Hotel

Somehow, others held on. While they did, the remaining two safety clamps gave way, sending the wrecked car plummeting the remaining distance down the shaft. Part way, a youngish conventioneer dentist slipped through the gap, his arms flailing. He was to survive the accident, but die three days later of internal injuries.

Herbie Chandler was more fortunate. He fell when the car was near the end of its descent. Tumbling into the adjoining shaft, he sustained head injuries from which he would recover, and sheared and fractured vertebrae which would make him a paraplegic, never walking again for the remainder of his life.

A middle-aged New Orleans woman lay, with a fractured tibia and a shattered jaw, on the elevator floor.

As the car hit bottom, Dodo was last to fall. An arm was broken and her skull cracked hard against a guide rail. She lay unconscious, close to death, as blood gushed from a massive head wound.

Three others - a Gold Crown Cola conventioneer, his wife, and Keycase Milne - were miraculously unhurt.

Beneath the wrecked elevator car, Billyboi Noble, the maintenance worker who, some ten minutes earlier, had lowered himself into the elevator pit, lay with legs and pelvis crushed, conscious, bleeding, and screaming.

13

Running with a speed he had never used in the hotel before, Peter McDermott raced down the mezzanine stairs.

The lobby, when he reached it, was a scene of pandemonium. Screams resounded through the elevator doors and from several women nearby. There was confused shouting. In front of a milling crowd, a white-faced assistant manager and a bellboy were attempting to try open the metal doors to number four elevator shaft. Cashiers, room clerks, and office workers were pouring out from behind counters and desks. Restaurants and bars were emptying into the lobby, waiters and bartenders following their customers. In the main dining room, lunchtime music had stopped, the musicians joining the exodus. A line of kitchen workers was streaming out through a service doorway. An excited babel of questions greeted Peter.

As loudly as he could, he shouted above the uproar, "Quiet!"

There was a momentary silence in which he called out again, "Please stand back and we will do everything we can." He caught a room clerk's eye. "Has someone called the Fire Department?"

"I'm not sure, sir. I thought."

Peter snapped, "Do it now!" He instructed another, "Get onto the police.

Tell them we need ambulances, doctors, someone to control the crowd."

Both men disappeared, running.

A tall, lean man in a tweed jacket and drill trousers stepped forward. "I'm a Marine officer. Tell me what you want.

Peter said gratefully, "The center of the lobby must be kept clear. Use hotel staff to form a cordon. Keep a passageway open to the main entrance.

Fold back the revolving doors."

"Right!"

The tall man tamed away and began cracking commands. As if appreciative of leadership, others obeyed. Soon, a line of waiters, cooks, clerks, bellboys, musicians, some conscripted guests, extended across the lobby and to the St. Charles Avenue door.

Aloysius Royce had joined the assistant manager and bellboy attempting to force the elevator doors. He turned, calling to Peter. "We'll never do this without tools. We have to break in somewhere else."

A coveralled maintenance worker ran into the lobby. He appealed to Peter.

"We need help at the bottom of the shaft. There's a guy trapped under the car. We can't get him out or get at the others."

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. . ."