The Memorial Hall Murder
Page 19
“Hey, Homer, there’s this crazy guy!” It was Putzi Esterhazy. “There’s this really crazy guy trying to get in. Come on!”
“What do you mean, crazy?” Homer followed Putzi into the great hall, and then he saw the scuffle at the west end, and began to run. Putzi’s brother Siegfried was clutching someone around the middle, dragging him this way and that with his short sturdy arms.
“Oh, no,” said Homer. “Freddy Fulsom, what are you doing here? I thought you went home to stay with your mother.” It was the Messiah of Memorial Hall. He was wearing his white sheet.
“I’m simply attending the concert,” gasped Freddy. “What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s all right now, Siegfried,” said Homer. “You can let him go.”
Reluctantly Siegfried loosened his hold. “He was trying to sneak in. Only I saw him. I snuck up in back of him and jumped him from behind.”
“Well, good work, Siegfried. Good for you too, Putzi. Only you can see perfectly well this isn’t the man we want.”
“Well, maybe he’s the bomber,” said Putzi eagerly. “Look under the sheet. Maybe he’s got a bomb hidden under the sheet.” Freddy smiled gently and parted the sheet, revealing a padded jacket and a pair of corduroy trousers. Putzi and Siegfried made a thorough job of going through his pockets.
“His suitcase. That’s where it is, I bet,” said Putzi.
Freddy picked up his satchel from the floor, opened the top wide and displayed the contents. The satchel was full of pamphlets. Freddy extracted one and handed it to Homer. “For you,” he said. “A free gift.”
Homer glanced at the pamphlet.
Christ Reborn
into
Every Generation!
Where Is He Now?
Behold, He Walketh Among You!
“Oh, good Lord, Freddy.”
“You see,” said Freddy, “the moment has come. The time to announce my incarnation.”
“Now look here, Freddy, you don’t have any intention of interrupting the concert, do you? Because if you do—”
“Interrupt! Oh, no.” Freddy wiped his glasses with a corner of his sheet and smiled. “After all, the concert is on my behalf. I mean, the whole thing.”
“For you? Oh, you mean because it’s Handel’s Messiah. Because you’re the Messiah reborn in human flesh. Oh, yes, I see. Oh, of course. Oh, well.”
“Hallelujah, you see,” explained Freddy modestly. “The Lord God omnipotent reigneth.”
“Is he kidding?” said Putzi.
“No, no, he’s not kidding,” said Homer. “You see, Putzi, Mr. Fulsom is proclaiming a revolutionary new theological doctrine, It is his opinion that Jesus is reborn into every generation. I mean, you should really study this fine pamphlet here, Putzi. Now look here, Freddy. You can stand out in the lobby there if you want to. That’s fine. You can hand out your nice pamphlets. That’s just great. But there will be no proclamations from the balcony. No speeches. No standing up during the concert in Sanders Theatre to warn of doom and destruction or the end of the world or anything like that. In fact, just stay the hell out of Sanders Theatre altogether. Have you got a concert ticket? I thought not. All right, then—look here, Freddy. If you so much as poke your nose into Sanders Theatre, I’ll have you arrested. Because, you see, Freddy, I should explain something to you. Something that fits right into your theory. Maybe Pontius Pilate gets reborn into every generation too. Did you ever think of that? So just watch it.”
Chapter Forty-one
It was going well. Vick grinned at the sopranos and tenors as they swung into the next-to-last chorus of Part Two. She was unconscious of any effort. She hardly needed the score. Her arms were moving of their own accord, and the chorus was singing as if it had no other life on this earth but in Handel’s Messiah, and Mrs. Esterhazy’s arias were round fruit on a plate, and Mr. Proctor had raged and roared, his great chest cavity engorged with wrath, and Betsy had filled the theatre with her fine-spun threads of glass, and Tim had handled his awkward passages of sixteenth notes better than ever before, and the orchestra had been nearly perfect so far. Even Miss Plankton was all right, because she was completely drowned out by everybody else.
