My wife and child have left me.
Today I killed a man. I lied about it to the police and they let me go, but I knew that I did it. I didn’t mean to do it, but it happened. I terminated a human life!
The news about my machine is spreading across the world. Soon the information ripple is going to reach the confines of its system, and then the direction will be reversed. I’m at the center. I’m the ground zero man, and terrible things are going to happen to me.
My wife and child have left me… .
When the work was finished and the envelopes piled in neat stacks, Hutchman looked around blankly, faced with the prospect of going on living. It occurred to him that he had not eaten anything all day, but the thought of preparing food was preposterous. The only meaningful action he could think of was to take another batch of envelopes out and mail them, possibly in London. Just at the time he most needed to preserve his obscurity he had been catapulted into the news headlines, yet it was still worthwhile to cover his tracks as regards the mailings. The police knew he had been involved in a peculiar accident — they still had nothing to make him a suspect in the massive security investigation which would ensue when the first envelope reached Whitehall. Andrea had halfthreatened to tell the police all she knew, but what she really wanted was to disengage herself as rapidly and completely as possible. There was no danger there.
Hutchman brought the small suitcase in from the car and refilled it with envelopes. He turned off all the lights, went out into the blustery, rain-seeded darkness, and locked the door. Force of habit, he thought. What is there to steal? He threw the case onto the front seat of the car and was in the act of getting in beside it when a brilliant beam of light slewed across the drive, making shadows leap. A black sedan materialized behind the lights and crunched to a halt close to his car. Three men got out immediately, but Hutchman could not see them clearly because a spotlight was shining into his eyes. He fought to contain his fear.
“Going somewhere, Mr. Hutchman?” The voice was hard and disapproving, but Hutchman relaxed as he identified it as belonging to Detective Inspector Crombie-Carson.
“No,” he said easily. “Just doing a local errand.”
“With a suitcase?”
“With a suitcase. They’re handy for carrying things around. What can I do for you, Inspector?”
Crombie-Carson approached the car, the police spotlight pinpointing him with radiance. “You can answer some more questions.”
“But I’ve told you all I know about Welland.”
“That remains to be seen,” the Inspector snapped. “However, it’s Miss Knight I’m interested in now.”
“Andrea!” Hutchman felt a sick premonition. “What about her?”
“Earlier this evening,” Crombie-Carson said coldly, “she was abducted from her apartment by three armed men.”
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.