A minute later he was standing on the ledge. He was shorter than I; you could just see his eyes over the
edge, wide and beseeching, and his white-knuckled hands gripping the iron rail like prison bars.
‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Anything.’
‘You’re wasting time,’ I said. ‘It takes it out of the ankles.’
But he wouldn’t move until I had put the muzzle of the gun against his forehead. Then he began to
shuffle to the right, moaning. I glanced up at the bank clock. It was 11.29.
I didn’t think he was going to make it to the first corner. He didn’t want to budge at all, and when he did, he moved jerkily, taking risks with his centre of gravity, his dressing gown billowing into the night.
He disappeared around the corner and out of sight at 12.01, almost forty minutes ago. I listened closely
for the diminishing scream as the crosswind got him, but it didn’t come. Maybe the wind had dropped. I
do remember thinking the wind was on his side, when I was out there. Or maybe he was just lucky.
Maybe he’s out on the other balcony now, quivering in a heap, afraid to go any further.
But he probably knows that if I catch him there when I break into the other penthouse, I’ll shoot him
down like a dog. And speaking of the other side of the building, I wonder how he likes that pigeon.
Was that a scream? I don’t know. It might have been the wind. It doesn’t matter. The bank clock says
12.44. Pretty soon I’ll break into the other apartment and check the balcony, but right now I’m just
sitting here on Cressner’s balcony with Tony’s .45 in my hand. Just on the off-chance that he might
come around that last corner with his dressing gown billowing out behind him.
Cressner said he’s never welshed on a bet.
But I’ve been known to.