The policeman kept writing in the ledger. Mr. Ketchum sat there stiffly, looking at him. Insufferable, he thought. This was the last damned time he’d ever go within a hundred miles of this damned New England.
The policeman looked up. “Married?” he asked.
Mr. Ketchum stared at him.
“Are you married?”
“No, I... it’s on the license,” Mr. Ketchum blurted. He felt a tremor of pleasure at his retort and, at the same time, an impaling of strange dread at talking back to the man.
“Family in Jersey?” asked the policeman.
“Yes. I mean no. Just a sister in Wiscons—”
Mr. Ketchum didn’t finish. He watched the policeman write it down. He wished he could rid himself of this queasy distress.
“Employed?” asked the policeman.
Mr. Ketchum swallowed. “Well,” he said, “I... I have no one particular em—”
“Unemployed,” said the policeman.
“Not at all; not at all,” said Mr. Ketchum stiffly. “I’m a... a free-lance salesman. I purchase stocks and lots from...” His voice faded as the policeman looked at him. Mr. Ketchum swallowed three times before the lump stayed down. He realized that he was sitting on the very edge of the bench as if poised to spring to the defense of his life. He forced himself to settle back. He drew in a deep breath. Relax, he told himself. Deliberately, he closed his eyes. There. He’d catch a few winks. May as well make the best of this, he thought.
The room was still except for the tinny, resonant ticking of the clock. Mr. Ketchum felt his heart pulsing with slow, dragging beats. He shifted his heavy frame uncomfortably on the hard bench. Ridiculous, he thought.
Mr. Ketchum opened his eyes and frowned. That damned picture. You could almost imagine that bearded seaman was looking at you.
Almost...
“Uh!”
Mr. Ketchum’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes jerked open, irises flaring. He started forward on the bench, then shrank back.
A swarthy-faced man was bent over him, hand on Mr. Ketchum’s shoulder.
“Yes?” Mr. Ketchum asked, heart jolting.
The man smiled.
“Chief Shipley,” he said. “Would you come into my office?”
“Oh,” said Mr. Ketchum, “Yes. Yes.”
He straightened up, grimacing at the stiffness in his back muscles. The man stepped back and Mr. Ketchum pushed up with a grunt, his eyes moving automatically to the wall clock. It was a few minutes past four.
“Look,” he said, not yet awake enough to feel intimidated, “Why can’t I pay my fine and leave?”
Shipley’s smile was without warmth.
“We run things a little different here in Zachry,” he said.
They entered a small, musty-smelling office.
“Sit down,” said the chief, walking around the desk while Mr. Ketchum settled into a straight-backed chair that creaked.
“I don’t understand why I can’t pay my fine and leave.”
“In due course,” said Shipley.
“But—” Mr. Ketchum didn’t finish. Shipley’s smile gave the impression of being no more than a diplomatically veiled warning. Gritting his teeth, the heavy man cleared his throat and waited while the chief looked down at a sheet of paper on his desk. He noticed how poorly Shipley’s suit fitted. Yokels, the heavy man thought, don’t even know how to dress.
“I see you’re not married,” Shipley said.
Mr. Ketchum said nothing. Give them a taste of their own no-talk medicine he decided.
“Have you friends in Maine?” Shipley asked.
“Why?”
“Just routine questions, Mr. Ketchum,” said the chief. “Your only family is a sister in Wisconsin?”
Mr. Ketchum looked at him without speaking. What had all this to do with a traffic violation?
“Sir?” asked Shipley.
“I already told you; that is, I told the officer. I don’t see—”
“Here on business?”
Mr. Ketchum’s mouth opened soundlessly.
“Why are you asking me all these questions?” he asked. Stop snaking! he ordered himself furiously.
“Routine. Are you here on business?”
“I’m on my vacation. And I don’t see this at all! I’ve been patient up to now but, blast it, I demand to be fined and released!”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said the chief.
Mr. Ketchum’s mouth fell open. It was like waking up from a nightmare and discovering that the dream was still going on. “I... I don’t understand,” he said.
“You’ll have to appear before the judge.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, it is. I’m a citizen of the United States. I demand my rights.”
Chief Shipley’s smile faded.
“You limited those rights when you broke our law,” he said. “Now you have to pay for it as we declare.”
Mr. Ketchum stared blankly at the man. He realized that he was completely in their hands. They could fine him anything they pleased or put him in jail indefinitely. All these questions he’d been asked; he didn’t know why they’d asked them but he knew that his answers revealed him as almost rootless, with no one who cared if he lived or—
The room seemed to totter. Sweat broke out on his body.
“You can’t do this,” he said; but it was not an argument.
“You’ll have to spend the night in jail,” said the chief. “In the morning you’ll see the judge.”
“But this is ridiculous!” Mr. Ketchum burst out. “Ridiculous!”
He caught himself. “I’m entitled to one phone call,” he said, quickly, “I can make a telephone call. It’s my legal right.”
“It would be,” said Shipley, “if there was any telephone service in Zachry.”
When they took him to his cell, Mr. Ketchum saw a painting in the hall. It was of the same bearded seaman. Mr. Ketchum didn’t notice if the eyes followed him or not.
Mr. Ketchum stirred. A look of confusion lined his sleep-numbed face. There was a clanking sound behind him; he reared up on his elbow.
A policeman came into the cell and set down a covered tray.
“Breakfast,” he said. He was older than the other policemen, even older than Shipley. His hair was iron-gray, his cleanly shaven face seamed around the mouth and eyes. His uniform fitted him badly.
As the policeman started relocking the door, Mr. Ketchum asked, “When do I see the judge?”
The policeman looked at him a moment. “Don’t know,” he said and turned away.
“Wait!” Mr. Ketchum called out.
The receding footsteps of the policeman sounded hollowly on the cement floor. Mr. Ketchum kept staring at the spot where the policeman had been. Veils of sleep peeled from his mind.
He sat up, rubbed deadened fingers over his eyes and held up his wrist. Seven minutes past nine. The heavy man grimaced. By God, they were going to hear about this! His nostrils twitched. He sniffed, started to reach for the tray; then pulled back his hand.
“No,” he muttered. He wouldn’t eat their damned food. He sat there stiffly, doubled at the waist, glaring at his sock-covered feet.
His stomach grumbled unco-operatively.
“Well,” he muttered after a minute. Swallowing, he reached over and lifted off the tray cover.
He couldn’t check the oh of surprise that passed his lips.
The three eggs were fried in butter, bright yellow eyes focused straight on the ceiling, ringed about with long, crisp lengths of meaty, corrugated bacon. Next to them was a platter of four, book-thick slices of toast spread with creamy butter swirls, a paper cup of jelly leaning on them. There was a tall glass of frothy orange juice, a dish of strawberries bleeding in alabaster cream. Finally, a tall pot from which wavered the pungent and unmistakable fragrance of freshly brewed coffee.