The Silent World Of Nicholas Quinn

'We've all got our little weaknesses, sir.'

'No, you misunderstand me. I didn't mean whether he'd want to go to a sexy film or not. I've often. . Well, never mind about that. No. It was about him saying he was here. You see, he's just not — the sort of man who lies about things, and yet you say he insists that he was here when Roope came.'

That's what he says.'

'And Roope says he wasn't in his own office, or anywhere around?'

'The caretaker backs him up.'

'He might have been upstairs.'

'I don't think so. Mr. Ogleby himself says he heard Roope come in.'

Bartlett shook his head slowly and frowned. 'What do the girls say?'

'What girls?'

'The girls who collect the out-trays.'

Morse mentally kicked himself. 'What time are the trays collected?'

'Four o'clock every afternoon. The Post Office van is usually here about four-fifteen, and we like to have everything ready before then.'

I bet you do, thought Morse.

Bartlett rang through to the Registry and almost immediately a young, fair-haired girl came in and tried to keep her head as Morse questioned her. She had collected the trays on Friday afternoon. Yes, at four o'clock. And no one was there. Neither Ogleby, nor Miss Height, nor Martin, nor Quinn. No, she was quite sure. She'd mentioned to the other girls how odd it seemed.

Bartlett watched her distastefully as she left. He was wondering exactly how much work the 'other girls' had been doing when his back was turned.

Morse, as he walked slowly up the corridor with Bartlett, realized how very little he knew about the tangled complexity of relationships within the office. 'I'd like to have a long chat with you sometime, sir — about the office, I mean. There are so many things—'

'Why not come out and have a meal with us? My wife's a jolly good cook, you'll find. What about it?'

'That's very kind of you, sir. When do you suggest?'

'Well. Any time, really. Tonight, if you like.'

'Your wife—'

'Oh, don't worry about that. Leave it to me.' He disappeared into his office, and returned a couple of minutes later. 'Do you like steak, Inspector?'

As they walked to the car, both Lewis and Morse were deep in thought. The case was throwing up enough clues to solve a jumbo crossword, but somehow they wouldn't quite fit into the diagram.

'Nice fellow, Bartlett,' ventured Lewis, as they drove along the Woodstock Road towards the ring-road perimeter.

Morse did not reply. Bit too nice, perhaps, he was thinking. Far too nice, really. Like one of those suspects in a detective story who like as not turns out to be the crook. Was it possible! Was there any way in which the sturdy, shrewd, efficient little Secretary could have contrived the murder of Nicholas Quinn? As Lewis picked up speed down the long hill towards Kidlington, Morse began to see that there was a way. It would have been fiendishly clever; but then for all Morse knew. . Oxford was full of clever people, wasn't it? And all at once it occurred to Morse that he was in very real danger of underestimating all of those he'd interviewed so far. Why, even now, perhaps, they were all sitting there quietly laughing at him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MORSE SAT ALONE in his office. It was over two and a half hours before he was due at the Bartletts' and he welcomed the solitude and the chance to think.

The groceries which Quinn had purchased and the list of the provisions found in his kitchen proved more interesting than Morse had expected. Two pieces of steak and a bag of mushrooms, for instance. Bit extravagant, for one person? Might it have been for two? Two lovers? Morse pictured again the girl at the buffet door that led to Platform 1, and she merged into the figure of Monica Height. Could it have worked? Monica now admitted going to the cinema — with Martin, though. Could he forget Martin? Spineless creature. And so besotted with Monica that he'd say anything — if she told him to, or bribed him to. Think on, Morse! Monica and Quinn, then. Back row of the rear lounge; awkward unfastenings and frenetic fondlings, with the promise of still more glorious things in store — later. Later, yes. But where? Not at her place: impossible with Sally around. Why not at his? He could get some food in (steak? mushrooms?), and she would cook it for him. She'd love to. 'And don't forget, Nick, I'll bring the drinks this time. Sherry, isn't it? Dry sherry? I like that, too. And I'll bring a bottle of Scotch, as well. It always does things to me. .' Possible. A starting point anyway.

Morse looked at the two lists again, and noticed a fact he'd missed before. Quinn already had two half-pound packs of butter in his fridge, yet for some reason he'd bought another. Different brand, too. Very odd. Like a few other facts. He took a piece of paper and wrote them down:

(a) Position of Quinn's coffee table indicated that he'd probably been sitting in the draught. (Steady, Sherlock!)