Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

I think again of its description ‘the busiest place on earth’. But in this vacant lot, there’s not a soul around.

  The alley, too, is deserted. At the far end of it is a wide street. We cross, avoiding the pools of light from the street lamps on the sidewalks. Across from us is another alley, and again we go down it. This second alley turns a corner to the left. We sneak along it in the dark, until we reach another left turn. It’s like we’re going in circles. I keep glancing around. No-one appears to be following us.

  “Where are we going, Chisholm?”

  “You’ll see, in a moment.” We step out of the alley onto another street, and I realize where we are. We’ve turned all the way back on ourselves, and now we’ve come out on 43rd Street. In fact, we’re standing at the same spot where we crossed Eighth Avenue this morning, when we first entered Hell’s Kitchen. Of all the options available, why in the world has Chisholm chosen this route?

  He answers my unspoken question. “There’ll be Gopher lookouts posted all around the Times Square district. Gwyneth and I agreed that the best chance of escape for you and me is to go to the one place that Jimmy Nolan would never expect us to go. The one place that he might not have posted a lookout is this junction of 43rd Street and Eighth Avenue. From here, we’re going right back into the Gophers’ own territory. We need to follow the same route that we used this morning, but for one block only.”

  It’s strange, but I’m feeling a sense of relief. Not at the route we are taking, but just a sensation that some weight has been lifted from my shoulders. The faces, the eyes that stared at us this morning have all gone: the narrow street through the tenements is gloomy but quiet. Why do I suddenly feel so much better? I realize that ever since the maze at Sweynsey, I’ve developed a kind of alarm system: a sense of when someone is watching me, following me. Right now, I know for a fact that we’re unobserved: no eyes are upon us. That’s why I feel better. Somehow, I feel safe. I breathe freely.

  At the end of the street, it’s utterly dark: there’s no light from above, not even moonlight, because the elevated railway covers the night sky above us like a roof. Chisholm says quietly. “Ninth Avenue El. Our escape route. The 42nd Street station is just down there.” I look down Ninth Avenue, and in the distance I see steps rising to a grimy platform alongside the tracks.

  “We’re taking the elevated railway out of here? Where are we going to?”

  “The El line runs to Upper Manhattan. 155th Street station. Then it’s only a hundred yards’ walk to the Polo Grounds. Home of the New York Giants.”

  “But that’s still Manhattan. I thought we were trying to get out of New York.”

  “There’s a very good reason why we’re heading there. Calvin Gilmour is a baseball nut. A Giants fanatic. He and Gwyneth keep an automobile near the stadium.”

  As we approach the foot of the steps which zigzag their way up the El’s iron legs to the station, I notice a strange sight: for a moment I’m right back in the Metropole laundry, gazing at piles of sheets. But these huddled blankets and sheets covering the ground under the station are gray and filthy: I sense the shapes of human bodies under each covering, and a vile smell hits me like a brick wall. The stench of ages-old, unwashed sweat and dirt. Chisholm looks grimly at me. “Give me your tired, you poor, your huddled masses, and we’ll stick them all under the Ninth Avenue El.”

  We start climbing: the iron steps ring out under our feet, and we’re soon high above the stinking street. As Chisholm buys our tickets, I look out from the El platform over Hell’s Kitchen. The lights of central New York are bright on the horizon, but the nearby skyline is a crazy mess of ruinous slums. There are broken chimneys, tileless roofs where the joists look like empty ribcages. Trees grow from the neglected gables and parapets of the tenement blocks. Below me is darkness, a web of black alleys.

  In the distance, I hear the distinctive metallic rattle that I heard this morning.

  “Here comes the train.”

  I see a row of lights moving towards us: they seem to float across the rooftops, getting bigger and closer. It’s a small train: only two carriages. As it slows to a shaking halt in front of our faces, I look carefully around the poorly-lit station platform, and yes, I’m sure: no-one else is boarding this train. This time, the feeling of safety and relief is even better: it’s like a flood through my body.

