would be at the turn of the century.
‘I want to know one thing,’ I said.
‘What might that be, Mr Norris?’
‘Look me right in the face and tell me if you’re a welsher or not.’
He looked at me directly. ‘Mr Norris,’ he said quietly, ‘I never welsh.’
‘All right,’ I said. What other choice was there?
He stood up, beaming. ‘Excellent! Really excellent! Approach the door to the balcony with me, Mr
Norris.’
We walked over together. His face was that of a man who had dreamed this scene hundreds of times
and was enjoying its actuality to the fullest.
‘The ledge is five inches wide,’ he said dreamily. ‘I’ve measured it myself. In fact, I’ve stood on it,
holding on to the balcony, of course. All you have to do is lower yourself over the wrought-iron railing.
You’ll be chest-high. But, of course, beyond the railing there are no handgrips. You’ll have to inch your
way along, being very careful not to overbalance.’
My eye had fastened on something else outside the window . . . something that made my blood
temperature sink several degrees. It was a wind gauge. Cressner’s apartment was quite close to the lake,
and it was high enough so there were no higher buildings to act as a windbreak. That wind would be
cold, and it would cut like a knife. The needle was standing at ten pretty steadily, but a gust would send
the needle almost up to twenty-five for a few seconds before dropping off.
‘Ah, I see you’ve noticed my wind gauge,’ Cressner said jovially. ‘Actually, it’s the other side which
gets the prevailing wind; so the breeze may be a little stronger on that side. But actually this is a fairly still night. I’ve seen evenings when the wind has gusted up to eighty-five . . . you can actually feel the
building rock a little. A bit like being on a ship, in the crow’s nest. And it’s quite mild for this time of year.’
He pointed, and I saw the lighted numerals atop a bank skyscraper to the left. They said it was forty-
four degrees. But with the wind, that would have made the chill factor somewhere in the mid-twenties.
‘Have you got a coat?’ I asked. I was wearing a light jacket.
‘Alas, no.’ The lighted figures on the bank switched to show the time. It was 8.32. ‘And I think you had
better get started, Mr Norris, so I can call Tony and put plan three into effect. A good boy but apt to be
impulsive. You understand.’
I understood all right. Too damn well.
But the thought of being with Marcia, free from Cressner’s tentacles and with enough money to get
started at something made me push open the sliding-glass door and step out on to the balcony. It was
cold and damp; the wind ruffled my hair into my eyes.
‘Bon soir,’ Cressner said behind me, but I didn’t bother to look back. I approached the railing, but I
didn’t look down. Not yet. I began to do deep-breathing.
It’s not really an exercise at all but a form of self-hypnosis. With every inhale-exhale, you ~row a
distraction out of your mind, until there’s nothing left but the match ahead of you. I got rid of the
money with one breath and Cressner himself with two. Marcia took longer – her face kept rising in my
mind, telling me not to be stupid, not to play his game, that maybe Cressner never welshed, but he
always hedged his bets. I didn’t listen. I couldn’t afford to. If I lost this match, I wouldn’t have to buy
the beers and take the ribbing; I’d be so much scarlet sludge splattered for a block of Deakman Street in both directions.
When I thought I had it, I looked down.
The building sloped away like a smooth chalk cliff to the street far below. The cars parked there looked
like those matchbox models you can buy in the five-and-dime. The ones driving by the building were
just tiny pinpoints of light. If you fell that far, you would have plenty of time to realize just what was