The Peace Machine

CHAPTER 9

“Good God,” Hutchman whispered. “Why should anybody want to do that?”

Crombie-Carson gave a short laugh which somehow indicated that, while he appreciated Hutchman’s display of surprise on its merits purely as a display, he had seen many guilty men react in a similar manner. “A lot of people would like to know the answer to that question. Where, for instance, have you been all evening?”

“Right here. At home.”

“Anybody with you to substantiate that?”

“No.” If Andrea has been abducted, Hutchman thought belatedly, then she must have talked to more people than Welland. Either that or Welland passed something on to…

“How about your wife?”

“No. Not my wife — she’s staying with her parents.”

“I see,” Crombie-Carson said, using what Hutchman was beginning to recognize as an all-purpose phrase. “Mr. Hutchman, I suspect that you were about to leave this area in spite of my request that you should remain.”

Hutchman felt stirrings of real alarm. “I assure you I wasn’t. Where would I go?”

“What have you in that suitcase?”

“Nothing.” Hutchman squinted into the spotlight, feeling mild heat from it on his face. “Nothing like what you’re looking for. It’s correspondence.”

“Do you mind showing it to me?”

“I don’t mind.” Hutchman opened the car door, pulled the case to the edge of the seat, and clicked it open. The light played on the bundles of envelopes and reflected in the inspector’s glasses.

“Thank you, Mr. Hutchman — I had to be certain. Now if you would lock the case away in your car or in the house, I would like you to accompany me to Crymchurch police station.”

“Why should I?” The situation, Hutchman realized, had gone far beyond his control.

“I have reason to believe you can help me with my inquiries.”

“Is that another way of saying I’m under arrest?”

“No, Mr. Hutchman. I have no reason to arrest you, but I can require you to give your full co-operation during my investigations. If necessary I can…”

“Don’t bother,” Hutchman said, feigning resignation. “I’ll go with you.” He closed the case, put it on the floor of the car, and locked the door. Crombie-Carson ushered him into the rear seat of the police cruiser and got in beside him. The interior smelt of wax polish and dusty air circulated by the heater. Hutchman sat upright, acutely self-conscious, watching the flowing patterns of lights beyond the windows with heightened awareness, like a child going on holiday or a man being wheeled into an operating theater. He was unaccustomed to riding in a back seat, and the car felt monstrously long, unwieldy. The uniformed driver seemed to maneuver it around corners with super-human skill. It was almost ten o’clock by the time they got into the town and the public houses were busy with the Sunday night trade. Hutchman glimpsed the yellow-lit windows of Joe’s inn and abruptly his sense of adventure deserted him. He longed to be going into Joe’s for the last congenial hour, not for spirits but for pints of creamy stout which he could swill and swallow and drown in until it was time to go home. As the car swung into the police station Hutchman, who normally never drank stout or beer, felt that he had to have at least one pint, perhaps as a token that he could still contact the normal, mundane world.

“How long is this going to take?” he said anxiously to Crombie-Carson, speaking for the first time since he had got into the car.

“Oh, not very long. It’s quite a routine matter, really.”

Hutchman nodded. The Inspector had sounded quite affable, and he privately estimated that he could be out again in thirty minutes, giving him at least another thirty for a beer, a chat with friends he had never met before, and a peek down the landlady’s blouse… A man with no family ties could take his fill of such simple pleasures. The last was a meager compensation, almost inconsiderable, but memories of his abysmal failure with Andrea — perhaps Vicky’s hold would relax now that she had renounced all rights. And Andrea had come on too strong that night. Was it only last night? Where is she now? And what is Vicky doing? Where is David? What’s happening to me? He blinked at his surroundings in internally generated alarm.

“This way, Mr. Hutchman.” Crombie-Carson led him through a side entrance from the vehicle park, along a corridor, past an area containing an hotel-like reception desk and potted palms, and into a small sparsely furnished room. “Please sit down.”

“Thank you.” Hutchman got a gloomy feeling it would take him more than thirty minutes to extricate himself.

“Now.” Crombie-Carson sat down at the other side of a metal table without removing his showerproof. “I’m going to ask you some questions and the constable here is going to make a shorthand note of the interview.”

“All right,” Hutchman said helplessly, wondering how much the Inspector knew or suspected.

