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.