A large body grunted its way over the ledge and using hands and feet like clumsy logs lowered itself down the rope. Remo could smell the man’s meat-eating breath from five feet away. A carbine which could be handled with one hand was strapped to the man’s back. And there was something metallic around his waist. What was it? Remo peered more closely. The man had attached a pulley to his waist so he wouldn’t fall.

Remo couldn’t get the idea of meat out of his mind. He hadn’t had a steak for two years. Oh, for a juicy-fat crisp steak, or rich thick hamburger, or a slice of quivering roast beef oozing its juices from a delicious red center. Even a hot dog would be great. Or a slice of bacon, a magnificent slice of bacon.

The meat-eater’s right foot touched the top of the window and still he did not see Remo. He reached for the carbine on his back and since he seemed to be having trouble, Remo helped him.

‘It’s stuck,’ said Remo, reaching up, but not for the carbine.

He got the pulley with his right hand, snapping it off, and since there was no need for loud unpleasantness, he took out the meat-eater’s throat with a thumb on the way down.

Like a water-filled balloon from a conventioneer’s window, the meat-eater plummeted—arms and legs flailing noiselessly—to the pavement below. Concrete and killer were joined with a muffled splat.

Remo climbed up the rope, which he did not need but thought appropriate for his greeting on the roof.

‘I didn’t hear nothing,’ came the voice from the other side of the ledge. It was the voice of the policeman who had left the room.

‘Hi, there,’ said Remo pleasantly, rising over the ledge. ‘I’d like to borrow your head for a few minutes.’

Blackened hands moved faster than sight. There was a short, wrenching sound on the roof. Then Remo departed through the roof door and scampered down the steps with something in his right hand behind his back, dripping.