Hopscotch

He had a forty-yard jump on them before they came boiling out into the street. There was the shrill silly bleat of their whistles, the clamor of their voices, the rattle of their feet; he rah around the corner and pushed along as fast as his legs could pump, aiming straight for the traffic light at the intersection. That was his only prayer of reprieve, the traffic light. Cars flowed through it along the high street; it was changing as he ran and they were stopping in their neat obedient column. He flung a glance over his shoulder—some of them were a lot younger than he was, some of them had longer legs and better wind; the pack was dissipating but the leaders were gaining on him frighteningly fast.

He heard himself gasping when he shot across the curb. The light held; the cars hadn’t started to roll. He aimed for the front car of the row. If that door was locked …

He jerked it open. The man stared at him open-mouthed. Kendig gripped the man’s arm and yanked him bodily out of the driver’s seat. Crammed himself into the car and searched for the gearshift with his left hand. It had been in gear and when the original driver’s foot came off the clutch it had stalled out and now he had to find the key and the pack was just into the intersection now and the driver was lurching to his feet shouting.

Kendig punched the door-lock button and the driver heaved helplessly on the outside handle. The key turned, the ignition meshed. Behind him a burly fool was emerging threateningly from a van. Kendig popped the clutch and roared away through the red light.

They’d be in cars within ninety seconds. He’d ditch this one within five minutes. The escape had worked but he had nothing now, nothing but his wits and the clothes on his back—no money, no papers, not a single possession except the two-inch-square photograph of himself that had been the most important object on the sergeant’s desk.

Now they had him naked and ru

– 21 –

THE TELEPHONE BROUGHT ROSS awake and he fumbled for it in the darkness.

“Up and out, Ross. Meet me in the lobby in five minutes. Our man’s broken surface.”

“The hell time’s it?”

But Cutter had hung up on him. He found the lamp switch and threw the sheet back and plunged into his clothes. He slid his expansion-banded watch on—it was just past two o’clock in the morning.

Cutter was irritatingly natty in a dark blue suit, tie knotted properly; how much advance warning had he had? Or hadn’t he been to bed yet? The lobby was empty except for the hall porter. Cutter said, “Car’s picking us up,” and led the way out onto the curb of Park Lane. A few taxis whizzed by. A faint drizzle misted the air but there was no real fog. Ross buttoned up his topcoat against the chill and raked fingers through the mess of his hair. “What’s happened?”

“He broke into Chartermain’s house and the cops intercepted him.” Cutter laughed. “Think of that.”

“They’ve arrested him?”

“He was arrested. He made a break from the station house. He’s on the loose again but they’ve stripped him down to nothing. Here we go—this must be Chartermain.”

The chauffeured Humber slid in and the rear door popped open; Chartermain was leaning forward bulkily in the backseat. “Didn’t expect to see you chaps again quite so soon.”

Cutter climbed across Chartermain’s knees and Ross took the jump-seat and reached for the strap when the car lurched forward. “Flabbergasted me, truth to tell,” Chartermain said. “The cheek!”

“It’s not far, is it?”

“Just round the park in Knightsbridge. Four minutes’ drive this time of night. I say, I’m sorry to knock you out of bed at such a beastly hour.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cutter said. Ross couldn’t stifle a yawn.

Chartermain took an envelope from his pocket. He had a pair of tweezers; he extracted the envelope’s contents with them. “Don’t touch it—it hasn’t been dusted yet. I never knew him to have such a sense of humor.”

Ross couldn’t make it out. “What is it?”

Cutter was leafing through it with the point of his mechanical pencil. “Jules Parker’s passport. I see he removed the photograph.”

Chartermain said, “Found it on my desk with a note. Dear William, I do hope you’re enjoying the game—something like that. It’s in here.” He tapped the envelope. “Bloody cheek.”

“Did he cop anything?”

“My passport. The police retrieved everything. They seem to think he took a great amount of money from the house but that couldn’t have been mine. We don’t keep loose money about.”

“Was it dollars or sterling?”

“Some of each. Total value near three thousand quid.”

“That’d be his own money,” Cutter said.

Chartermain was a short sandy man, square-faced and amiable in appearance; he was a little heavy but not grossly overweight. He had a false leg—the left one—but he didn’t use a cane.

“Here we are.”

They went inside. There were only two policemen in the squad room. (Was it called a squad room over here?) A bulky man in shirt-sleeves hurried out of a doorway in a rear partition. “Captain Chartermain? I’m Sergeant Twomey.”

They went back into the partitioned office and Twomey made a gesture that encompassed the litter on his desk. “That’s what he had on him.”

“And this is what he left in exchange.” Chartermain brought out the envelope. “I wonder if you’d be so kind as to have these things fingerprinted, Sergeant?”

Cutter was poking through the things on the desk. Ross watched him pick up a small plastic calendar. Cutter said, “Kingston Close Hotel,” in a musing voice.

The hall porter was sleepy but anxious to help. “Right, Sergeant, I’d say that’s Mr. Davies right enough.”

He handed the IdentiKit composite back to Twomey and Twomey gave it back to Cutter but Cutter stayed his hand. “You’ll want to keep that, I think. Scotland Yard will want to run off copies of it.”

Chartermain said to the hall porter, “You haven’t seen Mr. Davies this evening, then.”

“I’ve been on duty since eight o’clock, sir. Haven’t seen him tonight, no sir.”

Cutter said, “Then we’ll want your passkey.”

Sergeant Twomey nodded to the hall porter and the key was produced. The four of them went up to the room and made the search. Ross said, “False bottom in this thing. But there’s nothing in it.”

“For the manuscript,” Cutter said. “All right—so he’s stashed it. Damn.”

They combed the room but Cutter was right; the manuscript wasn’t there. Ross said, “No French passport either. Maybe he hid it with the manuscript?”

“Possibly,” Cutter said.

Ross said slowly, “Look Joe, he’s got to retrieve that manuscript, right? It’s only a suggestion but haven’t they got things like bus-station lockers over here? Wouldn’t it be a good idea to put surveillance on places like that?”

“It’s a damned good idea,” Cutter said; and it galvanized Chartermain—the Englishman went directly to the phone. His limp was hardly perceptible.

Ross said, “He’s had to abandon his clothes, even his razor and toothbrush. He hasn’t got a dime on him. Joe, if he’s ever going to need help from a friend it’ll be now. Shouldn’t we put coverage on every known contact of Kendig’s in England?”

“It’s worth a try.” Cutter smiled a little. “We might make a pro out of you yet, Ross.”

“Knock on wood but I think maybe there’s a chance, Joe. We’ve got the London Police and half of Scotland Yard on it now and a lot of our own people and MI5—”

“And don’t forget the Comrades,” Cutter said drily. “But hold onto that thought, Ross.”

Chartermain finished his call. “We’ll have men on every rental locker in London within the hour. Good thinking, young man.” He turned to the police sergeant. “It would be best if you trotted straight over to the Yard with that composite drawing, Sergeant. This is an important manhunt—it’s a matter of the highest security priority. I’ve impressed that on the Superintendent just now. I’ve told him to expect you. Our fugitive has been kind enough to commit a rather spectacular violation of the criminal laws and of course this places him within the Yard’s jurisdiction. Now if you don’t mind?”