I went directly and purposefully to the window, opened it, and calculated the distance to ground level. Twelve feet maybe. The employes looked at me with faint interest. Someone from the building maintenance department, probably.
For a minute or two I watched the pedestrians glide by on the conveyer belt. I saw no evidence of the police.
"I think I'll have to examine this from the outside," I said to the employes. "Will one of you close the window after me?"
I got out on the sill, eased my body down, hung by my fingertips for a moment, then let go. I could see a puzzled expression at the window as I glided away and became lost in pedestrian cross-traffic.
In a mood of self-congratulation, I headed for the Art Institute. The mood vanished as I passed the first newsstand. Boldly on its display screen was a front page story about the fugitive Sponsor family. There were pictures, of course. They didn't have a very good one of Celia. College graduation shot. She had nothing to worry about. The photo of Freddie was better, but the city is full of skinny seven-year-olds with sensitive features. No great risk of recognition there.
But the one of me! A perfect likeness. Repeated on an endless number of newsstands between the Board of Trade Building and the museum. The large, oval-shaped bald head, shorn of all but a trace of sideburns. The straight, prominent nose with flaring nostrils. The large, sensual lips. The hard-clamped jaw.
Thanking Zeus for Chicago's anonymous millions, I entered the quietly thronged Art Institute.
Celia and Freddie were looking at paintings of the Prismatic school, without much enthusiasm, when I found them. Their greeting made me feel like a hero.
"Daddy!" said Freddie, hitting my leg joyfully as Celia embraced me with a passionate kiss.