“Good. I take it that, as a condition of your employment, you are familiar with the provisions of the Official Secrets Act and have signed a document binding you to observe the Act?”

“I have.” Hutchman thought back to the meaningless scrap of paper he had signed on joining Westfield’s and which had never influenced his activities in any way.

“Have you ever revealed any details of your work for Westfield’s to a third party who was not similarly bound by the Act?”

“No.” Hutchman began to relax slightly. Crombie-Carson was barking up the wrong tree and could continue to do so for as long as he wanted.

“Did you know that Miss Knight is a member of the Communist Party?”

“I didn’t know she actually carried a card, but I’d an idea she had socialist leanings.”

“You knew that much, did you?” The Inspector’s condensed face was alert.

“There’s no harm in that, is there? Some of the shop stewards in our missile-production factory are red-hot Party men who go to Moscow for their holidays. It doesn’t mean they’re secret agents.”

“I’m not concerned with your trade-union officials, Mr. Hutchman. Have you ever discussed your work at Westfield’s with Miss Knight?”

“Of course not. Until yesterday I hadn’t even spoken to her for years. I…” Hutchman regretted the words as soon as they were uttered.

“I see. And why did you re-establish contact?”

“No special reason.” Hutchman shrugged. “I saw her accidentally at the Jeavons Institute the other day and yesterday I rang her. For old times’ sake, you might say.”

“You might. What did your wife say?”

“Listen, Inspector.” Hutchman gripped the cool metal of the table. “Do you suspect me of betraying my country or my wife? You’ve got to make up your mind which.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware that the two activities were in any way incompatible. In my experience they often go hand in hand. Surely the Freudian aspect of the typical spy fantasy is one of its most dominant features.”

“That’s as may be.” Hutchman was shaken by the relevance of the Inspector’s comment — there had been that terrible moment of self-doubt, of identity blurring, just after he had met Andrea in the Camburn Arms. “However, I have not committed adultery or espionage.”

“Is your work classified?”

“Moderately. It is also very boring. One of the reasons I’m so positive I’ve never discussed it with anybody is that nothing would turn them off quicker.”

Crombie-Carson stood up, removed his coat, and set it on a chair. “What do you know about Miss Knight’s disappearance?”

“Just what you told me. Have you no clue about where she is?”

“Have you any idea why three armed men should go to her apartment, forcibly drag her out of it, and take her away?”

“None.”

“Have you any idea who did it?”

“No. Have you?”

“Mr. Hutchman,” the Inspector said impatiently, “let’s conduct this interview the old-fashioned way. It’s always more productive when I ask the questions.”

“All right — but permit me to be concerned about the welfare of a friend. All you tell me is…”

“A friend? Would acquaintance not be a better word?”

Hutchman closed his eyes. “Your use of the language is very precise.”

At that moment the door opened and a sergeant came into the room with a buff folder. He set it on the table in front of CrombieCarson and left without speaking. The Inspector glanced through it and took out eight photographs. They were not typical policerecord pictures, but whole-plate shots of men’s faces, some of them portraits and others apparently blown up from sections of crowd photographs. Crombie-Carson spread them in front of Hutchman.

“Study these faces closely, and tell me if you’ve seen any of them before.”

“I don’t remember ever seeing any of these men,” Hutchman said after he had scanned the pictures. He lifted the edge of one and tried to turn it over, but Crombie-Carson’s hand pressed it down again.

“I’ll take those.” The Inspector gathered up the glossy rectangles and returned them to the folder.

“If you have finished with me,” Hutchman said carefully, “i have a craving for a pint of stout.”

Crombie-Carson laughed incredulously and glanced at the shorthand writer with raised eyebrows. “You haven’t a hope in hell.”

“But what more do you want from me?”

“I’ll tell you. We have just completed part one of the interview. Part one is the section in which I treat the interviewee gently and with the respect a ratepayer deserves — until it becomes obvious he is not going to co-operate. That part is over now, and you’ve made it clear you are not going to be helpful of your own accord. From now on, Mr. Hutchman, lam going to lean on you. More than a little.”

Hutchman gaped at him. “You can’t! You have nothing against me.”

