“Been there for hours,” a man next to him murmured, almost dreamily.
For a minute he stood there, horror-frozen. His mind took in what was being said around him, even though he wasn’t conscious of hearing it, and he became aware of the whole story — the fire department, the police, the minister, and the psychiatrist.
There was a lump of ice where his stomach had been just a little while ago. Life was so wonderful, even with the remains of yesterday’s warmed-over hangover, even with only five bucks in your pants and a blonde waiting for you. If he could only explain that to the undecided dark blob clinging to the ledge twenty-two stories above. Undecided—! That was it. That was the key.
Suddenly he pushed his way, ruthlessly and almost blindly, through the rest of the crowd, ran past the roped-off space where the fire department was holding life nets, past the frightened young cop who tried to bar his way into the building, and through the deserted lobby. He yelled for a boy to operate one of the empty elevators, finally got attention by threatening to operate it himself, and was shot up to the twenty-second floor.
It was easy to find the room. The door was open, spilling light into the hall. A cop at the door said, “Malone—!” tried to stop him, and was shoved aside. The minister, the eminent psychiatrist and Det. Lt. Klutchetsky from the police department were shoved aside too.
At the window, he paused and drew a long, slow breath. Down the ledge from him was a white face and two terrified eyes. Malone spoke very softly and easily.
“Don’t be afraid. You can get back here all right. Just creep along the ledge and keep your hands on the wall, and keep looking at me.”
The dark figure stirred. She was not more than a few inches beyond the reach of his arm, but he knew better than to hold out a hand to her, yet.
“There’s nothing to fear. Even if you should fall, they’ll catch you with the nets. The worst that can happen to you is a skinned knee and a few bruises.” Malone crossed his fingers for the barefaced lie. “You’re as safe as if you were in your own bed.” It was the same tone he’d used innumerable times to nervous witnesses.
It was a full minute before the girl began to move, but when she did, it was in the direction of the window.
“Come on now,” the little lawyer coaxed. “It’s not so far. Only a bit of a ways now. Take it easy.”
She managed about a foot and a half along the ledge, and stopped. He could see her face, and the terror on it, clearly now.
“You won’t fall,” Malone said. It was an almost heart-breaking effort to keep from reaching a hand to her.
Inside the room, and down on the sidewalk, the spectators were silent and breathless.
For just a moment it seemed to Malone that she’d smiled at him. No, it hadn’t been a smile, just a relaxation of those frozen muscles around her mouth. How long had she been crouching on that ledge? He didn’t dare guess.
Nor did he dare take his eyes from her face and look down, for fear her gaze would turn with his.
Inch by inch she moved toward the waiting window. Only a few feet away she hesitated, started to look down, and turned a shade more pale.
“For Pete’s sake, hurry up,” Malone said crossly. “It’s colder than a Scandinavian Hell with this window open.”
That did it. She actually did smile, and managed the last bit of window ledge, twenty-two stories up from the ground, like a little girl sliding on a cellar door. Finally Malone lifted her over the sill, and Klutchetsky, moving fast and breathing hard, slammed the window shut and locked it.
The eminent psychiatrist sank down on the nearest chair, his face a mottled grey. Klutchetsky and the uniformed cop stood glaring at her.
“You’re a wicked, wicked girl,” the minister began.
“Shut up,” Malone told him absentmindedly. He looked closely at the girl, who stood clutching the edge of the window frame for support.
She was small, and delicately built. Pale, distraught and disheveled as she was, she was something very special. Her chalk-white and definitely dirty face was triangular in shape, and lovely. Her frightened eyes were brown, and large, and ringed with long, dark lashes. Her tangled hair was honey blonde. Her mouth, naked of lipstick and with marks showing where teeth had almost bitten through a lower lip, was a pallid, wistful flower.
One more minute, Malone told himself, and he’d be writing poetry.
The mink coat was a magnificent one. The dusty rose dress under it came, Malone realized, from one of the very best shops. The torn and muddy stockings he recognized as nylons. Jewels glittered at her slim wrists.
“As I live and breathe!” Malone said pleasantly, taking out a cigar and starting to unwrap it. “Doris Dawn!”
Doris Dawn drew her first long breath in many hours. She glanced around the ring of hostile faces, then flung herself into the security of Malone’s warm and obvious friendliness. A faint color began to come back into her cheeks.
“You saved my life. I was out there — forever, trying to get enough nerve to crawl to a window. High places — they always—” The color faded again.
“You’d better put some makeup on,” Malone growled. “You look terrible.”
She almost smiled. She fumbled through her coat pockets, found a compact and lipstick, dropped them both through her trembling fingers. Malone picked them up for her. Pink Primrose lipstick, he noted approvingly. Exactly right for her pale skin.
He said, soothingly, “Relax. You’re safe now.”
“No. No, I’m not. That’s it.” She turned to Klutchetsky. “You’re a policeman. Do something. Someone tried to kill me.”
Klutchetsky and the eminent psychiatrist exchanged significant glances.
“Okay, sister,” Klutchetsky said wearily. “Just come along quietly now.”
Malone said, “Just a minute. Since when is it customary, in a case of attempted murder, to arrest the intended corpse?”
“Look, Malone,” Klutchetsky said. He paused and sighed deeply. “We appreciate your help. Okay. Now suppose you let the police department handle its own problems in its own way.”
“But I’m not a problem,” the girl cried out. “Someone—”
“That’s what you think,” Klutchetsky told her. “Am I right, Doc?” He paused. The eminent psychiatrist nodded his head briskly.
“He tried to kill me,” the girl gasped. “He will again. He put me out on that ledge and left me there. I was too scared to crawl back. I just held on. Until—”
“And who is this ‘he’,” Klutchetsky interrupted skeptically, “and what does he look like?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him.”
The police officer turned to the eminent psychiatrist. “See what I mean, Doc?” Again the psychiatrist nodded.
She began to sob, dry-eyed. She took a step towards Malone. “You believe me, don’t you? Don’t let them drag me away to — to a hospital. They’re the police. Make them find him. Make them protect me.”
“What I always say is,” Malone murmured, lighting his cigar, “what do we pay taxes for.” He paused long enough to glare at the police officer and his aide. “But what you need is a good lawyer.”
“Find me one!”
Malone smiled at her reassuringly. “I have found you one.”
“Listen,” Klutchetsky said. “This is the third time she’s tried this. She’s bats. Just ask Doctor Updegraff.”
“A very interesting case,” Doctor Updegraff purred. “Of course, after I have given it some study—”
“Nuts!” Malone said rudely.
“Precisely,” the psychiatrist said.
Malone thought of a number of things he would like to do to Doctor Updegraff, all of them unkind, and most of them unmentionable. He thought, also, about the immediate problem. If Klutchetsky and Dr. Updegraff happened to be right, Doris Dawn would be better off in a hospital, and the sooner the better. On the other hand, if she was telling the truth — and Malone believed she was — she would be safer in jail, right now.