The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn

by Colin Dexter

  Morse shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right. Tell me this. Was it raining when you came back from London?’

  ‘Raining like hell, yes. I—’ Suddenly the light dawned in his eyes. ‘Yes. I got a taxi from the station – straight to the Syndicate! There’ll be a record of that somewhere, surely?’

  ‘Do you remember the driver?’

  ‘No. But I think I remember the cab firm.’

  Roope was right, of course. It shouldn’t be all that difficult. ‘We could try to—’

  ‘Why not?’ Roope got to his feet and picked up a pile of books. ‘No time like the present, they say.’

  As they walked up to Carfax and then left into Queen Street, Morse felt that he had gone wrong somewhere, and he said nothing until they reached the railway station, where a line of taxis was parked alongside the pavement. ‘You’d better leave it to me, sir. I’ve got a bit of experience—’

  ‘I’d rather do it myself, if you don’t mind, Inspector.’

  So Morse left him to get on with it; and stood there waiting under the ‘Buffet’ sign, feeling (he told himself) like the proverbial spare part at a prostitute’s wedding.

  Five minutes later a crestfallen Roope rejoined him: it wasn’t going to be so easy as he’d thought, though he’d still like to do it himself, if Morse didn’t mind, that was. But why should Morse mind? If the young fellow was as anxious as all that to justify himself . . . ‘Like another beer?’

  They walked through the ticket area and came to the barrier.

  ‘We only want a beer,’ explained Morse.

  ‘’Fraid you’ll need platform tickets, sir.’

  ‘Ah, bugger that,’ said Morse. He turned to Roope: ‘Let’s walk down to the Royal Oxford.’

  ‘Just a minute!’ said Roope quietly. His eyes were shining again, and he retraced his steps and tapped the ticket collector on the shoulder. ‘Do you remember me?’

  ‘Don’t think so, mate.’

  ‘Were you here on duty last Friday afternoon?’

  ‘No.’ Dismissive.

  ‘Do you know who was?’

  ‘You’d have to ask in the office.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  The man pointed vaguely. ‘Not much good now, though. Lunchtime, isn’t it?’

  Clearly, it wasn’t Roope’s day, and Morse put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, and turned to the ticket collector. ‘Give us two of your platform tickets.’

  Half an hour later, after Roope had left him, Morse sat deep in thought and, to the teenaged couple who came to sit opposite him at the narrow buffet table, his face 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: 1.45 p.m. 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.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘I DON’T CARE what you ask her,’ snapped Morse. ‘When I’ve fetched her in here, just keeping 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 go 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 straight away?’

  ‘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 ear-rings, 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 now. 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, and 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 I0, 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 afterwards. 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 even 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 straight away.’

  After they had left Quinn’s office, Donald and Monica had stood silent for a few seconds in the polished corridor. ‘Come in a second,’ whispered Monica. She closed her own office door behind her, and looked at him fiercely. She spoke clearly and quietly, and with a force that was impressive. ‘We don’t say a word about it. Is that clear? Not a single word!’

  C
HAPTER SIXTEEN

  OGLEBY LOOKED TIRED, and Morse decided he might as well be short and sharp. He knew he was taking a risk, but he’d played longer shots before – and won.

  ‘You say, sir, that you came back to the office after lunch last Friday afternoon?’

  ‘We’ve been over that before.’

  Morse ignored him and continued. ‘But you lied to me. You were seen outside this office last Friday afternoon. To be precise, you were seen going into Studio 2 in Walton Street.’

  Ogleby sat placidly in his chair. He seemed in no way surprised. Indeed, if anyone were surprised it was Morse, who expected almost anything except the answer he received. ‘Who saw me?’

  ‘You don’t deny it?’

  ‘I asked you who it was that saw me.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir. I’m sure you understand why.’

  Ogleby nodded disinterestedly. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘We also have evidence, sir, that Mr Quinn was in Studio 2 that afternoon.’

  ‘Really? Did somebody see him, too?’

  Morse felt progressively less at ease with the man. It was one of the troubles with lies – his own lies; but he solved the problem by ignoring it. ‘What time did you go to the cinema, sir?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ (There it was again!)

  ‘I’d like your own statement.’

  For a few seconds Ogleby appeared to be weighing the pros and cons of coming clean. ‘Look, Inspector. In a way I suppose I lied to you a little.’ (Lewis was scribbling as fast as he could.) ‘We finish here, officially that is, at five. I try to put in my time as honestly as I can, and I think anyone you speak to here will confirm that. I’m never late, and I often work well after the rest have gone. On Friday, I agree, I left a bit early. I should think about a quarter to five, or so.’

  ‘And you went to Studio 2.’

  ‘I live in Walton Street, you know. It’s not far away.’

  ‘You went there?’