The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (19 page)

seemed quite impassive. Yet had they looked more carefully at him, and rather less

eagerly towards each other, they might just have spotted the mildest hint of a satisfied

smile trying to hide itself around the corners of his mouth. He sat quite still, his grey eyes staring unblinkingly into some great blue beyond, as the unresting birds of

thought winged round and round his brain . . . until the London train came lumbering

massively alongside the platform and finally broke the spell.

The young couple got up, kissed briefly but passionately, and said their fond farewells.

'I won't come on the platform,' he said. 'Always makes me miserable.'

'Yeah. You ge' off now. See you Sat'day.'

'You bet!'

The girl walked off in her high-heeled boots towards the door leading to Platform 1,

and the boy watched her as she went, and fished for his platform ticket.

'Don't forge'.
I'll
bring the drinks this time.' She almost mouthed the words, but the boy understood and nodded. Then she was gone; and Morse felt the icy fingers running

down from the top of his spine.
That
was the memory that had been eluding him. Yes!

It all came back in a rushing stream of recollection. He'd been an undergraduate then

and he'd invited the flighty little nurse back to his digs in Iffley Road and she'd insisted on bringing a bottle because her father kept a pub and she'd asked him what his

favourite drink was and he'd said Scotch and she'd said it was hers too not so much

because she enjoyed the taste but because it made her feel all sexy and . . . Christ,

yes!

Morse shut off the distant, magic memories. The main silhouette was growing blurred

again; but others now appeared upon the wall of the darkened cave, and together they

fell into a more logical grouping. Much more logical. And as Morse handed in his

platform ticket and walked out into the bright afternoon, he was more firmly convinced

than ever that
someone else
had been in Studio 2 that Friday afternoon. He looked at his watch: 145 pm. Tempting. By Jove, yes! The cinema was only three or four

minutes' walk away, and Inga would be showing 'em all a few tricks. Ah well.

He signalled for a taxi: 'Foreign Examinations Syndicate, please.'

'I DON'T CARE WHAT you ask her,' snapped Morse. 'When I've fetched her in here, just

keep her talking for ten minutes, that's all I ask.' Lewis, who half an hour previously

had been summoned to the Syndicate building once more, looked inordinately

uncomfortable. 'What do you want me to find out, though?'

'Anything you like. Ask her what her measurements are.'

'I wish you'd try to be serious, sir.'

'Well, ask her whether gin goes straight to her tits, or something.'

Lewis decided he would get nowhere with Morse in such a mood. What had

happened to him? Something, surely; for suddenly he seemed as chirpy as a disc

jockey.

Morse himself crossed the corridor, knocked on Monica's door, and went in. 'Can you

spare a minute, Miss Height? Won't take long.' He escorted her politely to Quinn's

office, showed her to the chair that faced Lewis, her reluctant interlocutor, and himself stood idly aside.

The phone went a few minutes later and Lewis answered it. 'For you, sir.'

'Morse here.'

'Ah, Inspector. Can I see you for a minute? It's, er, rather important. Can you come

along straightaway?'

'I'm on my way.'

Both Lewis and Monica had heard the-voice plainly, and Morse excused himself

without further explanation.

Once inside Monica's office, he worked swiftly. First, the bulky sheepskin jacket

hanging up in the wall cupboard. Nothing much in either pocket—nothing much of

interest, anyway. Next, the handbag. It would surely be here, if anywhere. Make-up,

cheque book, diary, Paper-mate pen, comb, small bottle of perfume, pair of earrings,

programme for a forthcoming performance of
The Messiah
, packet of Dunhill

cigarettes, matches—and a purse. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the catch

and poked his fingers amidst the small change and the keys and the stamps and

—
there it was
. Ye gods. He'd been right! He was breathing nervously and noisily as he closed the handbag, placed it carefully back in its former position, left the room,

closed the door quietly behind him, and stood alone in the corridor. He saw the

implications—the extraordinarily grave implications—of the discovery he had just

made. Certainly he'd been fairly sure that with a bit of luck he might find something.

Yet now he'd found it, he knew there was something wrong, something that rang

untrue, something that had not occurred to him before. Still, there was a quick way of

finding out.

He hadn't been away for more than two or three minutes, and Lewis was relieved to

see him back so soon. He sat on the corner of the table and looked at her. There were

times (not very frequent, he admitted) when he seemed to lose all interest in the

female sex, and this was one of them. She might as well have been a statue cast in

frigid marble for all the effect she was having on him how. It happened to all men—or,

at least, so Morse had heard. The womenopause, they called it. He took a deep

breath. 'Why did you lie to me about last Friday afternoon?'

Monica's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, but she was not, it appeared, excessively

surprised. 'It was Sally, wasn't it? I realized, of course, what your man was up to.'

'Well?'

'I don't know. I suppose it sounded less—less sordid, somehow, saying we went to my

place.'

'Less sordid than what?'

'You know—motoring around, stopping in lay-bys and hoping no one else would pull

in.'

'And that's what you did?'

'Yes.'

'Would Mr. Martin back you up?'

'Yes. If you explained to him why—'

'You mean
you
haven't done that already?' The tone of Morse's voice was becoming

increasingly harsh, and1 Monica coloured deeply again.

'Don't you think we ought to ask him?'

'No I don't! You've got him round your little finger, woman! Anyone can see that. I'm not interested in your web of lies. I want the truth! We're investigating a murder—not a

bloody parking offence!'

'Look, Inspector. I can't do much more than tell you—'

'Of course you can! You can tell me the
truth.
'

'You seem terribly sure of—'

'And so I am, woman! What the hell do you think
that
is?' He banged his right hand furiously on the top of the desk, and revealed the torn-off half of a cinema ticket.

