There was hesitation from the woman for a few seconds, and then she burst out, “Why can’t you bring him in? Can’t you even stop him?”
“He’s out of reach, Mrs. Cartwright. If we tried to get him, I’m afraid he’d jump.”
“This is ridiculous! No, no, definitely not, I’m not going to be a party to it. I’m not going to talk to him until he comes in from there. You tell him that.”
“Mrs. Cartwright—”
“I’m not going to have any more to do with it!”
The click was loud in Levine’s car as she slammed the receiver onto the hook. Crawley was looking at him, and now said, “Well?”
“She hung up.”
“She isn’t coming?” It was plain that Crawley was having trouble believing it.
Levine glanced at the son, who could hear every word he was saying, and then shrugged. “She wants him to jump,” he said.
The son’s reaction was much smaller than Levine had expected. He simply shook his head definitely and said, “No.”
Levine waited, looking at him.
The son shook his head again. “That isn’t true,” he said. “She just doesn’t understand — she doesn’t really think he means it.”
“All right,” said Levine. He turned away from the son, trying to think. The wife, the marriage— A man in his late forties, married young, son grown and set up in his own vocation. A quiet man, who doesn’t force his personality on others, and a forceful wife. A practical wife, who pushed him into a successful business.
Levine made his decision. He nodded, and went back through the receptionist’s office, where the other patrolman, McCann, was chatting with the three woman employees. Levine went into Anderson’s office, said, “Excuse me. Could I have the use of your office for a little while?”
“Certainly.” Anderson got up from his desk, came around, saying, “Anything at all, anything at all.”
“Thank you.”
Levine followed Anderson back to the receptionist’s office, looked over the three women sitting against the left hand wall. Two were fortyish, plumpish, wearing wedding bands. The third looked to be in her early thirties, was tall and slender, good-looking in a solid level-eyed way, not glamorous. She wore no rings at all.
Levine went over to the third woman, said, “Could I speak to you for a minute, please?”
She looked up, startled, a bit frightened. “What? Oh. Oh, yes, of course.”
She followed him back into Anderson’s office. He motioned her to the chair facing Anderson’s desk, himself sat behind the desk. “My name is Levine,” he said. “Detective Abraham Levine. And you are—?”
“Janice Shapleigh,” she said. Her voice was low, pleasantly melodious. She was wearing normal office clothing, a gray plain skirt and white plain blouse.
“You’ve worked here how long?”
“Three years.” She was answering readily enough, with no hesitations, but deep in her eyes he could see she was frightened, and wary.
“Mister Cartwright won’t tell us why he wants to kill himself,” he began. “He’s asked to speak to his wife, but she refuses to leave home—” He detected a tightening of her lips when he said that. Disapproval of Mrs. Cartwright? He went on. “—which we haven’t told him yet. He doesn’t really want to jump, Miss Shapleigh. He’s a frustrated, thwarted man. There’s something he wants or needs that he can’t get, and he’s chosen this way to try to force the issue.” He paused, studying her face, said, “Would that something be you?”
Color started in her cheeks, and she opened her mouth for what he knew would be an immediate denial. But the denial didn’t come. Instead, Janice Shapleigh sagged in the chair, defeated and miserable, not meeting Levine’s eyes. In.a small, voice, barely audible, she said, “I didn’t think he’d do anything like this. I never thought he’d do anything like this.”
“He wants to marry you, is that it? And he can’t get a divorce.”
The girl nodded, and all at once she began to cry. She wept with one closed hand pressed to her mouth, muffling the sound, her head bowed as though she were ashamed of this weakness, ashamed to be seen crying.
Levine waited, watching her with the dulled helplessness of a man whose job by its very nature kept him exposed to the misery and frustrations of others. He would always want to help, and he would always be unable to help, to really help.
Janice Shapleigh controlled herself, slowly and painfully. When she looked up again, Levine knew she was finished weeping, no matter what happened. “What do you want me to do?” she said.
“Talk to him. His wife won’t come — she knows what he wants to say to her, I suppose — so you’re the only one.”
“What can I say to him?”
Levine felt weary, heavy. Breathing, working the heart, pushing the sluggish blood through veins and arteries, was wearing, hopeless, exhausting labor. “I don’t know,” he said. “He wants to die because of you. Tell him why he should live.”
Levine stood by the right-hand window, just out of sight of the man on the ledge. The son and the priest and Crawley and Gundy were all across the room, watching and waiting, the son looking bewildered, the priest relieved, Crawley sour, Gundy excited.
Janice Shapleigh was at the left-hand window, tense and frightened. She leaned out, looking down, and Levine saw her body go rigid, saw her hands tighten on the window-frame. She closed her eyes, swaying, inhaling, and Levine stood ready to move. If she were to faint from that position, she could fall out the window.
But she didn’t faint. She raised her head and opened her eyes, and carefully avoided looking down at the street again. She looked, instead, to her right, toward the man on the ledge. “Jay,” she said. “Jay, please.”
“Jan!” Cartwright sounded surprised. “What are you doing? Jan, go back in there, stay away from this. Go back in there.”
Levine stood by the window, listening. What would she say to him? What could she say to him?
“Jay,” she said, slowly, hesitantly, “Jay, please. It isn’t worth it. Nothing is worth — dying for.”
“Where’s Laura?”
Levine waited, unbreathing, and at last the girl spoke the lie he had placed in her mouth. “She’s on the way. She’ll be here soon. But what does it matter, Jay? She still won’t agree, you know that. She won’t believe you.”
“I’ll wait for Laura,” he said.
The son was suddenly striding across the room, shouting, “What is this? What’s going on here?”
Levine spun around, motioning angrily for the boy to be quiet.
“Who is that woman?” demanded the son. “What’s she doing here?”
Levine intercepted him before he could get to Janice Shapleigh, pressed both palms flat against the boy’s shirt-front. “Get back over there,” he whispered fiercely. “Get back over there.”
“Get away from me! Who is she? What’s going on here?”
“Allan?” It was Cartwright’s voice, shouting the question. “Allan?”
Crawley now had the boy’s arms from behind, and he and Levine propelled him toward the door. “Let me go!” cried the boy. “I’ve got a right to—”
Crawley’s large hand clamped across his mouth, and the three of them barreled through to the receptionist’s office. As the door closed behind them, Levine heard Janice Shapleigh repeating, “Jay? Listen to me, Jay, please. Please, Jay.”
The door safely shut behind them, the two detectives let the boy go. He turned immediately, trying to push past them and get back inside, crying, “You can’t do this! Let me go! What do you think you are? Who is that woman?”
“Shut up,” said Levine. He spoke softly, but the boy quieted at once. In his voice had been all his own miseries, all his own frustrations, and his utter weariness with the misery and frustration of others.