The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (12 page)

something else! It would come. He drained his sherry at a gulp and poured himself

another. 'Bit like drinking lemonade, isn't it, Lewis?'

'What's the programme, sir?'

1

'Well—I think we've got to play things a bit delicately. We might be on to something

big, you must realize that; but it's no good rushing things. I want to know what all of

'em in the office were doing on Friday, but I want 'em to
know
what I'm going to ask them.'

'Wouldn't it be better—?'

'No. It wouldn't be fair, anyway.'

Lewis was getting lost. 'You think one of the four of them murdered Quinn?'

'What do you think?'

'I don't know, sir. But if you let them know beforehand—'

'Yes?'

'Well, they'd have something ready. Make something up—'

That's what I want them to do.'

'But surely if one of them murdered Quinn—?'

'He'd have an alibi all ready, you mean?'

'Yes.'

Morse said nothing for a few seconds and then suddenly changed tack completely.

'Did you see me last Friday, Lewis?' Lewis opened his mouth and shut it again. 'Come

on! We work in the same building, don't we?' Lewis tried hard, but he couldn't get hold

of the problem at all. Friday. It seemed a long way away. What had he done on

Friday? Had he seen Morse?

'You see what I mean, Lewis? Not easy, is it? We ought to give 'em a chance.'

'But as I say, sir, whoever killed Quinn will have something pretty good cooked up for

last Friday.'

'Exactly.'

Lewis let it go. Many things puzzled him about the chief, and he felt even more

puzzled as Morse pulled the front door to behind him: 'And what makes you so sure

that Quinn was murdered on Friday?'

Margaret Freeman was unmarried—a slim, rather plain girl, with droopy eyelashes,

who had worked for the Syndicate for just over three years. She had earlier been

confidential secretary to Mr. Bland, and had automatically been asked to transfer her

allegiance to Mr. Quinn. She had slept little the previous night, and not until the late

grey dawn had she managed to rein in the horses of her terror. But Morse (who

thought he understood such things) was still surprised when she broke down and

wept after only a few minutes of gentle interrogation. She had certainly seen Quinn on

Friday morning. He had dictated a whole sheaf of letters to her at about 10.45, and

these had kept her busy until fairly late that same afternoon, when she had taken them

into Quinn's office and put them in the in-tray. She hadn't seen him that Friday

afternoon; yet she'd had the feeling that he was about somewhere, for she could

almost positively recall (after some careful prodding) that Quinn's green anorak had

been draped over the back of one of the chairs; and yes! there had been that little note

for her, with her initials on it, MF, and then the brief message ('Dr Bartlett liked them to leave messages, sir'); but she couldn't quite remember . . . something like . . . no. Just something about 'going out', she thought. About being 'back soon', perhaps? But she

couldn't really remember—that was obvious.

Morse had interviewed her in Quinn's office, and after she had gone he lit a cigarette

and considered things anew. It was certainly interesting. Why wasn't the note still

there? Quinn must have come back, crumpled up the note . . . But the wastepap1er

basket was empty. Cleaners! But Quinn had been alive at about 11 or 11.15 that

Friday morning. That was something to build on, anyway.

To Lewis was entrusted the task of finding the caretaker and of discovering what

happened to the Syndicate's rubbish. And for once the luck was with him. Two large,

black plastic sacks of wastepaper were standing in a small loading bay at the side of

the building, awaiting collection, and the job of sifting through the papers was at least a good deal more congenial than delving into rubbish bins. Comparatively quick, too.