Let us break their bonds, sang the chorus. They were casting away their yokes in a tumult, they were a controlled riot, thousands of voices were crisscrossing and intermingling, it was a great crowd all milling and pushing. Behind her Vick sensed the audience filling the twelve hundred seats on the floor and in the balcony and in the rising tiers of seats under the balcony. They were silent, listening, drinking from this bountiful source, all other life functions stilled. Homer Kelly was standing in the shadows beside the door, his arms folded, his head down. Off to one side Vick had caught a glimpse of the President of Harvard. She cared nothing for the President of Harvard. Now it was Tim Swegle’s turn. Vick could see him bracing himself. Poor Tim, his voice was too thin for the wrath he needed to sing the next aria. But listen to him, he was getting off on the right foot. He was shaking with fury, almost like Mr. Proctor. Thou shalt break them, sang Tim, Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron.
Oh, good for you, Tim, good for you. Vick threw Tim a brilliant glance, and turned around to face the audience. It was time for the “Hallelujah Chorus.” She lifted her arms to tell them all to stand. But then the massive rustle of twelve hundred bodies rising, the great soft whisper of clothing leaving benches, the dropping of coats and the fluttering of programs to the floor, made her catch her breath. To her horror she almost sobbed. She smiled hugely instead, and gave a great encouraging upbeat. Instantly the twelve hundred white faces became twelve hundred open mouths. They roared back at her, HALLELUJAH, HALLELUJAH. Standing at the focal point of the circular chamber, she was bombarded. Twelve hundred pairs of lungs had puffed themselves up with the amber air, and now they were letting it out in shouts of Hallelujah. Vick swung her arms in a tremendous beat of four. They were too lusty, too loud. But it didn’t matter. They had been waiting all evening for this chance to stand up and bellow at the tops of their lungs. Behind her the chorus too was letting itself go, shouting in competition with the people in the hall, and Rosie Bell was lifting up her little trumpet, and the timpani were volleying like cannon. The great harmonious noise shook in every tiny crevice in every stick of wood in the forest of lumber that was Sanders Theatre, it trembled in the walls and wooden dome, and in the supporting timbers of the floor, reverberating again and yet again, HALLELUJAH, HALLELUJAH, HALLELUJAH.
Chapter Forty-two
The buzzing of insects irritated him awake. He had been asleep for a long time. A dreamless solemn suspended sleep like death. Slowly, very slowly, Ham fought his way out of nothingness and opened his eyes. Tiny rhythmic mosquito-like noises were whining in his ears, and some sort of bumblebee was thudding and rumbling inside his head.
His lips were cracked. He put out his thick tongue and tried to lick them. He was terribly thirsty. For some time he had been too weak to do much more than lie in the corner, growing feebler every day. Every day he had tried to get up and walk a little, to clear his head, but it had been more difficult with each attempt. The last time he had swayed to his feet he had suddenly been overcome with a strange light-headedness. He could remember laughing as his legs gave way beneath him. He had fallen across the wooden beam in the corner. Now he could feel the sore swollen place throbbing on the side of his jaw where his face had struck the beam.
He must have water. He was too weak to stand. He hunched himself up on all fours and crawled in the direction of the pipe. His shaking hands could no longer lift the basin. He lowered his head and lapped from the dish. He drank and drank, paused and drank again. Then he sat back on his knees to rest, letting his head fall forward and his hands trail limply on the floor. The bee was still thudding in his head:
babaBUMbum! babaBUMbum! babaBUM, babaBUM,
babaBUMbum!
The mosquito crooned:
ooa-ooa, ooa-ooa!
Ham opened his eyes and st
ared into the dark. It was the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Somewhere over his head they were playing and singing Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.”
Feebly Ham picked up the brick that lay beside the pipe.
It would be the last time. Lifting the heavy brick took the last ounce of his strength. It had been a kind of miracle that the thread of his life had spun out so far, that he had lasted so long in the dark underground. But now he could feel the thread trailing off into nothingness. It had spun itself out. Clumsily, fumbling at the brick, dropping it and picking it up again, Ham began pounding the timpani accompaniment to the “Hallelujah Chorus”:
bingbingBANGbing! bingbingBANGbing!
bingbingBANG, bingbingBANG, bingbingBANGbing!
