Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

again, they might actually want him to attempt to leave. You never knew what sort of warped minds these small- town police had. They might even — shoot him down if he tried to leave.

Mr Ketchum sat heavily on the bench. No, he was letting imagination run amuck. This was merely a small town on the Maine seacoast and they were merely going to fine him for—

Well, why didn’t they fine him then? What was all this play-acting? The heavy man pressed his lips together. Very well, let them play it the way they chose. This was better than driving anyway. He closed his eyes. I’ll just rest them, he thought.

After a few moments he opened them again. It was damned quiet. He looked around the dimly lit room. The walls were dirty and bare except for a clock and one picture that hung behind the desk. It was a painting — more likely a reproduction — of a bearded man. The hat he wore was a seaman’s hat. Probably one of Zachry’s ancient mariners. No; probably not even that. Probably a Sears Roebuck print: Bearded Seaman.

Mr Ketchum grunted to himself. Why a police station should have such a print was beyond him. Except, of course, that Zachry was on the Atlantic. Probably its main source of income was from fishing. Anyway, what did it matter? Mr Ketchum lowered his gaze.

In the next room he could hear the muffled voices of the two policemen. He tried to hear what they were saying but he couldn’t. He glared at the closed door. Come on, will you? he thought. He looked at the clock again. Three twenty-two. He checked it with his wrist watch. About right. The door opened and the two policemen came out.

One of them left. The remaining one — the one who had taken Mr Ketchum’s licence — went over to the raised desk and switched on the gooseneck lamp over it, drew a big ledger out of the top drawer and started writing in it. At last, thought Mr Ketchum.

A minute passed.

‘I—’ Mr Ketchum cleared his throat. ‘I beg your—’

His voice broke off as the cold gaze of the policeman raised from the ledger and fixed on him.

‘Are you… That is, am I to be — fined now?’

The policeman looked back at the ledger. ‘Wait,’ he said.

‘But it’s past three in the mor—’ Mr Ketchum caught himself. He tried to look coldly belligerent. ‘Very well,’ he said curtly. ‘Would you kindly tell me how long it will be?’

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 licence,’ 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 realised that he was sitting on the very edge of the bench as if poised to spring to the defence 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.

’Uhr

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. Tour 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 shaking! 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.’