The ledge ran beneath the windows of all the offices on this floor. The fourteenth, I remembered.
I had seen it done in movies all my life. Harold Lloyd, Douglas Fairbanks, Buster Keaton were always doing it for some reason or other. I had a good reason.
I unlatched the window and climbed out into the dry, crisp breeze.
The movies didn't know much about convection. The updraft nearly lifted me off the ledge, but the cornice was so wide I could keep out of the wind if I kept myself flat against the side of the building.
The next window was about twenty feet away. I had covered half that distance, moving my feet with a sideways crab motion, when Carl, indisputably the second policeman, put his head out of the window where I was heading and pointed a .38 revolver at me, saying in a let's-have-no-foolishness tone: "Get in here."
I went the other way.
The cool, lovely receptionist was in Sergeant's window with the tiny silver needle in readiness.
I kept shuffling toward the girl. I had decided I would rather wrestle with her over the needle than fight Carl over the rod. Idiotically, I smiled at that idea.
I slipped.
I was falling down the fourteen stories without even a moment of windmilling for balance. I was just gone.