Chapter Forty-three
Vick dropped her arms, and the last Hallelujah rang in the air. There was a minute of quiet before the applause began, but then it was another great assaulting noise. Vick stood aside as the soloists brushed past her, hurrying off the stage through a narrow passage between crowded rows of violins, and then she ran after them. Mrs. Esterhazy had taught them how to do it proudly (“Up zuh head, up zuh boozum”). Then Vick strode back and swept her arms at the chorus, at the orchestra, at Rosie Bell. She flung out her hands at the audience, to tell them to applaud themselves. She ran off and came in again with the soloists. Safely out in the hall for the third time, she shook her head at Betsy, who was ready to plunge forward again. Enough was enough. “Vonderfool,” said Mrs. Esterhazy, throwing her arms around Vick. “You were great,” said Vick. “You were all just great.” Betsy threw herself at Tim, at Mrs. Esterhazy, at Vick, at Mr. Proctor. They were all flushed with triumph. But Vick was keyed to so high a pitch she didn’t trust herself. She would cry, or laugh. She would laugh too hard. She had to get away.
The second intermission was going to be a long one, long enough for President Cheever to unveil the bronze tablet behind the curtain on the wall. In a moment the place would be crowded. People would be packed together on the staircases at either end, looking on. Where could she go?
Mr. Crawley’s office. Of course. It was just right. There was even a sofa in Mr. Crawley’s office where she could rest, where she could force her rushing brain to slow down. Somehow she had to be ready for Messiah, Part Three. Part Three was serene and contemplative, with choruses of thanksgiving and arias rejoicing in redemption. Vick was feeling anything but serene and contemplative. She would just lie down on Mr. Crawley’s sofa and try to pull herself together. She pulled the key out of the neck of her dress and opened Mr. Crawley’s door. Quickly she closed it on the rising hubbub in the hall, clawed open the inner door, and felt her way in the dark to the sofa against the wall.
The radiator was knocking.
She lay down on the sofa. Her body was still shaking with the rhythms of the “Hallelujah Chorus.” She forced herself to close her eyes, to unharness the stringy tensions in her arms and legs. Outside the door she could hear the voice of President Cheever, beginning his presentation. “… to the memory of the man who made the walls of this building echo with the music of the masters …” Vick stuffed her fingers in her ears. What did he know about Ham Dow? What did he know about Ham’s music? Nothing. Nothing at all. For President Cheever, Ham was dead. But here in the dark, right here in her head, he was alive.
It was no use. She couldn’t shut out the sound of Cheever’s voice. She couldn’t rid herself of the tremendous pulsing beat of the “Hallelujah Chorus.” She couldn’t shut out the sound of the knocking radiator. Vick sat up impatiently and lay down on her left side. Even the radiator seemed to be knocking with the rhythms that were shaking her from head to foot.
bingbingBANGbing! bingbingBANGbing!
It was ridiculous. Vick cursed the radiator and turned over on her right side.
bingbingBANG, bingbingBANG, bingbingBANGbing!
She sat up.
BANG bingbangbing! BANG bingbangbing!
bingbingBANGbing! bingbingBANGbing!
bingBANG bing BANG, BANG!
“Oh, dear God,” breathed Vick.
She stood up, blundered across the floor, turned on the light, and stared across the room at the pipe rising in the corner of the wall.
The pipe was knocking with the rhythm of the “Hallelujah Chorus.”
It stopped.
Had she dreamt it? With trembling hands, Vick pulled off her shoe and approached the pipe slowly, reverently, as if it were alive. For a moment she held her shoe poised beside the pipe, hesitating, and then she began pounding.
bingbingBANGbing! bingbingBANGbing! bingbingBANG, bingbingBANG, bingbingBANGbing!
She dropped her arm and stared at the pipe. Did it hear? Was it listening?
The pipe was silent.
Vick’s shoulders sagged. She turned away and dropped her shoe. Oh, what an idiot she was. Oh, why couldn’t she lie down and get some rest? The blood was still rushing through her head. The noise outside was worse than ever. The President had finished his speech, and now everyone was clapping. He must have pulled the string of the curtain and displayed the bronze tablet. The dumb stupid idiotic tablet.
The Hallelujahs began again in the pipe.
BANG bingbangbing! BANG bingbangbing!
bingbingBANGbing! bingbingBANGbing!
bing BANG bing BANG, BANG!
