Peter snapped, "Let's get down there!" He sprinted for the lower service stairs, Aloysius Royce a pace behind.
A gray brick tunnel, dimly lighted, led to the elevator shaft. Here, the cries they had heard above were audible again, but now with greater closeness and more eerily. The shattered elevator car was directly in front, but the way to it barred by twisted, distorted metal from the car itself and installations it had hit on impact. Near the front, maintenance workers were struggling with pry bars. Others stood helplessly behind.
Screams, confused shouts, the rumble of nearby machinery, combined with a steady moaning from the car's interior.
Peter shouted to the men not occupied, "Get more lights in here!" Several hurried away down the tunnel.
He instructed the man in coveralls who had come to the lobby, "Get back upstairs. Guide the firemen down."
Aloysius Royce, on his knees beside the debris, shouted, "And send a doctor - now!"
"Yes," Peter said, "take someone to show him the way. Have an announcement made. There are several doctors staying in the hotel."
The man nodded and ran back the way they had come.
More people were arriving in the corridor, beginning to block it. The chief engineer, Doc Vickery, shouldered his way through.
"My God!" The chief stood staring at the scene before him. "My God! - I told them. I warned if we didn't spend money, something like this . . ."
He seized Peter's arm. "You heard me, laddie. You've heard me enough times. . ."
"Later, chief." Peter released his arm. "What can you do to get those people out?"
The chief shook his head helplessly. "We'd need heavy equipment - jacks, cutting tools . . ."
It was evident that the chief was in no condition to take charge. Peter instructed him, "Check on the other elevators. Stop all service if you have to. Don't take chances of a repetition." The older man nodded dumbly. Bowed and broken, he moved away.
Peter grasped the shoulder of a gray-haired stationery engineer whom he recognized. "Your job is to keep this area clear. Everyone is to move out of here who is not directly concerned."
The engineer nodded. As he began to order others back, the tunnel cleared.
Peter returned to the elevator shaft. Aloysius Royce, by kneeling and crawling, had eased himself under part of the debris and was holding the shoulders of the injured, screaming maintenance man. In the dim light it was clear that a mass of wreckage rested on his legs and lower abdomen.
"Billyboi," Royce was urging, "you'll be all right. I promise you. We'll get you out."
The answer was another tortured scream.
Peter took one of the injured man's hands. "He's right. We're here now.
Help is coming."
Distantly, high above, he could hear a growing wail of sirens.
14
The room clerk's telephone summons reached the Fire Alarm Office in City Hall. His message had not concluded when two high-pitched beeps - a major alarm alert sounded in every city fire hall. On radio, a dispatcher's calm voice followed.
"Striking box zero zero zero eight for alarm at St. Gregory Hotel, Carondelet and Common."
Automatically, four fire halls responded - Central on Decatur, Tulane, South Rampart, and Dumaine. In three of the four, non-duty-watchmen were at lunch. At Central, lunch was almost ready. The fare was meatballs and spaghetti. A fireman, taking his turn as cook, sighed as he turned off the gas and ran with the rest. Of all the godforsaken times for a midtown, high property alarm!
Clothing and longboots were on the trucks. Men kicked off shoes, climbing aboard while rigs were rolling. Within less than a minute of the double beeps, five engine companies, two hook and ladders, a host tender, emergency, rescue and salvage units, a deputy chief and two district chiefs were on the way to the St. Gregory, their drivers fighting busy midday traffic.
A hotel alert rated everything in the book.
At other fire halls, sixteen more engine companies and two hook and ladders stood by for a second alarm.
The Police Complaint Department in the Criminal Justice Courts received its warning two ways - from the Fire Alarm Office and directly from the hotel.
Under a notice, "Be Patient With Your Caller," two women communications clerks wrote the information on message blanks, a moment later handed them to a radio dispatcher. The message went out: All ambulances - Police and Charity Hospital - to the St. Gregory Hotel.
15
Three floors below the St. Gregory lobby, in the tunnel to the elevator shaft, the noise, hasty commands, moans and cries continued. Now, penetrating them, were crisp, swift footsteps. A man in a seersucker suit hurried in. A young man. With a medical bag.
"Doctor!" Peter called urgently. "Over here!"
Crouching, crawling, the newcomer joined Peter and Aloysius Royce. Behind them, extra lights, hastily strung, were coming on. Billyboi Noble screamed again. His face turned to the doctor, eyes pleading, features agony-contorted. "Oh, God! Oh, God! Please give me something.. ."
The doctor nodded, scrabbling in his bag. He produced a syrette. Peter pushed back Billyboi's coverall sleeve, holding an arm exposed. The doctor swabbed hastily, jabbed the needle home. Within seconds the morphine had taken hold. Billyboi's head fell back. His eyes closed.
The doctor had a stethoscope to Billyboi's chest. "I haven't much with me. I came off the street. How quickly can you get him out?"
"As soon as we've help. It's coming."
More running footsteps. This time, a heavy pounding of many feet.
Helmeted firemen streaming in. With them, bright lanterns, heavy equipment - axes, power jacks, cutting tools, lever bars. Little talk.
Short, staccato words. Grunts, sharp orders. "Over here! A jack under there. Get this heavy stuff moving!"
From above, a tattoo of ax blows crashing home. The sound of yielding metal. A stream of light as shaft doors opened at the lobby level. A cry,
"Ladders! We need ladders here!" Long ladders coming down.
The young doctor's command: "I must have this man out!
Two firemen struggling to position a jack. Extended, it would take the weight from Billyboi. The firemen groping, swearing, maneuvering to find clearance. The jack too large by several inches. "We need a smaller jack!
Get a smaller jack to start, to get the big one placed." The demand repeated on a walkie-talkie. "Bring the small jack from the rescue truck!"
The doctor's voice again, insistently. "I must have this man out!"
Peter's voice. "That bar there! The one higher. If we move it, it will lift the lower, leave clearance for the jack."
A fireman cautioning. "Twenty tons up there. Shift something, it can all come down. When we start, we'll take it slow."
"Let's try!" Aloysius Royce.
Royce and Peter, shoulders together, backs under the higher bar, arms interlocked. Strain upward! Nothing. Strain harder again! Still harder! Lungs bursting, blood surging, senses swimming. The bar moving, but barely. Even harder! Do the impossible! Consciousness slipping. Sight diminishing. A red mist only. Straining. Moving. A shout, "The jack is in!" The straining ended. Down. Pulled free. The jack turning, lifting.
Debris rising. "We can get him out!"
The doctor's voice, quietly. "Take your time. He just died."
The dead and injured were brought upward by the ladder one by one. The lobby became a clearing station, with hasty aid for those still living, a place of pronouncement for the dead. Furniture was pushed clear.
Stretchers filled the central area. Behind the cordon, the crowd - silent now - pressed tightly. Women were crying. Some men had turned away.
Outside, a line of ambulances waited. St. Charles Avenue and Carondelet, between Canal and Gravier Streets, were closed to traffic. Crowds were gathering behind police blockades at both ends. Singly, the ambulances raced away. First, with Herbie Chandler; next, the injured dentist who would die; a moment later, the New Orleans woman with injuries to leg and jaw. Other ambulances drove more slowly to the city morgue. Inside the hotel, a police captain questioned witnesses, seeking names of victims.