Most of the waste paper was merely torn across the middle, and not screwed into

crumpled balls: outdated forms mostly and a few first drafts of trickier letters. No note from Quinn to his confidential secretary, though, and Lewis felt disappointed, for that

was the prime object of the search. But there were several (identical) notes from

Bartlett, which Lewis immediately sensed might well be of some interest; and he took

them along to Quinn's office, where the receiver that Morse held to his ear was

emitting the staccato bleeps of the 'engaged' signal. He further smoothed out one of

the notes, and Morse put down the receiver and read it:

Mon, 17th Nov

Notice to all Staff

PRACTICE FIRE DRILL

The fire alarm will ring at 12 noon, on Friday, 21st Nov, when all staff must

immediately stop working, turn off all fires, lights and other electrical

appliances, close all windows and doors, and walk through the front door

of the building and out into the front parking area. No one is to remain in

the building for any reason, and normal work will not be resumed until

everyone is accounted for. Since the weather seems likely to be cold and

wet, staff are advised to take their coats etc., although it is hoped that the

practice will take no longer than ten minutes or so. I ask and expect your

full co-operation in this matter.

Signed T. G. Bartlett (Secretary)

'He's a careful soul, isn't he, Lewis?'

'Seems pretty efficient, sir.'

'Not the sort to leave anything to chance.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'I was just wondering why he didn't tell me about this fire drill, that's all.' He smiled to himself, and Lewis knew that that
wasn't
all.

'Perhaps he didn't tell you because you didn't ask him.'

'Perhaps so. Anyway, go along and ask him if there was a roll-call. You never know—

we may be able to postpone Quinn's execution from 11.15 to 12.15.'

The red light showed outside Bartlett's office, and as Lewis stood undecided before

the door, Donald Martin walked past.

'That light means he's got somebody with him, doesn't it?'

Martin nodded. 'He'd be very annoyed if any of the staff interrupted him, but—I mean . .

.' He seemed extremely nervous about something, and Lewis took the opportunity (as

Morse had instructed him) of disseminating the news that Quinn's colleagues would

all soon be asked to account for their whereabouts the previous Friday.

'But what—? He can't really think—'

'He 1thinks a lot of things, sir.'

Lewis knocked on Bartlett's door and went in. Monica Height turned round with some

annoyance on her face, but the Secretary himself, smiling benignly, made no

reference whatsoever to the infraction of the golden rule. In answer to his query, Lewis

was informed that he'd better see the chief clerk upstairs, who had been in charge of

the whole operation and who almost certainly would have kept the register of all those

who had been present for the fire drill.

After Lewis had left the room, Monica turned around and looked hard at Bartlett.

'What's all that about, pray?'

'You know you mustn't blame the police for trying to find out when Mr. Quinn was last

seen alive. I must admit I'd not mentioned the fire drill—'

'But he was alive last Friday
afternoon
—there's not much doubt about that, is there?

His car was here until about twenty to five. So Noakes says.'

'Yes, I know all about that.'

'Don't you think we ought to tell the police straightaway?'

'I've got a strong suspicion, my dear, that Chief Inspector Morse is going to find out far more than some of us may wish.'

But whatever might have been the cryptic implication of this remark, Monica appeared

not to notice it. 'Don't you agree it may be very important, though?'

'Certainly. Especially if they think that Mr. Quinn was murdered last Friday.'

'Do you think he was murdered on Friday?'

'Me?' Bartlett looked at her with a gentle smile. 'I don't think it matters very much what I think.'

'You haven't answered my question.'

Bartlett hesitated and stood up. 'Well, for what it's worth the answer's "no".'

'When—?'

But Bartlett held up his finger to his lips and shook his head. 'You're asking as many

questions as they are.'

Monica rose to her feet and walked to the door. 'I still think you ought to let them know that Noakes—'

'Look,' he said in a kindly way. 'If it'll make you happier, I'll let them know straight

away. All right?'

As Monica Height left the room, Martin came up to her and said something urgently

into her ear. Together they disappeared into Monica's office.

The chief clerk remembered the fire drill well, of course. Everything had gone

according to plan, and the Secretary had scrutinized the final list himself before

allowing his staff to resume their duties. Of the twenty-six permanent staff, only three

had not ticked themselves off. But all had been accounted for: Mr. Ogleby was down at

the Oxford University Press; one of the typists had flu; and one of the junior clerks was on holiday. Against Quinn's name was a bold tick in black biro. And that was that.