Vick whirled around and dropped to her knees on the floor. She snatched up her shoe and struck the pipe. For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth:
BANG BANG BANG BANGbingBANGbingBANG BANG BANG!
Then she sat back on her heels and waited for the pipe to take its turn.
But it was pausing again. It seemed to be considering, thinking. When it began again she was puzzled. It should have continued with the Hallelujahs once again. But it didn’t. It was rattling in an unfamiliar rhythm, hasty and unclear. The pattern was repeated over and over. It was dying away. It was only a fluttering in the pipe. And then she understood.
bingbingbing BANGBANGBANG bingbingbing!
bingbingbing BANGBANGBANG bingbingbing!
There was no doubt about it any more. It was Ham, calling for help. It was Ham at last. Tears welled up in Vick’s eyes. She sobbed aloud, “It’s all right, Ham. It’s all right. We’re coming, we’re coming.” She gave the pipe three comforting final mighty blows, and rose to her feet and stumbled across the room to the door, pulling on her shoe. She must find Homer Kelly. She must find Homer right away.
But Outside the door in the high corridor the crowd was thick. Someone touched her arm, put something in her hand. Shiny round glasses goggled at her. A man in a white sheet was leaning over her, speaking in her ear. “Did you know that Jesus Christ has been reborn?” Behind the man in the white sheet the President of Harvard was pressing forward, attended by important-looking people, all milling along in a thick crush, pushing in the direction of the doors of Sanders Theatre.
And then Vick saw Homer. He was moving along with the rest, shoulder to shoulder with Charley Flynn, and Charley was talking to him, but Homer was paying no attention to Charley, he was looking back at Vick over the heads of the man in the white sheet and the President of Harvard. His face wore an expression of concern. It occurred to Vick that she must look wild, mad, bedraggled. She laughed. She threw her hands over her head and beckoned at him. Come, come. Come quickly.
He came. Charley Flynn came too. Rudely they pushed past President Cheever and knots and clusters of Overseers and Vice Presidents, and Homer grasped her by the arm. “Are you all right?” he said.
“Oh, Homer, listen.” Vick could hardly speak. “It’s Ham. He’s still alive. He’s down in the basement somewhere. He’s been down there all along. He’s knocking on the pipe. I can hear it in Mr. Crawley’s office.” She tugged at Homer. She was all elbows and shoulders. She dragged Homer and Charley Flynn past a protesting President Cheever into Mr. Crawley’s office. She slammed the door and took off her shoe and gave the pipe a mighty whack. “Sssshhh, now, listen,” said Vick. “Just listen.”
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br /> The pipe began knocking again. Rattling faintly.
Charley Flynn jerked his head up. “SOS,” he said quickly.
Homer took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “So it is, by God.”
“I told you. I told you.” Vick clawed at her hair. She smoothed her dress. She pulled her shoe back on. She ran out the door.
The memorial corridor was empty again, except for a tall woman in a red cloak guarding the south door. Through the windows in the doors of Sanders Theatre Vick could see the audience on the benches. They were settled down. They were waiting for her. She smiled at the woman in the red cloak, threw back her shoulders, tossed her hair, and marched back into the theatre, while everyone clapped and then stopped clapping and sat back to listen, and the orchestra picked up its instruments, and the chorus stood quietly waiting at the rear of the stage.
Homer would know what to do. She would leave it up to Homer and Charley Flynn. Vick picked up her stick and cast all her attention upon the score in front of her. She nodded at Betsy. Betsy stood up and lifted her music and began to sing, I know that my redeemer liveth.
Chapter Forty-four
In the vestibule outside the men’s room, a white shape flapped up at him from the doorway to the great hall. It was carrying a satchel. “Sir, would you like a pamphlet?”
No, no. He brushed the pamphlet aside.
“But I do think you should know. It is terribly important. Jesus Christ has returned to earth. He stands before you in the flesh.”
“Go away. Get out of here. Take that thing off, and get out.”
“Take it off? But it is Christ’s seamless garment.” The madman dropped his satchel and jerked at the sheet. He pulled it off and displayed it back and front. The sheet had no seams, that was true. Only hems, and a label in one corner: Wamsutta Percale.