Colin Dexter - The Riddle Of The Third Mile

So Lewis repeated, as accurately as he could recall it, the news he had gleaned from the War Office archivist; and he felt very happy as he did so, for he knew that the news was pleasing to his master-a master, incidentally, who now had guessed the whole truth about the desert episode.

‘You’ve done a marvellous day’s work, old friend. Well done!’

‘Did you find out anything new, sir?’

‘Well, yes and no, really. I’ve-I’ve been thinking about the case for most of the day. But nothing startling.’

‘Anyway, have a good day in London tomorrow, sir!’

‘What Ah yes-tomorrow. I’ll-er-give you a ring if I find out anything exciting.’ -‘Perhaps you’ll do that, sir.’

‘What? Ah yes-perhaps I will.’

A rather sad footnote to the events described in this chapter is that if Lewis had been slightly more interested in the formation of a new angling association and if he had asked to see the proof of the proposed letter-heading (but why should he?), he would have found that one of the two honorary vice-presidents listed at the top left-hand corner of the page was a man with a name which was now very familiar to him: Mr G. Westerby (Lonsdale College, Oxford).

Morse appears to have a powerful effect on two women, one of whom he has never met.

For Lewis, a 10 a.m. visit to Lonsdale was pleasantly productive, since the college secretary (she liked Lewis) had brought him a cup of coffee, and been quite willing to talk openly about Westerby as a person. So Lewis made his notes. Then he found out something about cars, since – in spite of Morse’s apparent indifference to the problem – it seemed to him of great importance to discover exactly how the corpse had been transported from London to Thrupp, and he learned that Browne-Smith – doubtless on doctor’s orders – had sold his Daimler a month or so ago, whilst Westerby still ran a red Metro, occasionally to be seen in the college forecourt.

‘Why would Westerby want a car, though?’ asked Lewis. ‘He lived in college.’

‘I don’t know. He’s a bit secretive – doesn’t tell anyone much about what he does.’ ‘He must go somewhere?’

‘I suppose so,’ she nodded vaguely.

‘Nice little car, the Metro. Economical!’

‘Roomy in the back, too. You can take the seats out, you know -get no end of stuff in there.’

‘So they tell me, yes.’

‘You’ve got a car, Sergeant?’

‘I’ve got an old Mini, but I don’t use it much. Usually go to work on the bus and then use a police car.’

The college secretary looked down at her desk. ‘Has Inspector Morse got a car?’

Lewis found it an odd question. ‘He’s got a Lancia, He’s had a Lancia ever since I’ve known him.’

‘You’ve known him long?’

‘Long enough.’

‘Is he a nice man?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly call him “nice”.’

‘Do you like him?’

‘I don’t think you “like” Morse. He’s not that sort of person, really.’

‘But you get on well with him?’

‘Usually. You see-well, he’s the most remarkable man I’ve ever met, that’s all.’

‘He must think you’re a remarkable man-if he works with you all the time, I mean.’

‘No! I’m just, well…’ Lewis didn’t quite know how to finish, but he felt more than a little pride in the shadow of the compliment. ‘Do you know him, then, miss?’

She shook her pretty head. ‘He spoke to me over the phone once, that’s all.’

‘Oh he’s terrible over the phone-always sounds so, I don’t know, so cocky and nasty, somehow.’

‘You mean… he’s not really like that?’

‘Not really,’ said Lewis quietly. Then he noticed that the gentle eyes of the college secretary had suddenly drifted away from himself, and out towards a man she had never known or even seen. Momentarily he felt a twinge of jealousy.

Morse!

Down the dingy red-carpeted stairs, through the dingy red curtains, Morse, at 11 a.m., followed the same path that Browne-Smith had trodden eighteen days before him. He sat at a table in the Flamenco Topless Bar, and transacted his business with a milky white maiden. It didn’t take him long; and, after that Browne-Smith’s spunky antagonist behind the bar had proved no match for him, since for some reason she could not conceive of suggesting to this man, with the blue-grey eyes and the thinning, grey-black hair, that he could go across the way to the Sauna if he wanted any further sexual gratification. He seemed to her coldly detached; and when he looked at her with eyes intensely still, she found herself answering his questions almost hypnotically. Thus it was that Morse, in a short space of time had penetrated the door marked “Private” at the rear of the drinking lounge.

At 1 p.m. he was riding in a taxi to an address he had known anyway -the address already pencilled firmly in his mind when that same morning he had left the Number One platform at Oxford on the 9.12 train. Perhaps he should have short-circuited the whole process; but on the whole he thought not, even though he had felt not the vaguest stir of virility as one of the girls had sat opposite him, sipping her exotic juice. So far so good; and comparatively easy. The outlines of the pattern had been confirmed at every stage: Gilbert (one of twins, as Lewis had told him-interesting!) had quite fortuitously found a client in Oxford; and opposite his client’s room he’d seen, in Gothic script, a name that for some reason was indelibly printed on his mind; with (doubtless) considerable ingenuity, had lured this man to London-lured him to the address which Morse had just given to his taxi-driver, the same address that Morse had memorized from the wooden crates in the rooms Westerby on Staircase T: 29 Cambridge Way, London, WC1. But what had happened after the suspicious and resourceful Browne-Smith had faced his second test of personal courage? What exactly had occurred when “Yvonne” had left… and someone else had entered?

Such thoughts occupied Morse’s mind as the taxi made its way (by an extremely circuitous route, it seemed to Morse) to Cambridge Way. Yet there were other thoughts, too: he could, of course, claim full expenses for his train fare (first class, although he usually travelled second), tube fare, taxi fare, subsistence… Yes, he might just make enough on the day to settle down happily in the buffet car on his return and enjoy a couple of Scotches at someone else’s expense. But would he be justified in sticking down on his claims-form such a ludicrous-looking item as “Flamenco Revenge-£6”? On the whole, he thought, probably not. He alighted, and stood alone in front of Number 29.

Lewis retraces some of his steps, and makes some startling new discoveries.

Lewis was back at Police HQ by 11.30 a.m., sensing that without further directions from on high he had gone as far as he was likely to go. But just for the moment he felt a little resentful about taking too many orders; and by noon he had taken the firm decision to revisit the scene of the crime. He didn’t quite know why.

After drinking half a pint of bitter in the Boat Inn, he walked out along the road by the canal and up to Aubrey’s Bridge. But there were no fishermen there this morning, and he turned his attention to his left as he walked slowly along, noting once more the authoritative notices posted regularly along the low, neat terrace: ‘No mooring opposite these cottages.’ The people here here obviously jealous of their acquired territories-doubtless rich enough, too, to own boats of their own and to regard it as some divine right that they should moor such craft immediately opposite their neatly painted porches.