Read Online Westlake, Donald E - Novel 41 by Levine (v1.1) - Free Book Online Page B

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