made.
He turned from the window to face the room, his mind flicking through the rooms of the flat like a sequence of still pictures projected upon a screen.
Urgency returned like the onset of a renewed bout of fever. Now, he was aware of the flat, of the street, of the roof that might have to serve as his escape route…
And of Godwin, under a bright light, fending off the anticipated moment when he would let something slip or would have to tell what he knew.
The rooms were illuminated in his mind as starkly as if he shone a torch rapidly over the contours and contents of each of them. Where? Godwin would have concealed his Krugerrands or Swiss francs like every other agent posted abroad. The Sinking Fund, they called it in London. A lifeline; a way out. To be used when not waving but drowning. In this case, where?
Begin — come on, begin, he ordered his body. His hand flicked the curtain aside once more. The Skoda, a hundred yards away on the opposite side of the Celetna, was passed, light thrown upon it for a moment, by a late bus. At the far end of the street, beneath the Powder Tower, blue sparks flashed from an overhead cable as a tram rattled its way towards the river. Nothing else — there was still time, Godwin was holding out or remained unsuspected. There was time, time—
Little or no time, little or no time, no time…
He got onto all fours and scrabbled around the circumference of the room, his hands feeling the carpet like those of a blind man searching for something dropped. Nothing. He glanced under the dining table. He touched the undersides of the chairs, tilted the armchairs and the sofa… Godwin would, might need the money quickly, so it would have to be easy for a cripple. No bending or lifting or crawling or climbing…
Hyde smoothed the curtains, but there were no lumps, no rustlings. No weights that might have been coins. The old sideboard — his fingers touched and caressed the backs and undersides of drawers, lifted the clock and the tray on which Godwin's bottles of whisky and gin stood. He began, perhaps prompted by the clock, to glance at his watch after handling or moving or touching each object; punctuating his search.
Bathroom. Cistern dirty but otherwise empty. No waterproof package. Shower offering no place of concealment. Back of the wash-basin — twelve-twenty — edges of the thin, weary carpet on the bathroom floor. Nothing.
Kitchen. Undersides of the wall cupboards, just the right height for Godwin the cripple — twelve twenty-one — the stove, the pedal bin, dust and dead flies and a mummified spider on top of the wall cupboards. Buckets and mops in a cupboard, tins of food, including those for the neighbour's thin black cat. Behind the fridge — twelve twenty-two, no three — freezer compartment of the fridge, only ice-cubes and a slim package that contained some cold meat left from a meal.
Hallway. Cupboard. Hands slipping between folded sheets, shirts, smoothing down the ironing board as if searching a spreadeagled suspect. Suitcases in the bedroom, on top of the wardrobe. Bedroom. Twelve twenty-five. He was missing things, he couldn't afford to be really thorough, but he was still taking too long…
Gambling on Godwin holding out because he knew, with utter certainty, that they had him and by now they would have become suspicious. Some STB man would make the connection, bring the questioning round to—
Twelve twenty-six. Nothing in the suitcases or their linings. Nothing on the underside of the narrow bed that looked like a cot from some institution. Nothing in the dressing-table or at the backs of the drawers. Carpet — nothing. Twelve twenty-seven. Hyde's forehead was damp and prickly despite the cold of the flat. He felt his body heating up inside his clothes. He could smell the dust from beneath the bed and in the carpet. Curtains — nothing. Nothing, nothing,
Twelve twenty-eight. He had been in the flat for two minutes over half-an-hour. There could be no more than a few minutes now. Godwin would have had to supply his address — they'd know it anyway, from his file — and a police or STB patrol would be dispatched; routine in a workers' paradise. They'd be here for certain, and soon. They were already overdue. He was sweating freely now, and he could hear his own panting breaths. The exertion of tension, of frustration, was as great as that of his flight down the Castle Steps.
It had to be within easy reach, easy reach — twelve twenty-nine. Easy reach. Godwin couldn't even kneel easily, couldn't climb onto chairs to reach up, couldn't overturn or move heavy furniture without a huge, time- devouring effort.