Crombie-Carson leaned across the table. “Give me some credit, friend. I’m a professional. Every day in life I’m up against other professionals and I nearly always win. Did you seriously think I would let a big soft amateur like you stand in my way?”

“An amateur at what?” Hutchman demanded, concealing his panic.

“I don’t know exactly what you’ve been up to — yet — but you’ve done something. You’re also a very poor liar, but I don’t mind that because it makes things easier for me. What I really object to about you is that you’re a kind of walking disaster area.”

I’m the ground zero man, a voice chanted in Hutchman’s head. “What do you mean?”

“Since you quietly slipped out of your fashionable bungalow this morning one woman has been abducted and two men have died.”

“Two men! I don’t…”

“Did I forget to tell you?” Crombie-Carson was elaborately apologetic. “One of the three men who abducted Miss Knight shot and killed a passer-by who tried to interfere.”

Part two of the interview was every bit as bad as Hutchman had been led to expect. Seemingly endless series of questions, often about trivia, shouted or whispered, throwing coils of words around his mind. Implications which if not immediately spotted and challenged hedged him in, drove him closer and closer to telling the wrong lie or the wrong truth. Grazing ellipsis, Hutchman thought at one stage, his exhaustion creating a feeling — akin to the spurious cosmic revelation of semiwakefulness — that he had produced the greatest pun of all time. So numbed was he by the end of the ordeal that he was in bed in a neat but windowless “guest room” on an upper floor of the station before realizing he had not been given the option of going home to sleep. He stared resentfully at the closed door for a full minute, telling himself he would kick up hell if it proved to be locked. But he had had virtually no sleep for forty-eight hours, his brain had been savaged by Crombie-Carson, and although he was going to stand no nonsense about the door, it seemed hardly worth while doing anything about it before morning…

He dropped cleanly into sleep.

The sound of the door being opened wakened him. Convinced he had been asleep only a few minutes, Hutchman glanced at his watch and found that it registered ten past six. He sat up, becoming aware that he was wearing gray linen pyjamas, and watched the doorway as a young uniformed constable came in carrying a cloth-covered tray. The small room filled with the smell of bacon and strong tea.

“Good morning, sir,” the constable said. “Here’s your breakfast. I hope you like your tea nearly solid.”

“I don’t mind.” Hutchman’s preference was for weak tea, but his thoughts were occupied by something infinitely more important. This was Monday — and the remainder of his envelopes should have been in the mail. A crushing sense of urgency dulled his voice. “I take it I’m free to leave here at any time?”

The fresh-faced constable removed the tray cloth and folded it meticulously. “That’s something you would need to raise with Inspector Crombie-Carson, sir.”

“You mean I’m not free to leave?”

“That’s a matter for the Inspector.”

“Don’t give me that. You fellows on duty at the desk must receive instructions about who is allowed to leave and who isn’t.”

“I’ll tell the Inspector you want to see him.” The constable set the tray across Hutchman’s thighs and walked to the door. “Don’t let your scrambled egg get cold — there’s only one sitting for breakfast.”

“Just a minute! Is the Inspector here now?”

“No, sir. He had a long day yesterday and has gone home to sleep. He’ll probably be here in the afternoon.”

The door closed on the constable’s final word before Hutchman could put the tray aside, and he realised it had been set on his knees deliberately to immobilize him. He slid it onto the bedside locker and went to the door. It was locked. He walked around the featureless perimeter of the room, arrived back at the bed, and sat down. The strips of bacon looked underdone, the fat still translucent, and too much butter had been used in the scrambled eggs, making them a greasy yellow mush. Hutchman lifted the mug of tea and sipped it experimentally. It was over sweet and much too strong, but hot. He held the mug in both hands and slowly drank the brown brew, deriving satisfaction from the tiny thrill which coursed through the nerves in his temples at every sip. The tea had no food value but at least it helped him to think.

Monday afternoon would probably be time enough to post the last of the envelopes, but what guarantee was there that he would be out by then? The constable had said Crombie-Carson would probably be at the station in the afternoon, and even if he did show up nobody was obliged to report his presence to Hutchman. And, going one step further, the Inspector could at that stage put his cards on the table and say he intended to hold onto Hutchman for several days or longer. Hutchman vainly tried to recall his own legal rights. He knew that the powers of the police, including that of detaining without showing cause, had been extended recently as part of the Establishment’s tougher measures to combat epidemic violence. In the security of his previous existence he had approved of the police having more authority, on the rare occasions when the idea crossed his mind, but now it seemed intolerable.

