He walked aimlessly for a while, twice turning into side streets when he saw police uniforms. The problem of getting out of Bolton was doubly urgent. Not only had he to escape from a tightening net, but the deadline he had given to the authorities was drawing closer. He had to journey south and be in Hastings before Antibomb Day. Could he travel in disguise? A flash recollection of Chesterton’s invisible man caused him to halt momentarily. The uniform of a postman would make him effectively invisible, and a rural postman’s traditional transport — a bicycle — would probably get him to Hastings in time. But how did one acquire such things? Stealing them would only serve to make him more easily identifiable…
In one of the narrow side streets he saw a yellow electric sign of a taxi company, and in the window of the office beneath it was a notice which said: “DRIVERS FOR SAFETY CABS WANTED — NO PSV LICENCE REQUIRED.”
Hutchman’s heart began to thud as he read the hand-lettered card. A taxi driver was just as invisible as a postman, and a vehicle went with the job! He walked into the dimly-lit garage beside the office. A row of mustard-colored taxis brooded in the half-light and the only evidence of life was the glowing window of a boxlike office in one corner. He tapped the door and opened it. Inside was a cluttered room containing a table and a bench upon which sat two men in mechanic’s overalls. One of them was in the act of raising a cup of tea to his mouth.
“Sorry to disturb you.” Hutchman put on his best grin. “How do I go about getting a job as a driver?”
“No trouble about that, mate.” The mechanic turned to his companion, who was unwrapping sandwiches. “Who’s the super tonight?”
“Old Oliver.”
“Wait here and I’ll fetch him,” the mechanic said in a friendly tone and Went out through a door which led to the back of the building. Encouraged and gratified, Hutchman studied the little room as he waited. The walls were covered with notices held in place by drawing pins and yellowing Sellotape. “Any driver who is involved in a front-end accident will be dismissed immediately,” one stated. “The following are in bad standing and must not be accepted for credit card journeys,” said another above a list of names. To Hutchman, in his state of intense loneliness, they appeared as indications of a warm, intensely human normalcy. He entertained fantasies of working contentedly in a place like this for the rest of his life if he got away from Hastings in one piece. Getting his job, being accepted into the cheery incidentrich life of a cab driver, assumed an illogical and emotional importance which had nothing to do with escaping to the south.
“Cold day,” the remaining mechanic said through a mouthful of bread.
“Certainly is.”
“Fancy a drop of tea?”
“No thanks.” Hutchman’s eyes stung with pleasure as he refused the offer. He turned as the door opened and the first mechanic came in accompanied by a stooped, white-haired man of about sixty. The newcomer was pink-faced, had a prim womanly mouth, and was wearing an old-fashioned belted raincoat and a peaked cap.
“Hello,” Hutchman ventured. “I understand you have openings for drivers.”
“Happen I have,” Oliver said. “Come out here and I’ll talk to you.” He led the way out to the garage area and closed the office door so that the mechanics would not hear the conversation. “Are you a PSV man?”
“No, but it said on your notice that…”
“I know what it said on the notice,” Oliver interrupted pettishly, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t prefer good professional men. These nasty little so-called safety cars with seats looking out the back window have cheapened the whole trade. Cheap and nasty.”
“Oh.” It dawned on Hutchman that he was dealing with a man who regarded taxi-driving as a calling. “Well, I have a clean ordinary licence.”
Oliver scrutinized him doubtfully. “Part-timer?”
“Yes — or full-time. Whatever you want.” Hutchman wondered if he sounded too anxious. “You do need drivers, don’t you?”
“We don’t pay a wage, you know. You get a third of your take, plus tips. A good man does well out of tips, but a beginner…”
“That sounds fine. I could start right way.”
“Just a minute,” Oliver said sternly. “Do you know the town?”
“Yes.” Hutchman’s heart sank. How could he have forgotten one of the basic requirements?
“How would you get to Crompton Avenue?”
“Ah…” Hutchman tried to remember the name of the main road he had driven along with Atwood, the only one he knew. “Straight out to Breightmet.”
Oliver nodded with some reluctance. “How would you get to Bridgeworth Close?”
“That’s a tricky one.” Hutchman forced a smile. “It might take me some time to get to know all the streets.”
“How would you get to Mason Street?” Oliver’s womanly lips were pursed in disapproval.
“Is that out toward Salford? Look, I told you…”
“I’m sorry, son. You just haven’t a good enough memory for this kind of work.”
Hutchman gazed at him in helpless anger, then turned away. Outside, he stared resentfully at the unfamiliar configurations of buildings. He had been rejected. His brain held information which was going to change the entire course of history, but a prissy old fool had looked down on him because he wasn’t familiar with a haphazard pattern of streets in an undistinguished…
Glancing at his watch, Hutchman found it was only a little after 5:30. He hurried to the nearest main thoroughfare, located a large stationery store, and bought two street maps of Bolton and a white correcting pencil. While he was paying for them he asked the sales assistant where he could find a copying service still open. The girl directed him to a place two blocks further along the same street. He thanked her, went outside, and shouldered his way through the crowds, reaching the office-equipment supplier, who did copying, just as an unseen clock was chiming the hour. A dapper young man with wispy fair hair was locking the door. He shook his head when Hutchman tried the handle. Hutchman took two five-pound notes from his pocket and pushed them through the low-level letter slot. The young man picked them up cautiously, studied Hutchman through the glass for a second, then opened the door a little.
