The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

was about even with the top of my head. I had to reach up with the pliers and pull this rod up, and I had trouble getting enough leverage. I struggled for a while, unsuccessfully. I needed something to stand on.
    I brought the toolbox over to the door, closed it, and stood on it. This gave me leverage, and it was a more convenient height than the chair I had stood on before. I got a good grip on the rod with the pliers and gave a big yank upward. To my surprise, the rod came completely out of the hinge. My hand hit the ceiling, and I lost my balance as a result of the effort. The toolbox skidded out from under me, and I fell onto the concrete floor. Hard.
    I grunted at the shock of hitting something so unyielding and lay there, stunned. In a few seconds, I began to hurt. Everywhere. I closed my eyes as the pain washed over me, hoping that it was temporary. After a minute, the pain localized in my right hip, which had taken the brunt of the fall. My hands also stung, especially the one that had hit the ceiling. I had slapped the floor with both hands, trying to protect my head, which, thankfully, had been spared. All I needed was another head injury. I got slowly to a sitting position and tried to assess the damage.
    I could move my hands and fingers. No broken bones were present, and I knew the stinging sensation in my hands would subside. I had hurt the back of my right hand, but the injury was more painful than debilitating. My hip still ached, but I got carefully to my feet and discovered that I could walk—with a limp. I felt the area of my hip and suspected that I would get away with just a large bruise. I had been lucky. I needed to be more careful.
    When I could stand the pain, I inspected the door by feel. The rods were gone, and the door should open. However, it hadn’t moved. I had to pull it. But I had nothing on this edge of the door to grip. Hitting the door with the hammer to see if it would bounce open produced no result. It was set firmly in place.
    I returned to the floor under the ventilation shaft where the tools were scattered, looking for a crowbar that I already knew wasn’t there. The hammer had to serve as a crowbar. Back at the door, I tried to force the claws of the hammer between the door and the jamb. There wasn’t room. I tried to dig the claws of the hammer into the door, but the hard wood only threatened to break the hammer.
    I had another thought. The metal hinge pieces on the door stuck out. If I could get a good grip on one… They were too small for my fingers to grasp, so I took the pliers and gripped a piece of the middle hinge. I pulled, and the pliers slipped off the hinge. I felt the hinge and realized that the hinge pieces attached to the doorjamb were stopping me from pulling the door open. There were two such pieces on each of the three hinges.
    I took the hammer and screwdriver. Using the screwdriver as a chisel, I placed the blade against each piece of the hinge that was attached to the jamb and tapped on the screwdriver with the hammer. It was hard to do in the dark, and I cursed when I hit my fingers instead of the screwdriver.
    But this turned out to be a weak point of the door. Repeated tapping bent the hinge pieces until they were out of the way of the door opening. I had to go through the same procedure six times, but eventually nothing remained to hold the door closed.
    I took the pliers again and tried to pull the door open. Again the pliers slipped off the metal hinge piece I was pulling on. I needed to get a tighter grip. Gloves. There had been work gloves in the toolbox. I found them on the floor, pulled them onto my hands, and tried again.
    The first time I pulled with the gloves on, the pliers slipped off the hinge again. My grip was definitely stronger, but my hands still hurt, and my fingers weren’t at full strength. I limped around, flexing my fingers, willing them to get stronger. Time was of the essence. It was morning, and whatever Ed was going to do, he would do today.
    I held the pliers as tightly as I could and tried once more to pull the hinge. I managed to move it a fraction of an inch before I lost the grip. Another rest. Another try. It moved another fraction. It occurred to me that I could stick one of the rods partway back into the holes of the hinge—now that the hinge pieces attached to the jamb were out of the way—and pull on the rod. I inserted a rod halfway into the middle hinge and hooked the claws of the hammer around it.
    I