The galling thing was that he knew why he should have been held, and had no idea of why the police thought they were holding him. Welland was dead, Andrea had been snatched from her apartment, and an innocent third party had been murdered on the street. All these things — as Crombie-Carson’s intuition so rightly told him — were a direct result of Hutchman’s activities. And what was happening to Andrea at this minute? If the Russians — or anybody else, for that matter — had got hold of her she would soon tell all she knew. Once that happened they could communicate with Whitehall, because Hutchman had put himself beyond mere international rivalries, and a detachment of faceless men would come to Crymchurch for him.

Hutchman finished the tea, grimacing as the undissolved sugar silted into his mouth. By building the machine he had declared open season on himself. No matter who disposed of him there would be drinks in brown rooms in Whitehall, in Peking and Paris. And all he was doing was sitting quietly in Government-issue pyjamas, like a trembling moth waiting to be dropped into the killing bottle. They could come at any minute. At any second!

With a convulsive excess of energy, he leapt to his feet and looked for his clothes. His slacks, sweater, and brown-suede jacket were hanging in a built-in closet. He dressed quickly and checked through his pockets. All his belongings were intact, including a roll of money — remainder of what Vicky had given him to deposit in the bank — and a tiny penknife. The blade of the latter was about an inch long, making it a less effective weapon than fist or foot. He looked helplessly around the room, then went to the door and began kicking it with the flat of his foot, slowly and rhythmically, striving for maximum impact. The door absorbed the shocks with disappointingly little sound, but he had been doing it for only a few minutes when he heard the lock clicking. When the door opened he saw the same young constable and a thin-lipped sergeant.

“What’s the game?” the sergeant demanded indignantly. “Why were you kicking the door?”

“I want out of here.” Hutchman began walking, trying to breast the sergeant out of his way. “You’ve no right to keep me locked up.”

The sergeant pushed him back. “You’re staying until the Inspector says you can go. And if you start kicking the door again I’ll cuff your hands to your ankles. Got it?”

Hutchman nodded meekly, turned away, then darted through the doorway. Miraculously, he made it out into the corridor — and ran straight into the arms of a third policeman. This man seemed larger than the other two put together, a tidal wave of blue uniform which swept Hutchman up effortlessly on its crest and hurled him back into the room.

“That was stupid,” the sergeant remarked. “Now you’re in for assaulting an officer. If I felt like it, I could transfer you to a cell — so make the best of things in here.”

He slammed the door, leaving Hutchman more alone and more of a prisoner than he had been previously. His upper lip was throbbing where it had come in contact with a uniform button. He paced up and down the room, trembling, trying to come to terms with the fact that he really was a prisoner and — no matter how righteous his cause, no matter how many human lives depended on him — the walls were not going to be riven by a thunderbolt. This is crazy, he thought bleakly. I can make neutrons dance — can I not outwit a handful of local bobbies? He sat down on the room’s only chair and made a conscious effort to think his way to freedom. Presently he walked across to the bed and pulled the sheets away from it, exposing a thick foam-plastic mattress.

He stared at it for a moment, then took out his penknife and began cutting the spongy material. The tough outer skin resisted his efforts at first but the cellular interior parted easily. Fifteen minutes later he had cut a six-foot-long, coffin-shaped piece out of the center of the mattress. He rolled the piece up, compressed it as much as possible and crammed it into the bedside locker, closing the door on it with difficulty. That done, he got into the bed and lay on the area of spring exposed by his surgery on the mattress. It depressed a little with his weight, but the plastic mattress remained on approximately its original level, an inch or so higher than his face. Satisfied with his achievement, he sat upright and pulled the sheets up over the mattress again. Working from underneath, it was an awkward task to get the pillows and bedding disposed in such a way as to resemble normal untidiness, and he was sweating by the time he had finished.

