skin but decided not to. I might stumble on a tied bandage. Time enough later. Then I could buy twenty
thousand dollars’ worth of bandages.
I got up and looked longingly into the darkened pent-house opposite Cressner’s. Barren, empty, unlived
in. The heavy storm screen was over this door. I might have been able to break in, but that would have
been forfeiting the bet. And I had more to lose than money.
When I could put it off no longer, I slipped over the railing and back on to the ledge. The pigeon, a few
feathers worse for wear, was standing below his mate’s nest, where the guano was thickest, eyeing me
balefully. But I didn’t think he’d bother me, not when he saw I was moving away.
It was very hard to move away – much harder than it had been to leave Cressner’s balcony. My mind
knew I had to, but my body, particularly my ankles, was screaming that it would be folly to leave such
a safe harbour. But I did leave, with Marcia’s face in the darkness urging me on.
I got to the second short side, made it around the corner, and shuffled slowly across the width of the
building. Now that I was getting close, there was an almost ungovernable urge to hurry, to get it over
with. But if I hurried, I would die. So I forced myself to go slowly.
The crosswind almost got me again on the fourth corner, and I slipped around it thanks to luck rather
than skill. I rested against the building, getting my breath back. But for the first time I knew that I was
going to make it, that I was going to win. My hands felt like half4rozen steaks, my ankles hurt like fire (especially the pigeon-pecked right ankle), sweat kept trickling in my eyes, but I knew I was going to
make it. Halfway down the length of the building, warm yellow light spilled out on Cressner’s balcony.
Far beyond I could see the bank sign glowing like a welcome-home banner. It was 10.48, but it seemed
that I had spent my whole life on those five inches of ledge.
And God help Cressner if he tried to welsh. The urge to hurry was gone. I almost lingered. It was 11.09
when I put first my right hand on the wrought-iron balcony railing and then my left. I hauled myself up,
wriggled over the top, collapsed thankfully on the floor. . . and felt the cold steel muzzle of a .45
against my temple.
I looked up and saw a goon ugly enough to stop Big Ben dead in its clockwork. He was grinning.
‘Excellent!’ Cressner’s voice said from within. ‘I applaud you, Mr Norris!’ He proceeded to do just that.
‘Bring him in, Tony.’
Tony hauled me up and set me on my feet so abruptly that my weak ankles almost buckled. Going in, I
staggered against the balcony door.
Cressner was standing by the living-room fireplace, sipping brandy from a goblet the size of a fish-
bowl. The money had been replaced in the shopping bag. It still stood in the middle of the burnt-orange
rug.
I caught a glimpse of myself in a small mirror on the other side of the room. The hair was dishevelled,
the face pallid except for two bright spots of colour on the cheeks. The eyes looked insane.
I got only a glimpse, because the next moment I was flying across the room. I hit the Basque chair and
fell over it, pulling it down on top of me and losing my wind.
When I got some of it back, I sat up and managed: ‘You lousy welsher. You had this planned.’
‘Indeed I did,’ Cressner said, carefully setting his brandy on the mantel. ‘But I’m not a welsher, Mr
Norris. Indeed no. Just an extremely poor loser. Tony is here only to make sure you don’t do
anything . . . ill-advised.’ He put his fingers under his chin and tittered a little. He didn’t look like a poor loser. He looked more like a cat with canary feathers on its muzzle. I got up, suddenly feeling more