attached to the wall, and looked at Memorial Hall, half closing his eyes against flying pieces of grit. As usual the building impressed him with its bulk. It was immense. Today it looked less like a church than a fortress. A mighty fortress, a bulwark never failing. The trouble was, it was a besieged fortress. But besieged by whom? And from what direction? And for what reason? Something nagged at Homer. How good a bulwark was it really? Had he covered all the entrances? The enemy was invisible so far, but nonetheless Homer suspected his craft and power were great.

Bulky it was, Memorial Hall. Enormous. Henry fames had called it majestic.
It sprang majestic into the winter air.
Well, it was majestic, all right, but it certainly didn't spring into the air. It was too heavy for that. It squatted like a beast on its great comfortable haunches. It was a vast cow of a building. No, not a cow. In the ruddy light Memorial Hall seemed once again like some dreaming mythical monster, some elderly sleeping dragon with a secret fire in its belly. Sleeping? Yes, it was sleeping, but any day now it would wake up, open its dreadful eyes, and breathe flame from its cavernous jaw.

Chapter Forty

“Let it all go,” said Vick. She stood at the front of the stage and bent over, letting her hair pour down on the floor and her arms flop loose. The chorus bent over too, and flapped dangling hands. Vick stood and threw back her hair. “Ready now, chorus? Okay, let's go.
Mee-meh-ma-mo-mooooo …

Where was Mary? She wasn't standing in her usual place at the back of the chorus. Homer wandered out into the hall and found his wife standing beside the ticket table talking to Charley Flynn and another tall woman, wearing a red cloak.

The woman in the red cloak was Julia Chamberlain. “Oh, Homer, hello, there. I'm so glad to meet your wife. I was feeling so restless I came early. I don't know what got into me. What can I do? What the hell's going on? Who is this guy you're looking for?”

“We're not sure. That's the trouble. We've got all the doors posted. We'll get our hands on him and find out.”

“Only we're running short again, Homer,” said Charley. “Mary's taking over for some piccolo player who had to leave. I'd do it myself, only I don't know what the man looks like.”

“It's not the mad bomber?” Julia Chamberlain was thrilled. “Let me help. I'll stand watch with Mary, and the two of us will wrestle him to the floor.” She sailed down the hall with Mary and Charley Flynn, her red cloak billowing behind her, while Vick's choristers finished their exercises and began running through transitional passages, and the instrumentalists drifted out of the great hall carrying cellos, violins, oboes, flutes.

“Oh, good evening, Mr. Kelly.” Jane Plankton was waggling her bow at Homer. Her black velvet evening gown trailed behind her on the floor. Her hair ribbon was spangled with gold. A beaded purse dangled from her belt. She looked vaguely medieval. Homer was delighted. Oh, the dignity, oh, the shabby grandeur of genteel poverty! “Well, hello, there, Miss Plankton. The big evening arrives at last.”

Miss Plankton's cheeks were bright knobs of joy. She pointed with her bow at a curtain high on the wall. “Oh, the whole thing is so exciting,” she said. “Did you see the memorial tablet? We're going to have a little ceremony!”

“So we are,” said Homer, noticing the curtain for the first time.

“President Cheever is going to pull the string during the second intermission. After the ‘Hallelujah Chorus.' You know, Mr. Kelly, it reminds me of my girlhood. When I christened Brother Wayland's sailboat. He named it after me. The good ship
Jane!
”