  We step onto the first carriage of the train. Inside, there’s only a scatter of people, but I need air: we go out onto the outdoor observation platform at the end of the carriage. The train is coupled so that the observation platforms of the two carriages face each other above the coupling: the people standing on the observation platform of the second carriage, only a few feet away, smile across at us. As the train sets off I feel the wind, the movement. Even the reek of boiling animal flesh, rising from below as the El rattles along above the tanneries, doesn’t bother me any more. We’re escaping, and we’ve not been followed. This moment is very, very sweet.

  I’m not quite used to New York manners. Of the four people on the other observation platform, all maybe only twenty years old, three are men; they all grin flirtatiously at me. I even get a wink from the man who is holding the hand of the one woman in the group. Another of the men chews a toothpick, but a sly smile is still there in his face, even as his mouth and cheeks twist. I don’t want to appear rude: I smile briefly at them all, but then I turn to look at Chisholm. He and I don’t need to speak: I’m enjoying the passing sights, the glitter of lights from the towering buildings, the distant glimpses of the dark lawns and trees of Central Park. Even the tinny rattle of the train sounds good right now.

  The man with the toothpick is still grinning at me.

  I glance at him, then away again. Then I look back, to re-check, for sure, what I think I’ve just seen. Yes, I’m right.

  For the first time in my life, I’m looking at a gun.

  Maybe only four feet away from me is a revolver, its barrel covered by a coat over the man’s arm so that no-one around him can see it. It’s pointing over the top of the guardrail of the observation platform, across the gap between the two carriages, straight at me and Chisholm. The muzzle gleams dully in the flickering lights as we rumble along the tracks. I look at Chisholm, and although he hardly risks a glance at me, I see it in his eyes. He’s spotted the gun too.

  The train is slowing down: we’re approaching a station. As the brakes take hold and our carriage shudders to a stop, I have this ridiculous hope that the man holding the gun will get off the train, but of course he doesn’t. Neither do the other three people on the observation platform. The man with the gun just stands there, chewing, the slit of his mouth sliding around as he munches on the toothpick. His eyes are expressionless, like blank windows under his low brows. He says nothing, and we say nothing. The train pulls away from the station.

  We’re high up here, maybe seventy feet in the air above Ninth Avenue. For a moment I pretend this terror isn’t happening: I look absently at the passing buildings, the squares of the lit windows of the tenements, whizzing by on either side of us. I can see traffic below us, the headlights of cars, the honk of horns, the shouts from the streets, the plodding horse-drawn wagons. ‘The city that never sleeps.’ We cross a major road junction: then the train slows into yet another station, and again no-one moves. Again I occupy my eyes by looking at a building alongside us. At a lit window I notice a woman standing, wearing only the thinnest of nightdresses: her hands grip the sill, her bony frame silhouetted against the light from her room. For just one second I catch her eyes, then we’re on the move again. I glance back at the gun, as if to make sure it’s real. Oh yes: I wasn’t dreaming.

  At the next station, two of the people on the other observation platform – the woman, and the man who was holding her hand – leave the train.

  I look at Chisholm again. As the train rumbles on in the darkness, an unsaid signal passes between us: we now understand the situation. We both know that the other people on the platform are strangers to the gun
man. While there were three of them standing there with him, he dared not shoot us. But now, only one of those people is left. If we attempt to leave the train, or to draw anyone’s attention to the gun, then the odds are that the gunman will shoot us there and then, despite the other man standing next to him. So we stand here on the platform of the carriage, doing nothing.

  But in fact, we’re just standing waiting to be killed anyway, because the moment that his unwitting companion leaves the observation platform, the man will shoot us. I glance back into our carriage: there’s perhaps twenty people in there, and another twenty in the gunman’s carriage. All of them oblivious to the murder that’s about to happen.

  The El line bends abruptly, shifting onto the line of a different street. As its wheels grip and grind against the curves of the rails, the train shakes like it’s in an earthquake, but the man holds the gun steadily: not for one moment does he lose aim or concentration. Beneath the concealing shadow of his coat, I see that his finger already grips the trigger. I realize that if the train rattles too much, it’s more likely to fire the gun, rather than to give us a chance to escape. We’re powerless to do anything: Chisholm knows it too, and we stand here, flying along in