A car drew up in the Celetna. He heard the sound through the drawn curtains. He had heard it subliminally as it moved down the street, coming from Old Town Square, but had fought to ignore it. Now, he couldn't. He heard one of its doors close quietly and moved to the window, lifting the curtain very gently. Two men. Uniforms. Police car. Looking around, then beginning to lift their heads to look up — he dropped the curtain. Routine patrol, diverted to check out Godwin's address — twelve-twenty… no, twelve-thirty. Where? He heard, or imagined, boots on the pavement's rutted slush, and the murmur of voices. He listened. No other cars. A tram clanged over points in the distance.
Where — easy — where, easy for Godwin — where?
And then he knew, as he heard the doorbell ring in the flat below. The flats were too few and cramped to have a concierge. Tenants answered their own bells. But they'd rung the ground floor to confuse and mislead anyone in Godwin's flat.
Godwin had given up. Hyde saw him as he had seen him at that bus-stop in the suburbs. Waiting out the remainder of his crippled existence. He'd never have expected or tried to escape. He would have sat waiting for them whenever they came. No run for the border for Godwin — he'd given up.
Hyde flung the old sofa over on its back as if wrestling with an intruder. He ran his hands along the edges of the sacking covering its base. Blood. A prick of blood on one finger. He heard the street door open, and quiet voices. He sucked his finger, knowing that Godwin had broken a needle that had been too light to perform the task of resewing the sacking to the material of the sofa. Its broken-off end had remained embedded in the frame. And the stitching was less neat, newer. Godwin had really hidden the money — buried it. He ripped the sacking away and the noise hid for a second the sound of boots ascending the stairs. His hand fumbled with horsehair and springs, then withdrew the expected package. He tore the brown paper. Swiss francs, high denomination.
The doorbell rang. A voice immediately called out Godwin's name, using the English prefix Mister. They'd seen lights, they expected someone — perhaps even him. He stood up, shaking with relief, and thrust the package into the inside pocket of the overcoat. He snatched up the pistol from the table, and hurried into the kitchen. Heavy knocking, then the short, ominous silence before forced entry. He climbed into the sink and over the sill, hearing the lock tear free of the door-frame as they entered the flat. His hands gripped the window-frame, and his arms quivered. He tested the frosty tiles with one foot, then stepped out onto the roof. Voices called behind him, but not yet to him, at him.
He scuttled, bent almost double, along the sloping roof, concealing himself in a crouch behind a bulky chimney. Sleet whisked round him, the clouds glowed from the lights of the city. Voices at the window, issuing orders, then the crackle of an R/T as assistance was summoned. Boots clattered on the sill, on the roof. He peered between the chimney-pots.
There were only two of them — until help arrived. He withdrew the pistol from his pocket, feeling its barrel brush against his thigh and side. He shuffled on his knees away from the chimney, saw the policeman's face in light from the kitchen as the man's mouth opened. Hyde fired. The Czech policeman buckled, fell onto his back, scrabbled with dying hands, and then slid down the roof and off, disappearing. Hyde heard the dull concussion as his body landed in drifted snow in the alley at the side of the building. He fired twice more, and the second policeman ducked out of sight.
Hyde, hunched over, scampered cautiously down the roof. When he reached the gutter, he paused to look down. The snow was ghostly, heaped in the alley. He could see a dark shape spreadeagled on a mound some yards away. He crouched, then jumped. Air rushed, his feet sank in, his body was chilled instantly, then he was rolling down a drift. He was winded, still struggling to breathe, as he got to his feet, his teeth chattering, his dark coat patched with lumpy snow.
Ankles? Yes, OK. Breath coming back — he gulped in air, his lungs burned, he exhaled. The second policeman's R/T crackled somewhere out of sight above him, uttering indecipherable orders. Hyde looked up. Nothing. Twelve thirty-three. He possessed the lapping athlete's sense of passing time. Three minutes since he had ripped open the sofa. He ran past the dead policeman towards the end of the alley. A car passed, making him huddle in sudden terror against the wall. It moved away down the street. He listened. A distant siren. He peered
