If he gets satisfaction, he will allow himself, after a decent interval, to be brought back in. If he gets the raise, or the girl, or forgiveness from the boss for his embezzling, or forgiveness from his wife for his philandering, or whatever his one urgent demand is, once the demand is met, he will come in from the ledge.
But there is one danger he doesn’t stop to think about, not until it’s too late and he’s already out there on the ledge, and the drama has already begun. The police know of this danger, and they know it is by far the greatest danger of the man on the ledge, much greater than any danger of deliberate self-destruction.
He can fall.
This one had learned that danger by now, as every inch of his straining taut body testified. He had learned it, and he was frightened out of his wits.
Levine grimaced. The man on the ledge didn’t know — or if he knew, the knowledge was useless to him — that a terrified man can have an accident much more readily and much more quickly than a calm man. And so the man on the ledge always compounded his danger.
Crawley braked the Chevy to a stop at the curb, two doors beyond the address. The rest of the curb space was already used by official vehicles. An ambulance, white and gleaming. A smallish fire engine, red and full-packed with hose and ladders. A prowl car, most likely the one on this beat. The Crash & Rescue truck, dark blue, a first-aid station on wheels.
As he was getting out of the car, Levine noticed the firemen, standing around, leaning against the plate-glass windows of the bank, an eight foot net lying closed on the sidewalk near them. Levine took the scene in, and knew what had happened. The firemen had started to open the net. The man on the ledge had threatened to jump at once if they didn’t take the net away. He could always jump to one side, miss the net. A net was no good unless the person to be caught wanted to be caught. So the firemen had closed up their net again, and now they were waiting, leaning against the bank windows, far enough away to the right.
Other men stood here and there on the sidewalk, some uniformed and some in plainclothes, most of them looking up at the man on the ledge. None of them stood inside a large white circle drawn in chalk on the pavement. It was a wide sidewalk here, in front of the bank, and the circle was almost the full width of it.
No one stood inside that circle because it marked the probable area where the man would land, if and when he fell or jumped from the ledge. And no one wanted to be underneath.
Crawley came around the Chevy, patting the fenders with a large calloused hand. He stopped next to Levine and looked up. “The phony,” he growled, and Levine heard outrage in the tone. Crawley was an honest man, in simple terms of black and white. He hated dishonesty, in all its forms, from grand larceny to raucous television commercials. And a faked suicide attempt was dishonesty.
The two of them walked toward the building entrance. Crawley walked disdainfully through the precise center of the large chalked circle, not even bothering to look up. Levine walked around the outer edge.
Then the two of them went inside and took the elevator to the sixth floor.
The letters on the frosted-glass door read: “Anderson & Cartwright, Industrial Research Associates, Inc.”
Crawley tapped on the glass. “Which one do you bet?” he asked. “Anderson or Cartwright?”
“It might be an employee.”
Crawley shook his head. “Odds are against it. I take Anderson.”
“Go in,” said Levine gently. “Go on in.”
Crawley pushed the door open and strode in, Levine behind him. It was the receptionist’s office, cream-green walls and carpet, modernistic metal desk, modernistic metal and leather sofa and armchairs, modernistic saucer-shaped light fixtures hanging from bronzed chains attached to the ceiling.
Three women sat nervously, wide-eyed, off to the right, on the metal and leather armchairs. Above their heads were framed photographs of factory buildings, most of them in color, a few in black and white.
A uniformed patrolman was leaning against the receptionist’s desk, arms folded across his chest, a relaxed expression on his face. He straightened up immediately when he saw Crawley and Levine. Levine recognized him as McCann, a patrolman working out of the same precinct.
“Am I glad to see you guys,” said McCann. “Gundy’s in talking to the guy now.”
“Which one is it,” Crawley asked, “Anderson or Cartwright?”
“Cartwright. Jason Cartwright. He’s one of the bosses here.”
Crawley turned a sour grin on Levine. “You win,” he said, and led the way across the receptionist’s office to the door marked: “Jason Cartwright private.”
There were two men in the room. One was sitting on the window ledge, looking out and to his left, talking in a soft voice. The other, standing a pace or two away from the windows, was the patrolman, Gundy. He and McCann would be the two from the prowl car, the first ones on the scene.
At their entrance, Gundy looked around and then came over to talk with them. He and McCann were cut from the same mold. Both young, tall, slender, thin-cheeked, ready to grin at a second’s notice. The older a man gets, Levine thought, the longer it takes him to get a grin organized.
Gundy wasn’t grinning now. He looked very solemn, and a little scared. Levine realized with-shock that this might be Gundy’s first brush with death. He didn’t look as though he would have been out of the Academy very long.
I have news for you, Gundy, he thought. You don’t get used to it.
Crawley said, “What’s the story?”
“I’m not sure,” said Gundy. “He went out there about twenty minutes ago. That’s his son talking to him. Son’s a lawyer, got an office right in this building.”
“What’s the guy out there want?”
Gundy shook his head. “He won’t say. He just stands out there. He won’t say a word, except to shout that he’s going to jump whenever anybody tries to get too close to him.”
“A coy one,” said Crawley, disgusted.
The phone shrilled, and Gundy stepped quickly over to the desk, picking up the receiver before the second ring. He spoke softly into the instrument, then looked over at the man by the window. “Your mother again,” he said.
The man at the window spoke a few more words to the man on the ledge, then came over and took the phone from Gundy. Gundy immediately took his place at the window, and Levine could hear his first words plainly. “Just take it easy, now. Relax. But maybe you shouldn’t close your eyes.”
Levine looked at the son, now talking on the phone. A young man, not more than twenty-five or six. Blond crewcut, hornrim glasses, good mouth, strong jawline. Dressed in Madison Avenue conservative. Just barely out of law school, from the look of him.
Levine studied the office. It was a large room, eighteen to twenty feet square, as traditional as the outer office was contemporary. The desk was a massive piece of furniture, a dark warm wood, the legs and drawer faces carefully and intricately carved. Glass-faced bookshelves lined one complete wall. The carpet was a neutral gray, wall-to-wall. There were two sofas, brown leather, long and deep and comfortable-looking. Bronze ashtray stands. More framed photographs of plant buildings.
The son was saying, “Yes, mother. I’ve been talking to him, mother. I don’t know, mother.”
Levine walked over, said to the son, “May I speak to her for a minute, please?”
“Of course. Mother, there’s a policeman here who wants to talk to you.”
Levine accepted the phone, said, “Mrs. Cartwright?”
The voice that answered was high-pitched, and Levine could readily imagine it becoming shrill. The voice said, “Why is he out there? Why is he doing that?”