The Memorial Hall Murder (30 page)

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.”

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.

“Get away from me. Go on. Get out of my way.”

The madman dropped the sheet and picked up the satchel. “But I must hand out my pamphlets. I must proclaim my coming to the world.”

“You heard what I said. Get out of the building.”

“Not until I distribute my pamphlets. They are of such tremendous significance, you see, to the whole world.” The crazy fool began tossing pamphlets in the air as if he were feeding pigeons. He walked away in a flutter of flying pamphlets, leaving his white seamless garment behind him on the floor.

Chapter Forty-five

Tinker entered the tunnel through the door in the basement of Langdell Hall. He had kept the key to the door ever since the Kissinger episode, ever since that time during the war in Vietnam when Kissinger had come to Harvard to speak in the Law School. Some of the more hostile undergraduates and Law School students had been waiting outside Langdell Hall, howling for Kissinger's hide. So he had conducted the great man into the building by way of the tunnel.

They had simply finessed the encounter. It had been a perfect example of his favorite maxim,
Economy of means for maximum effect.
And during the walk underground, as they had strolled along side by side, he had entertained Kissinger with the story of the occasion in his own life when that maxim had proved its enormous effectiveness, way back during World War II, during the Battle of the Bulge.

“There were only three of us left, you see, sir, out of the entire 325th Engineer Combat Team, and all we had left in the way of ordnance was a couple of satchel charges, and yet the 325th had been given the task of blowing up a bridge over the Meuse in the face of the advancing German army. Well, sir, the other two men said it couldn't be done, but I was determined to carry out our mission. I took one look at the bridge, and I knew what to do. It was a lift bridge, you see, sir, and it had this tiny little control tower. So we simply forced our way into the control tower, lifted the bridge, left our entire cache of explosives in the tower, and blew up the tower. The entire bridge remained in perfect order, you see, sir, but the German army was faced with a little problem. The bridge was up and not down. Do you see?”

And Kissinger had been impressed, you could see that.

But that was a long time ago. He hadn't been in the tunnel, since. This time he was just going to check up on the success of his experiment with the tank of carbon monoxide. He had been about to go to bed, but then he had decided he just couldn't rest until he knew whether or not the situation was under control. Jim was taking it so badly. He was beside himself. It was a thousand pities he had ever found out that Dow had not after all been killed in the explosion. Damn that interfering fool Homer Kelly. There had been no need at all for Jim to know that the permanent removal of Ham Dow had been somewhat delayed. What mattered, after all, was that the thing should be accomplished. And accomplished it would be. He would see to that.

This was the time to make sure. Everybody in the building would be in Sanders Theatre. He would be able to pull those boards out of the way again and listen for signs of life behind the door without fear of interruption. If there was no sign of life, then all well and good. He would go home to bed and forget the whole miserable episode. Dow's body would come to light sometime in the spring, when some workman discovered it during the reconstruction of those basement rooms. Then, of course, there would be general shock and dismay, but it would be no concern of his. However, if, in spite of everything, it was apparent that the man was still alive, it would be necessary to take action at once. And this time there would be no mistake. That thug from Philadelphia had made a mess of the job, and blown himself up for his pains. Well, after all, one should have remembered that if one wanted a thing well done one must do it oneself. In a case of this kind it was by far the safest plan. The little control mechanism was in his pocket. It was a very simple affair. He would go back home immediately, say good night to his housekeeper, climb into bed, and then press the button in the small hours of the morning.