He lay perfectly still, and waited, suddenly aware that he was still very short on sleep…

Hutchman was awakened from an involuntary doze by the sound of the door opening. He held his breath to avoid even the slightest disturbance of the sheet just above his face. A man’s voice swore fervently. There was a rush of heavy footsteps to the bed, into the screened-off toilet facility in the corner, to the closet, and back to the bed again. The unseen man grunted almost in Hutchman’s ear as he knelt to look under the bed. Hutchman froze with anxiety in case the downward bulge of the spring would give him away, but the footsteps retreated again.

“Sergeant,” a dwindling voice called in the corridor, “he’s gone!”

The door appeared to have been left open, but Hutchman resisted the temptation to make a break. His scanty knowledge of police psychology was vindicated a few seconds later when other footsteps, a small party of men this time, sounded in the corridor, running. They exploded into the room, carried out the same search pattern as before, and retreated into the distance. Hutchman’s straining ears told him the door of the room had not been closed. His plan had achieved optimum success so far, but had reached a stage at which some delicate judgment was required. Would the police assume he had escaped from the premises, or would a search of the building be instigated? If the latter, he would be better to remain where he was for a while — yet there was a definite risk in remaining too long. Someone had only to come in to make up the bed…

He waited for what felt like twenty minutes, growing more nervous, listening to the sounds of a building in use — doors slamming, distant telephones ringing, occasional blurred shouts or laughs. Twice he heard footsteps moving unconcernedly along outside the room and once they were those of a woman, but he was lucky in that the corridor appeared not too frequented at that time of the day. At last he was satisfied that the building was not being systematically combed. He threw off the sheet and climbed out of the bed. Stepping out into the corridor seemed a hideous risk, but he gathered all the bedding up into a great ball and carried it out of the room. The group of men who had searched for him had come from the right, so Hutchman turned left. He moved along the corridor, scanning doors from behind his carapace of white linen. At the very end he found a graypainted metal door with “FIRE EXIT” stenciled on it in red. He opened the door and, still carrying the bedding, went down the narrow stairs of bare concrete. At the bottom he pushed open a heavy door and found himself looking out at the steely light of mid-morning streaming across a small car park. There were few cars in it, and no people.

Hutchman walked boldly across the park and through an open gateway into Crymchurch High Street. The police station was on his left. He turned away from it and went along the street, restraining himself from breaking into a run, his face buried in the flapping linen. At the first corner he turned right, only then permitting himself the luxury of feeling he had got clear. The sense of partial relaxation did not last long.

I’m miles away from home, he thought. And that’s where the envelopes are.

He considered looking for a taxi, then remembered they were a rarity in Crymchurch. The idea of stealing a car was somehow more shocking, on its own level, than anything else he had done since he had broken all ties with society. It would be his first outright criminal act — and he was not even certain he could do it — but there was no good alternative. He began examining the dashboards of the cars parked along the street on which he was walking. Two blocks further along, where Crymchurch’s business section was shading into a residential area, he spotted the gleam of keys in an ignition switch. The car was not the best sort for his purpose — it was one of the new Government-subsidized safety models, with four high-backed aft-facing seats and only the driver’s seat facing forward. All such cars had a governor on the engine which limited the top speed to a hundred kilometers per hour.

On consideration, Hutchman decided he would be better not to break any speed regulations anyway. He glanced around to make sure the owner was not in sight, dropped the bedding on the footpath, and got into the car. It started at the first turn of the key, and he drove away smoothly but quickly. Not bad for a big soft amateur, he thought in a momentary childish glee. But beware of hubris, Hutch, old son!

He circled the outskirts of the town, gradually adjusting to the feel of the unfamiliar controls, and once was shocked when he glimpsed his unshaven face in the driving mirror. It was a tired and desperate face, one which belonged to a hunted stranger. On reaching his house he drove slowly past it, satisfying himself that there were no police around, then halted and backed into the driveway. His own car, windows opaqued with moisture, was sitting where he had left it. He parked the stolen car close to the shrubbery and got out, staring nostalgically at the house and wondering what he would do if he saw Vicky at a window. But the two milk bottles still sitting on the doorstep told him she had not returned. Symbols. Two quotation marks which signified the end of the dialogue with Vicky. His eyes blurred painfully.

He searched in his pockets, found the ignition key of his own car. It, too, started at the first turn of the switch and a minute later he was driving northward, toward winter.