Across the top were the letters 10, and almost immediately after them the number 2;

beneath were the words 'Rear Lounge', and along the right-hand edge, running

downwards, were the numbers 93556.

Monica looked down at the ticket as if mesmerized.

'Well?'

'I suppose it was
you
who arranged the little charade on the phone with Dr. Bartlett?'

'I've done worse in my time,' said Morse. And suddenly, and quite inexplicably, he felt

a surge of sympathy and warmth towards her, and his tone softened as he looked into

her eyes: 'It'll come out in the end—you know that. Please let me have the truth.'

Monica sighed deeply. 'Do you mind getting me a cigarette, Inspector? As I think you

know, mine are in my handbag.'

Yes (she said) Morse had been right. With Sally back from school that afternoon, there

was no chance of going home, and she wasn't that keen, in any case. The whole thing

was her fault quite as much as Donald's, of course; but recently she had been

increasingly anxious to end the futile and dangerous affair. It was Donald who

suggested they should go to the cinema and she had finally agreed. It would be an

unnecessary risk to be seen going in together, and so it was arranged that he should

go in at twenty past one, and she a few minutes later. They would each buy a ticket

separately, and he would sit on the back row of the rear lounge in Studio 2 and watch

out for her. And that's what they'd done. Everything had gone as planned, and they

had left the cinema at about half past three. They'd each taken their car, and hers had

been parked in Cranham Terrace, at the side of the cinema. She herself had gone

straight home afterwards, and so, for all she knew, had Donald. Naturally they'd both

been worried when they heard that the police wanted to know their whereabouts on

Friday afternoon, and so they'd foolishly—well, Morse knew what they'd done. It

wasn't all that far from the truth, though, was it? But, yes, they'd lied about that Friday afternoon. Of course, they had.

'Do you mind if we get your boyfriend in?' asked Morse.

'I think it would be better if you did.' She looked a little happier now, in spite of the jibe

—certainly happier than Morse.

Pathetically Martin himself began to repeat the unauthorized version, but Monica

stopped him. 'Tell them the truth, Donald. I just have. They know exactly where we

both were on Friday afternoon.'

'Oh. Oh, I see.'

Morse felt his morale sagging ever lower as Martin stumbled his way through the

same cheap little story. No discrepancy anywhere. He, like Monica it seemed, had

gone straight home af1terwards. And that was that.

'One more question.' Morse got up from the edge of the table and leaned against the

nearest cabinet. It was a vital question—
the
vital question, and he wanted to witness their immediate reactions. 'Let me ask you both once again—did either of you see Mr.

Quinn on Friday afternoon? Please think very, very carefully before you answer.'

But it seemed that neither of them had any wish to think unduly carefully. Their faces

registered blank. They shook their heads, and with apparent simplicity and

earnestness they said that they hadn't.

Morse took another deep breath. He might as well tell them, he thought—that is, if they

didn't know already. 'Would it surprise you both if I told you that . . .' (Morse hesitated—

dramatically, he hoped) 'that there was another of your colleagues in Studio 2 last

Friday afternoon?'

Martin turned deathly pale, and Monica opened her mouth like a chronic asthmatic

fighting for breath. Morse (as he later realized) would have been wiser if he had

allowed his little speech to take its full effect. But he didn't. 'You may well look

surprised. You see, we know exactly where Mr. Quinn was on Friday afternoon. He

was sitting along with the pair of you—in the rear lounge of Studio 2!'

Martin and Monica Height stared at him in stupefied astonishment.

After they had gone, Morse turned to Lewis: 'That'll give 'em something to think about.'

But Lewis was feeling far from happy, and he said so. 'I hope you'll forgive me, sir, but

—'

'C'mon, Lewis. Out with it!'

"Well. I don't think you handled it very well.' He sat back and waited for the explosion.

'Nor do I,' said Morse quietly. 'Go on.'

'You see, sir, I had the impression that when you said one of the others was in the

cinema—well, they didn't seem
surprised
at all. It was almost as if—'

'I know what you mean. It was almost as if they expected me to say someone else,

wasn't it?'

Lewis nodded vigorously. 'But they really were surprised when you said it was Quinn.'

'Ye-es. You're right. And there's only one other person it could have been, isn't there?

Bartlett was in Banbury that afternoon.'

'We haven't checked on that.'

'I don't think we shall have much trouble in finding a few headmasters to back up his

alibi. No. I don't think there's much doubt where Bartlett was that afternoon.'

'That leaves Ogleby, then, sir.'

Morse nodded.

'Shall I go and fetch him, sir?'

'What do you think?' His customary confidence had deserted him, and Lewis got up

and walked to the door. 'No, Lewis. Leave it a while, please. I want to think things

through a bit more carefully.'

Lewis shrugged his shoulders with some impatience and sat down again. Morse didn't

seem quite the man he had been, one way or another; but Lewis knew from previous

experience that it wouldn't be long before something happened. Something was

always happening when Morse was around.

And e1ven as Lewis righteously reviewed the perfectly valid points he had just been

making, Morse himself was conscious of an even greater failure in his own powers of

logical analysis. Clown of a clown! Martin and Monica Height! Why had they ever told

that abject lie in the first place? There was every risk (with Sally home so often) that

even a moderately competent detective would pretty soon ferret out the truth about

that. Why, then? And suddenly the answer presented itself, pellucidly clear:
there was
an even greater risk about telling the truth
. If they had gone to the cinema together, why not say so? It seemed an infinitely less reprehensible piece of behaviour than the

sordid liaison to which they had both been prepared to admit. People
did
go to the pictures together. It would cause a bit of talk—of course it would—if someone saw

them. But . . . The silhouetted figures once again reformed, and they were all now

grouping around one man. Arnold Philip Ogleby.

'You're right, you know, Lewis. Go and fetch him straightaway.'