The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (22 page)

affectionately on the shoulder.

'Don't worry about it, my dear. We didn't ask the Inspector along to talk about
our

problems. He's got enough of his own, I should think.'

Only when Mrs. Bartlett was washing the pots were the two men able to talk, and

Morse's earlier impression that the Secretary knew exactly what was going on in his

own office was cumulatively confirmed: if anyone had any ideas about who had been

prepared to prostitute the integrity of the Syndicate, Morse felt it would be Bartlett. But he didn't, it seemed. With every subtlety he knew, Morse tried to draw out any

suspicion of secret doubts; but the Secretary was deeply loyal to his staff, and Morse

knew that he was tiptoeing too delicately. He decided the time had come.

'What did Mr. Quinn want when he rang you up?'

Bartlett blinked behind the window frames; and then looked down at his coffee, and

was silent for a while. Morse knew 1perfectly well that if Bartlett denied that Quinn had spoken to him, that would be the end of it, for there was no hard evidence on the point.

Yet the longer Bartlett hesitated (surely Bartlett must realize it?), the more obvious it became.

'You know that he did ring me, then?'

'Yes, sir.' He might as well push his luck a little.

'Do you mind telling me how you know?'

It was Morse's turn to hesitate, but he decided to come reasonably clean. 'Quinn's

telephone is on a shared line. Someone overheard you.'

Did Morse catch a sudden flash of alarm behind the friendly lenses? If he did, it was

gone as quickly as it had appeared.

'You want me to tell you what the conversation was about?'

'I think you should have told me before, sir. It would have saved a great deal of

trouble.'

'Would it?' Bartlett looked the Inspector in the eye, and Morse suspected that he was

still a long, long way from reaching to the bedrock of the mystery.

'The truth's going to come out sometime, sir. I honestly think you'd be sensible to tell

me all about it.'

'Haven't you got that information, though? You say someone was listening in?

Despicable attitude of mind, isn't it? Eavesdropping on other people—'

'Perhaps it is, sir; but, you see, the, er, person wasn't really listening in at all—just trying to get a very important call through, that's all. There was no question of

deliberately—'

'So you
don't
know what we were talking about?'

Morse breathed deeply. 'No, sir.'

'Well, I'm, er, I'm not going to tell you. It was a very personal matter, between Quinn

and myself—'

'Perhaps it was a personal matter that led to him being murdered, sir.'

'Yes, I realize that,'

'But you're not going to tell me?'

'No.'

Morse slowly drained his coffee. 'I don't think you realize exactly how important this is, sir. You see, unless we can find out where Quinn was and what he was doing that

Friday evening—'

Bartlett looked at him sharply. 'You said nothing about Friday before.'

'You mean—?'

'I mean that Quinn rang me up one evening last week, yes. But it wasn't Friday.'

Clever little bugger! Morse had let the cat out of the bag—about not really knowing

what the conversation had been about—and now the cat had jumped away over the

fence. Bartlett was right, of course. He hadn't actually mentioned Friday, but—

Mrs. Bartlett came through with the coffee pot and refilled the cups. She appeared

quite unaware of breaking the conversation at a vital point, sat down, and innocently

asked Morse how he was getting on with his inquiries into the terrible terrible business

of poor poor Mr. Quinn.

And Morse was game for anything now. 'We were just talking about telephone calls,

Mrs. Bartlett. The curse of the times, isn't it? I should think 1you must get almost as

many as I do.'

'How right you are, Inspector. I was only saying last week—when was it, Tom? Do you

remember? Oh yes. It was the day you went to Banbury. The phone kept ringing all the

afternoon, and I said to Tom when he came in that we ought to get an ex-directory

number and—do you know what?—just as I said it, the wretched thing rang again!

And you had to go out again, do you remember, Tom?

The little Secretary nodded and smiled ruefully. Sometimes life could be very unfair.

Very unfair indeed.

Just after 8.15 p.m. that same evening a man was taking the lid off the highly-polished

bronze coal scuttle when he heard the knock, and he got slowly to his feet and opened

the door.

'Well, well! Come on in. I shan't be a minute. Take a seat.' He knelt down again by the

fire and extracted a lump of shiny black coal with the tongs.

In his own head it sounded as if he had taken an enormous bite from a large, crisp

apple. His jaws seemed to clamp together, and for a weird and terrifying second he

sought frantically to rediscover some remembrance of himself along the empty,

echoing corridors of his brain. His right hand still held the tongs, and his whole body

willed itself to pull the coal towards the bright fire. For some inexplicable reason he

found himself thinking of the lava from Mount Vesuvius pouring in an all-engulfing

flood towards the streets of old Pompeii; and even as his left hand began slowly and

instinctively to raise itself towards the shattered skull, he knew that life was ended.

