ear. 'Nora. I left her. I didn't believe her, and I left her. Now they're going to lock her up. Do you hear me? They're going to put her away — either that or Banwell will kill her.'
'Doc — '
'Don't call me Doc,' said Younger. 'You have to save her. Listen to me. I can die. You didn't make me come down here; I wanted to see proof. You're the only one who believes her now. You have to make it out. You have to. Save her. And tell her — oh, never mind. Just get out!'
Younger pushed Littlemore away so hard the detective staggered back and fell into the water. He stood. The rising water had edged up over the bottom of the window. Littlemore gave the doctor a long look, then turned, and strode away, as best he could, past the cataract and through the thigh-high water. He disappeared.
'You forgot the trunk!' Younger shouted after him, but the detective didn't seem to hear him. The flooding was more than halfway up the window now. With great effort, Younger was able to hold his head an inch or two above the water. Then Littlemore reappeared. In his arms he held a five-foot length of lead pipe and a boulder.
'Littlemore!' shouted Younger. 'Go back!'
'Ever hear of Archiemeeds?' said the detective. 'Leverage.'
He splashed over to Younger and set the boulder down in the window, which was now full almost to the brim. Plunging his head into the ever-gathering water, Littlemore wedged one end of his pipe under the outer hatch, next to Younger's trapped ankle, and positioned the rest of the pipe over the boulder, lever-style. With both hands, he pushed down on the free end of the pipe. Unfortunately, the only effect was to pop the boulder out from under the pipe. 'Damn,' said Littlemore, emerging from the water.
Younger's eyes were still above water, but his mouth was not. Neither was his nose. He raised an eyebrow at Littlemore.
'Oh, boy,' said the detective. He took a breath and plunged in again. He repositioned his boulder and pipe in the same way and gave the pipe a downward tug. This time the boulder stayed in place, but still the outer hatch did not move. Littlemore sprang up out of the water as high as he could and came down with all his weight on the lever. But the lead pipe was badly corroded, and the force of Littlemore's weight upon it broke it clean in two. The moment before the pipe snapped, however, the window's outer hatch inched upward — just enough to free Younger s foot.
Both men came out of the water at the same time, but Littlemore was gulping air and thrashing about wildly while Younger barely stirred the water. He took a single lung- filling breath and said, 'That was melodramatic, wasn't it?'
'You're welcome,' replied Littlemore, straightening himself.
'How's that leg?' the doctor inquired.
'Fine. How's your foot?'
'Fine,' said Younger. 'What do you say we blow this hellhole?'
Dragging the trunk behind them while fighting through columns of crashing water, they made their way back to the central chamber. The steep ramp to the elevator was already half submerged. Water gushed down from the top of the elevator as well, spilling down the ramp and making a curtain around the car. Yet behind that curtain, the elevator cabin itself appeared dry.
Between the two of them, Littlemore and Younger contrived to push and pull the trunk up the ramp, heave it into the elevator, and tumble in themselves. Breathing hard, Younger shut the iron door. Things were suddenly still. The inundation of the caisson was a muffled roar outside. Within the car, the blue gas jets remained alight. Littlemore said, 'I'm taking us up.'
He thrust the operating stick into the ascent position — and nothing happened. He tried it again. Nothing.
'What a surprise,' said Littlemore.
Younger climbed up on top of the trunk and knocked on the ceiling. 'The whole shaft is flooded,' he said.
'Look,' said the detective, pointing up to where the doctor was standing, 'there's a hatch in the ceiling.'
It was true: in the center of the elevator's ceiling was a pair of large hinged panels.
'And there's what opens it,' said Younger, indicating a thick chain on a wall, with a red wooden handle dangling from its end. He leapt down off the trunk and took hold of that handle. 'We're going up, Detective — a little faster than we came down.'
'Don't!' Littlemore shouted. 'Are you crazy? You know how much all the water on top of us must weigh? The only way we won't drown is if we're crushed to death first.'
'No. This is a pressurized cabin,' said Younger. 'Superpressurized. The second I open this hatch, you and I will go up that shaft of water like a geyser.'
'You're putting me on,' said Littlemore.
'And listen to me. You have to exhale all the way up. I suggest you yell. I mean it. If you hold your breath even for a few seconds, your lungs will literally pop like balloons.'
'What if we get caught in the elevator cables?'
'Then we drown,' said Younger.
'Nice plan.'
'I'm open to alternatives.'
A glass aperture in the elevator door allowed Littlemore to look out into the caisson. It was almost entirely dark now. Water was pouring down everywhere. The detective swallowed. 'What about the trunk?'
'We take it with us.' The trunk had two leather grips. Each man took hold of one. 'Don't forget to yell, Littlemore. Ready?'
'I guess.'
'One, two — three! Younger pulled the red handle. The ceiling panels opened at once, and two men, yelling for their lives, with a large black trunk in tow, shot up through an elevator shaft full of water as if fired from a cannon.
Chapter Twenty-two
The generous foyer of the Banwells' penthouse apartment in the Balmoral had a tiled marble floor, milky white with silver veins, in the center of which a rich, dark green inlay formed an interlocking GB. This GB supplied Mr George Banwell with inordinate satisfaction every time he saw it; he liked having his initials on everything he owned. Clara Banwell detested it. Once she dared to introduce into the foyer an expensive Oriental carpet, explaining to her husband that the marble was so highly polished their guests were in danger of slipping on it. The next day, the foyer was bare. Clara never saw her carpet again, nor had it ever been referred to since, either by herself or her husband.
At ten on Friday morning, a butler in this foyer received the Banwells' mail. One envelope bore Nora Acton's pretty curvilinear hand. The addressee was Mrs Clara Banwell. Unfortunately for Nora, George Banwell was still at home. Fortunately, it was the habit of Parker, the butler, to offer Mrs Banwell her mail first, and he did so that Friday morning. Unfortunately, Clara still had Nora's letter in her hand when Banwell entered the bedroom.
Clara, her back to the door, felt her husband's presence behind her. She turned to greet him, holding Nora's letter behind her back. 'George,' she said. 'You're still here.'
Banwell took in every inch of his wife. 'Use that on someone else,' he replied.
'That?'
'That innocent expression. I remember it from when you were on stage.'
'I thought you liked the way I looked on stage,' said Clara.
'I like it all right. But I know what it means.' George Banwell approached his wife, put his arms around her, and tore the letter out of her hands.
'Don't,' said Clara. 'George, it will only anger you.'
Reading another's mail provides one with the taste of violating two persons at once, the sender and the recipient. When Banwell saw that his wife's letter was from Nora, this taste became sweeter. The moment lost its sweetness, however, as he began taking in the letter's contents.
'She knows nothing,' said Clara.
