“No, I don’t mean that sign,” said the policeman.
“Oh.” Mr. Ketchum cleared his throat. “Well, that’s the only sign I saw,” he said.
“You’re a bad driver then.”
“Well, I’m—”
“The sign said the speed limit is fifteen miles an hour. You were doing fifty.”
“Oh. I... I’m afraid I didn’t see it.”
“The speed limit is fifteen miles an hour whether you see it or not.”
“Well... at... at this hour of the morning?”
“Did you see a timetable on the sign?” the policeman asked.
“No, of course not. I mean, I didn’t see the sign at all.”
“Didn’t you?”
Mr. Ketchum felt hair prickling along the nape of his neck. “Now, now see here,” he began faintly, then stopped and stared at the policeman. “May I have my license back?” he finally asked when the policeman didn’t speak.
The policeman said nothing. He stood on the street, motionless.
“May I—?” Mr. Ketchum started.
“Follow our car,” said the officer abruptly and strode away.
Mr. Ketchum stared at him, dumbfounded. Hey wait! he almost yelled. The officer hadn’t even given him back his license. Mr. Ketchum felt a sudden coldness in his stomach.
“What is this?” he muttered as he watched the policeman getting back into his car. The police car pulled away from the curb, its roof light spinning again.
Mr. Ketchum followed.
“This is ridiculous,” he said aloud. They had no right to do this. Was this the Middle Ages? His thick lips pressed into a jaded mouth line as he followed the police car along Main Street.
Two blocks up, the police car turned. Mr. Ketchum saw his headlights splash across a glass store front. Hand’s Groceries read the weather-worn letters.
There were no lamps on the street. It was like driving along an inky passage. Ahead were only the three red eyes of the police car’s rear lights and spotlight; behind only impenetrable blackness. The end of a perfect day, thought Mr. Ketchum; picked up for speeding in Zachry, Maine. He shook his head and groaned. Why hadn’t he just spent his vacation in Newark; slept late, gone to shows, eaten, watched television?
The police car turned right at the next corner, then, a block up, turned left again and stopped. Mr. Ketchum pulled up behind it as its lights went out. There was no sense in this. This was only cheap melodrama. They could just as easily have fined him on Main Street. It was the rustic mind. Debasing someone from a big city gave them a sense of vengeful eminence.
Mr. Ketchum waited. Well, he wasn’t going to haggle. He’d pay his fine without a word and depart. He jerked up the hand brake. Suddenly he frowned, realizing that they could fine him anything they wanted. They could charge him $500 if they chose! The heavy man had heard stories about small town police, about the absolute authority they wielded. He cleared his throat viscidly. Well, this is absurd, he thought. What foolish imagination.
The policeman opened the door.
“Get out,” he said.
There was no light in the street or in any building. Mr. Ketchum swallowed. All he could really see was the black figure of the policeman.
“Is this the — station?” he asked.
“Turn out your lights and come on,” said the policeman.
Mr. Ketchum pushed in the chrome knob and got out. The policeman slammed the door. It made a loud, echoing noise; as if they were inside an unlighted warehouse instead of on a street. Mr. Ketchum glanced upward. The illusion was complete. There were neither stars nor moon. Sky and earth ran together blackly.
The policeman’s hard fingers clamped on his arm. Mr. Ketchum lost balance a moment, then caught himself and fell into a quick stride beside the tall figure of the policeman.
“Dark here,” he heard himself saying in a voice not entirely familiar.
The policeman said nothing. The other policeman fell into step on the other side of him. Mr. Ketchum told himself: These damned hicktown nazis were doing their best to intimidate him. Well, they wouldn’t succeed.
Mr. Ketchum sucked in a breath of the damp, sea-smelling air and let it shudder out. A crumby town of 67 and they have two policemen patrolling the streets at three in the morning. Ridiculous.
He almost tripped over the step when they reached it. The policeman on his left side caught him under the elbow.
“Thank you,” Mr. Ketchum muttered automatically. The policeman didn’t reply. Mr. Ketchum licked his lips. Cordial oaf, he thought and managed a fleeting smile to himself. There, that was better. No point in letting this get to him.
He blinked as the door was pulled open and, despite himself, felt a sigh of relief filtering through him. It was a police station all right. There was the podiumed desk, there a bulletin board, there a black, pot-bellied stove unlit, there a scarred bench against the wall, there a door, there the floor covered with a cracked and grimy linoleum that had once been green.
“Sit down and wait,” said the first policeman.
Mr. Ketchum looked at his lean, angled face, his swarthy skin. There was no division in his eyes between iris and pupil. It was all one darkness. He wore a dark uniform that fitted him loosely.
Mr. Ketchum didn’t get to see the other policeman because both of them went into the next room. He stood watching the closed door a moment. Should he leave, drive away? No, they’d have his address on the license. Then 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 license — 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?”