“We close at six, you know.” He held the notes out tentatively.
“Those are yours,” Hutchman told him.
“What for?”
“Overtime payment. I have an urgent copying job which must be done right now. I’ll pay for it separately, but that tenner’s for you — if you’ll do the work.”
“Oh! Oh, well then. You’d better come in.” The youth gave a baffled laugh and opened the door wide. “Christmas is early this year, I must say.”
Hutchman unfolded one of his street maps. “Can you handle a sheet this size?”
“With ease.” The youth activated a gray machine and watched with perplexity as Hutchman took out the typist’s correcting pencil and, working at careless speed, obliterated all the street names. When he had finished he handed the map over. “Do me… mmm… a dozen copies of that.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man stared solemnly at Hutchman as he worked.
“I’m in advertising,” Hutchman said. “This is for a marketresearch project.”
Ten minutes later he was back out on the street with a warm roll of sheets under his arm. He now had all the equipment needed to carry out the type of memory blitz he had perfected in his university days, but there was still the problem of finding a quiet and secure place in which to work. The soothing effect of constructive activity abated slightly as it came to him that he was going to a great deal of trouble to get out of Bolton without having checked that it was really necessary. He saw a small newsagent’s shop on the opposite side of the street and crossed over to it. While still in the middle of the roadway he read the billboard which was leaning against a window sill.
It said: “POLICE CORDON SEALS OFF BOLTON!”
A number of copies of the evening paper were clipped to a wire rack in the doorway. He approached the shop and saw that a large photograph of himself was featured on the front page, with splash headlines which read: “BOLTON SURROUNDED BY POLICE CORDON. Mystery mathematician traced here today.” Hutchman decided not to risk going in and buying a paper — he had learned all he needed, anyway. He was turning away from the shop when a white Porsche drew up beside him and the passenger door was pushed open. The driver was an Oriental-looking girl in a silver dress.
“It’s warmer at my place,” she said, showing no trace of embarrassment over the fact that she sounded exactly the way a prostitute was supposed to sound.
Hutchman, who had been poised to flee, shook his head instinctively then caught the edge of the door. “Perhaps I
He turned sideways to face the girl. “Where are we going?”
“Not far.”
Hutchman nodded contentedly. He was satisfied as long as she did not try to take him out of town, through a roadblock. “Have you any food at your place?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“Starving — but I don’t run a soup kitchen.” Her neat face was hard.
Hutchman snorted, took a ten-pound note from his pocket, and dropped it on her lap. “Stop at a take-away and get us some food.”
“I’m a working girl, mister.” She flicked the note back at him. “The rate is exactly the same for companionship.”
“That’s understood — your name isn’t Melina Mercouri. How much for the night?”
“A hundred,” Her voice was defiant.
“A hundred it is.” Hutchman peeled off ten more notes, amazed at the fact that they still held value for other people. “Here’s the hundred, plus the food money. All right?”
For an answer she put her hand on his thigh and slid it into his crotch. He endured her touch without speaking.
“Food first?” the girl said.
“Food first.” Hutchman spread the packages on the table, opened them, and began to eat while his hostess was making coffee in a clinically bright kitchen. He was tired and nervous — pictures of a human eye rolling in the dust flickered before him — but the heat was helping him to relax. They ate in near silence and the girl cleared the remains into the kitchen. On her way back she slipped out of the silver dress with a single lithe movement, revealing that she was wearing a crimson satin bikini suit which, along with a certain muscularity of thighs, gave her the air of a trapeze artist. Her spice-coloured body was trim and taut and desirable. Hutchman’s groin turned to ice.
“Listen,” he said, lifting his roll of ammonia-smelling sheets. “I have some very urgent business to attend to for my firm, and I won’t be able to relax until it’s out of the way. Why don’t you watch television for a while?”
“I haven’t got television.”
Hutchman realized he had made a mistake in suggesting it — he was bound to be in the news more than ever. “Play music or read a book, then. All right?”
“All right.” The girl shrugged unconcernedly and, without dressing again, lay down on a couch and watched him.
Hutchman spread out a street map, the one which still showed the names, and began memorizing it, starting with the major roads and filling in as much as possible on side streets. He worked with maximum concentration for one hour, then took a blank copy, and tried filling in the names. This gave him an accurate indication of the areas in which he was doing well and of the ones — still a great majority at this stage — where his performance was poor. He returned to the named map, spent a second hour on it, did another progress check with a blank map, and started the process all
