The Memorial Hall Murder (29 page)

“A gallant name for a gallant craft,” said Homer, smiling at Miss Plankton. “Does the
Jane
still sail the seven seas?”

“Oh, I do hope so, Mr. Kelly. Brother sold her to the Duke of Windsor.” Miss Plankton bowed and nodded and trailed away, her train dragging behind her on the floor.

She was mad as a hatter, the old dear. But then Homer had to admit to himself that the place was full of lunatics. Someone was tugging at him from the rear.

“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 stared 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.