“...Sure, that’s what I’m tellin’ yuh. Just take it down…The police arrived,” he went on importantly, as if fascinated by his own journalese—“the police arrived and threw a cordon round the building.” There was a moment’s pause, then the red-nosed man rasped out irritably: “No, no, no! Not a squadron! A cordon!...What’s ‘at?...Cordon, I say! C-o-r-d-o-n—cordon!...For Pete’s sake!” he went on in an aggrieved tone. “How long have you been workin’ on a newspaper, anyway? Didn’t yuh ever hear of a cordon before?...Now get this. Listen----” he went on in a careful voice, glancing at some scrawled notes on a piece of paper in his hand. “Among the residents are included many Social Registerites and others prominent among the younger set…What? How’s that?” he said abruptly, rather puzzled. “Oh!”
He looked round quickly to see if he was being overheard, then lowered his voice and spoke again:
“Oh, sure! Two!...Nah, there was only two—that other story was all wrong. They found the old dame…But that’s what I’m tellin’ yuh! She was all alone when the fire started—see! Her family was out, and when they got back they thought she was trapped up there. But they found her. She was down in the crowd. That old dame was one of the first ones out…Yeh—only two. Both of ‘em was elevator men.” He lowered his voice a little more, then, looking at his notes, he read carefully: “John Enborg…age sixty-four…married…three children…lives in Jamaica, Queens…You got that?” he said, then proceeded: “And Herbert Anderson…age twenty-five…unmarried…lives with his mother…841 Southern Boulevard, the Bronx…Have yuh got it? Sure. Oh, sure!”
Once more he looked round, then lowered his voice before he spoke again:
“No, they couldn’t get ‘em out. They was both on the elevators, goin’ up to get the tenants—see!—when some excited fool fumbled for the light switches and grabbed the wrong one and shut the current off on ‘em…Sure. That’s the idea. They got caught between the floors…They just got Enborg out,” his voice sank lower. “They had to use axes…Sure. Sure.” He nodded into the mouthpiece. “That’s it—smoke. Too late when they got to him…No, that’s all. Just those two…No, they don’t know about it yet. Nobody knows. The management wants to keep it quiet if they can…What’s that? Hey!—speak louder, can’t yuh? You’re mumblin’ at me!”
He had shouted sharply, irritably, into the instrument, and now listened attentively for a moment.
“Yeh, it’s almost over. But it’s been tough. They had trouble gettin’ at it. It started in the basement, then it went up a flue and out at the top…Sure, I know,” he nodded. “That’s what made it so tough. Two levels of tracks are right below. They were afraid to flood the basement at first—afraid to risk it. They tried to get at it with chemicals, but couldn’t…Yeh, so they turned off the juice down there and put the water on it. They probably got trains backed up all the way to Albany by now…Sure, they’re pumpin’ it out. It’s about over, I guess, but it’s been tough…O.K., Mac. Want me to stick around?...O.K.,” he said, and hung up.
21. Love Is Not Enough
The fire was over. Mrs. Jack and those who were with her went out on the street when they heard the first engine leaving. And there on the pavement were Mr. Jack, Edith, and Alma. They had met some old friends at the hotel and had left Amy and her companions with them.
Mr. Jack looked in good spirits, and his manner showed, mildly and pleasantly, that he had partaken of convivial refreshment. Over his arm he was carrying a woman’s coat, which he now slipped round his wife’s shoulders, saying:
“Mrs. Feldman sent you this, Esther. She said you could send it back tomorrow.”
All this time she had had on nothing but her evening dress. She had remembered to tell the servants to wear their coats, but both she and Miss Mandell had forgotten theirs.
“How sweet of her!” cried Mrs. Jack, her face beginning to glow as she thought how kind everyone was in a time of stress. “Aren’t people good?”
Other refugees, too, were beginning to straggle back now and were watching from the corner, where the police still made them wait. Most of the fire-engines had already gone, and the rest were throbbing quietly with a suggestion of departure. One by one the great trucks thundered away. And presently the policemen got the signal to let the tenants return to their rooms.
Stephen Hook said good night and walked off, and the others started across the street towards the building. From all directions people were now streaming through the arched entrances into the court, collecting maids, cooks, and chauffeurs as they came. An air of disorder and authority had been re-established among them, and one could hear masters and mistresses issuing commands to their servants. The cloister-like arcades were filled with men and women shuffling quietly into their entryways.