The Secret of Annexe 3

'You never know, sir.' Lewis fingered the great bunch of keys that Binyon had given him, but Morse appeared reluctant to get moving.

'Shall I do it myself, sir?'

Morse got up at last. 'No! Let's go and have a look round the rooms - you're quite right. You take the Palmers' room.'

In the Smiths' room, Annexe 2, Morse looked around him with little enthusiasm (wouldn't the maid have tidied Annexe 1 and Annexe 2 during the day?) finally turning back the sheets on each of the twin beds, then opening the drawers of the dressing table, then looking inside the wardrobe. Nothing. In the bathroom, it was clear that one or both of the Smiths had taken a shower or a bath fairly recently, for the two large white towels were still slightly damp and the soap in the wall-niche had been used - as had the two squat tumblers that stood on the surface behind the wash-basin. But there was nothing to learn here, Morse felt sure of that. No items left behind; no torn letters thrown into the wastepaper basket; only a few marks over the carpet, mostly just inside the door, left by shoes and boots that had tramped across the slush and snow. In any case, Morse felt fairly sure that the Smiths, whoever they were, had nothing at all to do with the crime, because he thought he knew just how and why the pair of them had come to the Haworth Hotel, booking in at the last possible moment, and getting out at the earliest possible moment after the murder of Ballard had been discovered. 'Smith, J.' (there was little doubt in Morse's mind) was an ageing rogue in middle management, drooling with lust over a new young secretary, who'd told his long-suffering spouse that he had to go to a business conference in the Midlands over the New Year. Such conduct was commonplace, Morse knew that; and perhaps there was little point in pursuing the matter further. Yet he would like to meet her, for she was, according to the other guests, a pleasingly attractive woman. He sat on one of the beds, and picked up the phone.

'Can I help you?' It was Sarah Jonstone.

'Do you know what's the first thing they tell you if you go on a course for receptionists?' ‘Oh! It's you.'

'They tell you never to say "Can I help you?'" 'Can I hinder you, Inspector?'

'Did the Smiths make any telephone calls while they were here?' 'Not from the bedroom.'

'You'd have a record of it - on their bill, I mean - if they'd phoned anyone?'

'Ye-es. Yes we would.' Her voice sounded oddly hesitant, and Morse waited for her to continue. 'Any phone call gets recorded automatically.'

'That's it then.'

'Er - Inspector! We've - we've just been going through accounts and we shall have to check again but - we're almost sure that Mr and Mrs Smith didn't square up their account before they left.'

'Why the hell didn't you tell me before?' snapped Morse.

'Because - I - didn't - know,' Sarah replied, spacing the four words deliberately and quietly and only just resisting the impulse to slam the receiver down on him.

'How much did they owe?'

Again, there was a marked hesitation at the end of the line. 'They had some champagne taken to their room - expensive stuff—'

'Nobody's ever had a cheap bottle of champagne - in a hotel -have they?' 'And they had four bottles —'

'Four?’ Morse whistled softly to himself. 'What exactly was this irresistible vintage?' it was Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin 1972.' is it good stuff?' 'As I say, it's expensive.'. 'How expensive?' '£29.75 a bottle.'

'It's what?’ Again Morse whistled to himself, and his interest in the Smiths was obviously renascent. 'Four twenty-nines are ...Phew!'

'Do you think it's important?' she asked.

'Who'd pick up the empties?’

'Mandy would - the girl who did the rooms.'

'And where would she put them?’

'We've got some crates at the back of the kitchen.’

'Did anyone else raid the champagne cellar?'

'I don't think so.'

'So you ought to have four empty bottles of 72 whatever-it-is out there?' 'Yes, I suppose so.' 'No "suppose" about it, is there?’ 'No.’

'Well, check up-straight away, will you?' ‘All right.'

Morse walked back into the bathroom, and without picking up the tumblers leaned over and sniffed them one by one. But he wasn't at all sure if either smelled of champagne, though one pretty certainly smelled of some peppermint-flavoured toothpaste. Back in the bedroom, he sat down once more on the bed, wondering if there was something in the room, or something about the room, that he had missed. Yet he could And nothing-not even the vaguest reason for his suspicions; and he was about to go when there was a soft knocking on the door and Sarah Jonstone came in.

'Inspector, I —' Her upper lip was shaking and it was immediately clear that she was on the verge of tears.

'I'm sorry I was a bit short with you —’ began Morse.

'It's not that. It's just...'