Around 2 a.m. on November 28th, 1953, the grand-colonaded lobby of New York's Statler Hotel

was quiet as nightmanager Armand Pastore ambled towards the reception desk.

The silence came as a relief to Pastore after a hectic few hours, dealing with boisterous

guests enjoying the Thanksgiving weekend.

Now, with pretty much everybody having gone to bed, you could finally relax.

Even the man hadn't street outside was deserted as he approached the desk.

And a silence was suddenly punctured by the sound of shattering glass, followed a few seconds

later by the sense of something outside, falling and landing with a crunching thud on the

sidewalk.

Pastore, his mind fuzzy with panic immediately sprinted out into the street.

Outside on 7th Avenue, he found a middle-aged man crumpled on the ground, his legs shattered

and his body twisted at an unnatural angle.

He was wearing his undershirt and shorts as though he'd just gotten out of bed.

Pastore glassed upwards at the vast, darkened facade of the hotel and saw light shining

through a broken window, 13 floors up, a dangling curtain flapping in the breeze.

Turning back to the man, he saw with horror that he was trying to speak.

Incredibly, the man was still alive.

Pastore staggered forward and kneeled down beside him.

Cradling the man's head in his hands, he tried hard to understand what he was mumbling

in his faint, horsey voice, but it was unintelligible.

What's your name?

He asked the man urgently, but the man did not reply.

...