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
