Westlake, Donald E - Novel 41 (9 page)

 
          
 
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 sidewzdk near them. Levine
took the scene in, and knew what had happened. The firemen had started to
op>en 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. '^ou 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, bethought. 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?"

           
 
"We don't know yet," Levine told
her. "We were hoping you might be able to
— "

 
          
 
"Me?" The voice was suddenly a bit
closer to being shrill. "I still can't really believe this. I don't know
why he'd — I have no idea. What does he say?"

 
          
 
"He hasn't told us why yet," said
Levine. "Where are you now, Mrs. Cartwright?"

 
          
 
"At home, of
course."

 
          
 
"That's where?"

 
          
 
"
New Brunswick
,"

 
          
 
"Do you have a car there? Could you drive
here now?"

 
          
 
"There?
To
New York
?"

 
          
 
"It might help, Mrs. Cartwright, if he
could see you, if you could talk to him."

 
          
 
"But —it would take hours to get there!
Surely, it would be —that is, before I got there, you'd have him safe already,
wouldn't you?"

 
          
 
She hopes he jumps, thought Levine, with
sudden certainty. By God, she hopes he jumps!

 
          
 
"Well, wouldn't you?"

 
          
 
"Yes," he said wearily. "I
suppose you're right. Here's your son again."

 
          
 
He extended the receiver to the son, who took
it, cupped the mouthpiece with one hand, said worriedly, "Don't
misunderstand her. Please, she isn't as cold as she might sound. She loves my
father, she really does."

 
          
 
"All right," said Levine. He turned
away from the pleading in the son's eyes, said to
Crawley
, "Let's talk with him a bit."

 
          
 
"Right," said
Crawley
.

 
          
 
There were two windows in the office, about
ten feet apart, and Jason Cartwright was standing directly between them on the
ledge.
Crawley
went to the left-hand window and Levine to
the right-hand window, where the patrolman Gundy was still trying to chat with
the man on the ledge, trying to keep him distracted from the height and his
desire to jump. "Well take over," Levine said softly, and Gundy
nodded gratefully and backed away from the window.

 
          
 
Levine twisted around, sat on the windowsill,
hooked one arm under the open window,
leaned
out
slightly so that the breeze touched his face. He looked down.

 
          
 
Six stories.
God, who
would have thought six
stories
was so high from the
ground? This is the height when you really get the feeling of height. On top of
the
Empire
State
building, or flying in a plane, it's just
too damn high, it isn't real any more.
But six stories —
that's a fine height to be at, to really understand the terror of falling.