“I don’t know who is here.” Patty was conscious that her words were not making much sense and she tried to bring order out of confusion. “My father was supposed to be here. Up in the Tower Room.”
“Your father, ma’am?”
“Ben McGraw. He built the building.”
The big Irish cop grinned suddenly. “A fine man, miss.”
“He’s in the hospital with a heart attack.” It was a conversation from Alice in Wonderland: each statement sounded wilder and less connected than the one before. “I mean—”
“And you’re here in his place,” the Irish cop said and nodded understandingly. “You see how it is, Frank.” The grin was gone, wiped away by sudden solemnity. “His bulling is in trouble and you’ve come in his place to give it support.” He nodded again. “Would you be knowing the other two who are here? A big fella by the name of—” Shannon looked at Barnes.
“Giddings,” Barnes said. “And an architect named Wilson.”
“I know them,” Patty said. “But they’ll be busy. They—”
“I’ll take you to them,” Shannon said. He caught her arm in a hand as big as Bert McGraw’s, led her past the barricade and urged her across the plaza, past other cops, firemen, stepping over snaking hoses, avoiding puddles.
It was a construction-site trailer office, not far from the substation. Inside there were drafting tables and file cabinets, a few chairs, telephones, and the man smells
Patty had known on construction sites since memory began, now somehow comforting.
Shannon said, “Miss McGraw here—” He got no further.
Nat said, “Come in, Patty.” He took her hand. “We heard about Bert. I’m sorry.”
Giddings said, “He’ll make out. He always has.” And then, “Those goddam doors can’t be locked. They can’t.” Assistant Commissioner Brown and three uniformed firemen stood by, watching, listening.
Nat said, “We don’t know. They can’t be opened from the inside. Ben Caldwell verified that.” He paused and looked at Brown. “The doors are fail-safe. For security reasons under normal circumstances they’re locked by electromagnets from stairside. In an emergency, and God knows this is an emergency, or a power failure, they unlock automatically.”
“It says here in the fine print,” Giddings said. “But something’s wrong, because they’re never supposed to be locked from the inside and they are. Unless”—he shook his head almost savagely—“they could be blocked instead of locked.”
“So,” Nat said, “we send a man up each stairwell—”
“A hundred and twenty-five floors,” Giddings said, “on foot?”
“In the mountains,” Nat said, “you can climb a thousand feet an hour, more or less, on a trail. It’s harder here because it’s almost straight up. Say an hour and three-quarters, two hours. But how else?” He waited for no reply. To Brown he said, “Do you have any walkers? Give them axes and walkie-talkies and start them up.” He nodded at the telephone at Brown’s hand. “Tell them they’re on the way.”
“It’s probably radio and television equipment for the mast,” Giddings said. “Piled against the fire doors. I’ve warned them about that, but they don’t listen. Heavy goddam crates, some of them are.”
“Then,” one of the uniformed firemen said, “give them halligan tools instead of axes.”
“And tell them,” Nat said, “to take it slow and steady, settle right down at the beginning for the long haul.” He seemed suddenly aware once more of Patty’s presence. “Have you seen Paul?”
“Not since this morning.” She paused. “Do you need him?”
“We need some information.”
(On the telephone Joe Lewis, told of the mess down in the mechanical and electrical equipment subbasement, had said first, “Jesus! The whole thing gone?”
“There’s no power at all,” Nat had said. “There are two dead men down there, one of them, what’s left of him, fried to a crisp, the firemen say.”
“If he messed around with primary power, he would be.” Joe had paused. “You’re worried about buried fires in appliance circuits, that kind of thing? I can’t tell you offhand, man. The way we designed it a power surge couldn’t get through. There are circuit-breakers, grounds, all kinds of safety factors. The way we designed it. But if some of those changes were actually made, then I won’t guarantee anything. What does Simmons say? He’s the one who ought to know.”)
Find Simmons.
“I haven’t seen him,” Patty said. “I’m sorry. He saw Bert after lunch. He was with him when he had his attack. But I don’t know where he is now.” She paused. “Unless—” She stopped.
“Unless what, Patty?”
Patty looked around the office. Everyone was watching her, and all she could do was shake her head in silence.
“Here,” Nat said, and taking her arm, led her to a far comer. He kept his voice low. “Unless what? Where might he be?”
“You don’t want to know.” Her eyes were steady on his face. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to know any of this,” Nat said. “I don’t want to know that there are a hundred people up in that Tower Room with no way to get out, and I don’t want to know that there may be a hundred fires we haven’t seen yet, maybe a thousand, about to break out of the walls—” He stopped with effort. “Patty, if you know where he is, or even might be, then I’ve got to know because we have to know where we stand.”
“Daddy might know.”
Nat was silent.
“But even if he does,” Patty said, “he can’t tell us, can he? I’m not—thinking very straight. I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe Zib knows where he is.”
Nat made no move, but the change in him was plain, and deep. “Does that mean what I think it does?” His voice was quiet.
“I’m sorry, Nat.”
“Stop being sorry and answer my question.”
Patty’s chin came up. “It means,” Patty said, “that my Paul and your Zib have been, as they used to say, having an affair. I don’t think it’s even called that now. There is probably some in name for it. There is for everything else. I am sorry. For you. For the whole thing. But the point is, maybe Zib might know where Paul is. I don’t.”
Nat walked to the nearest telephone. He picked it up and dialed with a steady hand. His face was expressionless. To the magazine’s operator, “Zib Wilson, please,” he said, and there was nothing at all in his voice.
“May I ask who is calling?”
“Her husband.” Was there angry emphasis there? No matter.
And here came Zib’s light, easy, boarding-school-and-seven-sisters-college voice, “Hi, dear. What’s up? Or is that a bawdy question?”
“Do you know where Paul Simmons is?”
There was the faintest hesitation. “Why on earth would I know where Paul is, darling?”
“Never mind the why right now,” Nat said. “Do you know? I need him. Bad.”
“Whatever for?”
Nat took a deep breath and held his temper firm. “We’ve got fires in the World Tower. We’ve got Bert McGraw in the hospital with a heart attack. We’ve got a hundred people trapped in the Tower Room on the hundred and twenty-fifth floor. And I need information from Paul.”
“Darling”—Zib’s voice was the patient voice of a kindergarten teacher explaining to a backward child—“why don’t you ask Patty? She—”
“Patty is right here with me. She said to ask you.” There was a pause. “I see,” Zib said, and that was all. The temper broke. “I’ll ask you once more,” Nat said. “Where is the son of a bitch? If you don’t know where he is, find him. And get him down here. On the double. Is that clear?”
“You’ve never talked to me like this before.”
“It was a mistake. I probably ought to have paddled your patrician ass. Find him and get him here. Is that clear?”