“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.