Lewis walked downstairs and rejoined Morse.

'Have you noticed how everyone in this office uses black biro, Lewis?'

'Bartlett's got 'em all organized, sir—even down to the pens they use.'

Morse seemed to dismiss the matter as of no importance, and picked up the phone

once more. 'You'd have thought this bl1oody school would have more than one line,

wouldn't you?' But this time he heard the ringing tone, and the call was answered

almost immediately. Morse heard a cheerful north-country voice telling him that she

was the school secretary and asking if she could help. Morse explained who he was

and what information he required.

"Friday, you say? Yes, I remember. From Oxford, that's right . . . Oh, must have been about twenty past twelve. I remember I looked on the timetable and Mr. Richardson

was teaching until a quarter to one . . . No, no. He said not to bother. Just asked me to give him t'message, laik. He said he would be inviting Mr. Richardson to do some

marking this summer . . . No, I'm sorry. I can't remember t'name for the minute, but Mr.

Richardson would know, of course . . . Yes. Yes, I'm sure that was it. Quinn—that's

right. I hope there's nothing . . . Oh dear . . . Oh dear . . . Shall I tell Mr. Richardson? . . .

All right . . . All right, sir. Goodbye.'

Morse cradled the phone and looked across at Lewis. 'What do you think?'

'I think we're making progress, sir. Just after eleven he finishes dictating his letters; he's here for the fire drill at twelve; and he rings up the school at twenty past.' Morse nodded and Lewis felt encouraged to go on. 'What I'd really like to know is whether he

left the note for Miss Freeman
before
or
after
lunch. So perhaps we'd better try to find out where he had a bite to eat, sir.'

Morse nodded again, and seemed to be staring at nothing. 'I'm beginning to wonder if

we're on the right track, though, Lewis. You know what? I wouldn't be at all surprised if

—'

The internal phone rang and Morse listened with interest. 'Well, thank you for telling

me, Dr Bartlett. Can you ask him to come along straightaway?'

When the sycophantic Noakes began his brief tale, Morse wondered why on earth he

had not immediately sought the caretaker's confidence; for he knew full well that in

institutions of all kinds throughout the land it was the name of the caretaker which

should appear at the top of all official notepaper. Wherever his services were called

upon (including Police HQ) it seemed to be the caretaker, with his strangely

obnoxious combination of officiousness and servility, whose goodwill was prized

above all; whose cooperation over rooms, teas, keys and other momentous

considerations, was absolutely indispensable. On the face of it, however, Noakes

seemed one of the pleasanter specimens of the species.

'Yes, sir, his coat
was
there—I remember it distinct like, because his cabinet was open and I closed it. The Secketary wouldn't 'ave wanted that, sir. Very particular he is,

about that.'

'What there a note on his desk?'

'Yes, we saw that as well, sir.'

' "We", you say?'

'Mr. Roope, sir. He was with me. He'd just—'

'What was he doing here?' said Morse quietly.

'He wanted to see the Secketary. But he was out, I knew that, sir. So Mr. Roope asked

me if any of the assistant secketaries was in—he had some papers, you see, as he

wanted to give to somebody.'

'Who did he give them to?'

That's just it. As I was going to say, sir, we tried all the other secketaries' offices, but there was nobody in.'

Morse looked at him sharply. 1'You're quite sure about that, Mr. Noakes?'

'Oh yes, sir. We couldn't find anybody, you see, and Mr. Roope left the papers on the

Secketary's desk.'

Morse glanced at Lewis and his eyebrows rose perceptibly. 'Well, well. That's very

interesting. Very interesting.' But if it was as interesting as Morse would have the

caretaker imagine, it prompted no further questions. At least not immediately so. The

plain truth was that the information was, for Morse, completely unexpected, and he

now regretted his earlier (stupidly theatrical) decision of allowing word to be spread on the office grapevine (it had surely got round by now?) that he would be asking all of