On a narrow ledge twenty-two stories above the street, there was what seemed, from this distance, to be a small dark blob. The crowd knew that the blob was a girl in a mink coat, that she had been crouched on the ledge for hours, and that a minister, a policeman, and an eminent psychiatrist were pleading and reasoning with her through the open window.

John J. Malone was not one of the crowd. He was only trying to push his way through it to the entrance of the hotel, where a profitable client was waiting for him, one who was ready to hand over a fat retainer before giving himself up on a burglary rap which John J. Malone knew he could beat in five minutes even before a prejudiced jury.

The important business of collecting that retainer was one reason why he didn’t notice the crowd at first. A lone, crumpled five dollar bill was in his right pants pocket, and he had a date with a very special and very expensive blonde just half an hour from now. And this particular client would pay the retainer in cash.

Malone was beginning to lose his temper with the crowd when he suddenly realized that the space in front of the hotel was roped off. That was when he looked up.

“Been there for hours,” a man next to him murmured, almost dreamily.

For a minute he stood there, horror-frozen. His mind took in what was being said around him, even though he wasn’t conscious of hearing it, and he became aware of the whole story—the fire department, the police, the minister, and the psychiatrist.

There was a lump of ice where his stomach had been just a little while ago. Life was so wonderful, even with the remains of yesterday’s warmed-over hangover, even with only five bucks in your pants and a blonde waiting for you. If he could only explain that to the undecided dark blob clinging to the ledge twenty-two stories above. Undecided—! That was it. That was the key.

Suddenly he pushed his way, ruthlessly and almost blindly, through the rest of the crowd, ran past the roped-off space where the fire department was holding life nets, past the frightened young cop who tried to bar his way into the building, and through the deserted lobby. He yelled for a boy to operate one of the empty elevators, finally got attention by threatening to operate it himself, and was shot up to the twenty-second floor.

It was easy to find the room. The door was open, spilling light into the hall. A cop at the door said, “Malone—!” tried to stop him, and was shoved aside. The minister, the eminent psychiatrist, and Detective Lieutenant Klutchetsky from the police department were shoved aside too.