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Levine twisted around, looking up. Two stories up, and the roof. More men were up there, with another safety net. If this were the top floor, they would probably take a chance with that net, try flipping it over him and pasting him like a butterfly to the wall. But not here, three stories down.

Cartwright had turned his face away from the still-talking priest, was studying Levine intently. Levine returned his gaze, and Cartwright said, “Where’s Laura? She should be here by now, shouldn’t she? Where is she?”

“Laura? You mean your wife?”

“Of course,” he said. He stared at Levine, trying to read something to Levine’s face. “Where is she?”

Tell him the truth? No. Tell him his wife wasn’t coming, and he would jump right away. “She’s on the way,” he said. “She should be here pretty soon.”

Cartwright turned his face forward again, stared off across the street. The priest was still talking, softly, insistently.

Levine came back into the office. To Crawley, he said, “It’s the wife. He’s waiting for her.”

“They’ve always got a wife,” said Crawley sourly. “And there’s always just the one person they’ll tell it to. Well, how long before she gets here?”

“She isn’t coming.”

“What?”

“She’s at home, over in Jersey. She said she wouldn’t come.” Levine shrugged and added, “I’ll try her again.”

The son was still on the phone, but he handed it over as soon as Levine spoke to him. Levine said, “This is Detective Levine again, Mrs. Cartwright. We’d like you to come down here after all, please. Your husband asked to talk to you.”

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 ear 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 women 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 Shale,” 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 Shale. 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 Shale 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 Shale 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 Shale 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.”