The light snapped suddenly out, as if someone had switched on the darkness. He was

dead.

MRS. BARTLETT GOT up to answer the phone at a quarter to eleven and Morse realized

that it would be as good an opportunity as he would get of taking a reasonably early

leave of his hosts.

'It's probably Richard,' said Bartlett. 'He often feels a bit sorry later on, and tries to apologize. I shouldn't be surprised if—'

Mrs. Bartlett came back into the room. 'It's for you, Inspector.'

Lewis told him as quickly and as clearly as he could what had happened. The Oxford

City Police had been called in about nine o'clock—Chief Inspector Bell was in charge.

It was only later that they realized how it might all tie in, and they'd tried to get Morse, and had finally got Lewis. The man had been killed instantly by a savage blow with a

poker across the back of the skull. No prints or anything like that. The drawers had

been ransacked, but not in any methodical way, it seemed. Probably the murderer had

been interrupted.

'I'll see you there as soon as I can manage it, Lewis.'

As Morse came back into the room his face was pale with shock and he tried to keep

his voice steady as he told the Bartletts the tragic news. 'It's Ogleby. He's been

murdered.'

Mrs. Bartlett buried her head in her hands and wept, whilst the Secretary himself, as

he showed Morse to the front door, had difficulty in putting his words together

coherently. He suddenly seemed an old man, shattered and uncomprehending. 'You

asked about Quinn—when he rang—when he ra1ng me—you asked about it—I said

—'

Morse put his hand gently on the little man's shoulders. 'Yes. You tell me.'

'He said that—he said that he'd found out something I ought to know—he said that—

that someone from the office was deliberately leaking question papers.'

'Did he say who it was?' asked Morse quietly.

'Oh yes, Inspector.
He said it was me
.'

When Morse arrived at the neat little terraced house in Walton Street, Lewis was

engaged in low conversation with Bell. It was an ugly sight, and Morse turned his

head away, closed his eyes, and felt the nausea rising in his gorge. 'Look, Lewis. I

want you to get on to one or two things straightaway. Phone, if you like, or go around

to see 'em—but I want to know exactly where Roope was tonight, where Martin was,

where Miss Height was, where—'

Bell interrupted him. 'I've just been telling the Sergeant. We know where Miss Height

was. She was here. She was the one who found him.'

It was not what Morse had expected, and the news appeared to confound whatever

provisional procedure he had planned. 'Where is she now?'

'She's in a pretty bad way, I'm afraid. She rang through on a 999 call and then fainted,

it seems. Somebody found her slumped by the public telephone box just up the road.

She's been seen by the doc and they've taken her to the Radcliffe for the night.'

'She's got a young daughter.'

Bell put his hand on Morse's shoulder. 'Relax, old boy. We've seen to all that. Give us

a
bit
of credit.'

Morse sat down in an armchair and wondered about himself. He seemed to be losing

his grip. He closed his eyes again, and breathed deeply several times. 'Do as I tell

you, anyway, Lewis. Get on to Roope and Martin straightaway. And there's something

else. You'd better go up to the Littlemore hospital sometime, and find out what you can

about Richard Bartlett—got that? Richard Bartlett. He's a voluntary patient there. Find

out what time he got in tonight—
if
he got in, that is.'

Morse forced himself to look once more at the liquid squelch of brains and blood

commingled on the carpet, beyond which the fire was now no more than an ashen

glow. 'And try to find out if any of them changed their clothes, tonight. What do you

think, Bell? Blood must have spurted all over the place, mustn't it?'

Bell shrugged his shoulders. 'The girl had blood on her hands and sleeves.'

'I'd better see her,' said Morse.

'Not tonight, old boy, I'm afraid. Doc says she's to see nobody. She's in a state of deep shock.'

'Why did she come here? Did she say.'

'Said she wanted to talk to him about something important.'

'Was the door unlocked?'

'No. She says it was locked.'

'How the hell did she get in then?'

'She's got a key.'

Morse let it sink in. 'Has she now! She certainly spreads the joys around, doesn't she?'

'Pardon?' said Bell.

It was in the early hours of Saturday morning that Morse found what he was looking for

and he whispered incredulously. Only he and Lewis remained, apart from the two

Oxford City constables standing guard outside.

'Come here, Lewis. Look at this.' It was the diary found in Ogleby's hip pocket. Bell

had earlier flipped cursorily through it, but had found no entries whatsoever, and had

put it down again. It was a blue University diary with a small flap at the back which

could be used for railway tickets and the like. And as Morse had prised open the flap,

he could hardly believe his eyes. It was a ticket, torn roughly in half, with IO 2 printed across the top, 'Rear Lounge' beneath it, and along the right edge, running down, the