Colin Dexter - The Silent World Of Nicholas Quinn

Lewis was surprised when half an hour later Morse took him to his home in North Oxford. It was two years since he had been there, and he was pleasurably surprised to find how comparatively neat and clean it was. Morse disappeared for a while, but put his head round the door and told Lewis to help himself to a drink.

'I'm all right, sir. Shall I pour one for you?'

'Yes. Pour me a sherry. And pour one for yourself.'

'I'd rather—'

'Do as you're told for a change, man!'

It wasn't unusual for Morse suddenly to turn sour, and Lewis resigned himself to the whims of his superior officer. The cabinet was well-stocked with booze, and Lewis took two small glasses and filled them from a bottle of medium sherry, sat back in an armchair, and wondered what was in store for him now.

He was sipping his sherry effeminately when Morse reappeared, picked up his own, lifted it to his lips and then put it down. 'Do you realize, Lewis, that if that sherry had been poisoned, you'd be a goner by now?'

'So would you, sir.'

'Ah, no. I've not touched mine.'

Lewis slowly put down his own glass, half-empty now, and began to understand the purpose of the little charade. 'And there'd be my prints on the bottle and on the glass. .'

'And if I'd carefully wiped them both before we started, I've just got to pour my own sherry down the sink, wash the glass — and Bob's your uncle.'

'Somebody still had to get into Quinn's place to poison the sherry.'

'Not necessarily. Someone could have given Quinn the bottle as a present.'

'But you don't give someone a bottle that's been opened! You'd have a hell of a job trying to reseal a sherry bottle. In fact, you couldn't do it.'

'Perhaps there wasn't any need for that,' said Morse slowly; but he enlightened Lewis no further. For a moment he stood quite still, his eyes staring into the hazy past where a distant memory lingered on the threshold of his consciousness but refused the invitation to come in. It was something to do with a lovely young girl; but she merged into other lovely young girls. There had been so many of them, once. . Think of something else! It would come. He drained his sherry at a gulp and poured himself another. 'Bit like drinking lemonade, isn't it, Lewis?'

'What's the programme, sir?'

'Well — I think we've got to play things a bit delicately. We might be on to something big, you must realize that; but it's no good rushing things. I want to know what all of 'em in the office were doing on Friday, but I want 'em to know what I'm going to ask them.'

'Wouldn't it be better—?'

'No. It wouldn't be fair, anyway.'

Lewis was getting lost. 'You think one of the four of them murdered Quinn?'

'What do you think?'

'I don't know, sir. But if you let them know beforehand—'

'Yes?'

'Well, they'd have something ready. Make something up—'

That's what I want them to do.'

'But surely if one of them murdered Quinn—?'

'He'd have an alibi all ready, you mean?'

'Yes.'

Morse said nothing for a few seconds and then suddenly changed tack completely. 'Did you see me last Friday, Lewis?' Lewis opened his mouth and shut it again. 'Come on! We work in the same building, don't we?' Lewis tried hard, but he couldn't get hold of the problem at all. Friday. It seemed a long way away. What had he done on Friday? Had he seen Morse?

'You see what I mean, Lewis? Not easy, is it? We ought to give 'em a chance.'

'But as I say, sir, whoever killed Quinn will have something pretty good cooked up for last Friday.'

'Exactly.'

Lewis let it go. Many things puzzled him about the chief, and he felt even more puzzled as Morse pulled the front door to behind him: 'And what makes you so sure that Quinn was murdered on Friday?'

Margaret Freeman was unmarried — a slim, rather plain girl, with droopy eyelashes, who had worked for the Syndicate for just over three years. She had earlier been confidential secretary to Mr. Bland, and had automatically been asked to transfer her allegiance to Mr. Quinn. She had slept little the previous night, and not until the late grey dawn had she managed to rein in the horses of her terror. But Morse (who thought he understood such things) was still surprised when she broke down and wept after only a few minutes of gentle interrogation. She had certainly seen Quinn on Friday morning. He had dictated a whole sheaf of letters to her at about 10.45, and these had kept her busy until fairly late that same afternoon, when she had taken them into Quinn's office and put them in the in-tray. She hadn't seen him that Friday afternoon; yet she'd had the feeling that he was about somewhere, for she could almost positively recall (after some careful prodding) that Quinn's green anorak had been draped over the back of one of the chairs; and yes! there had been that little note for her, with her initials on it, MF, and then the brief message ('Dr Bartlett liked them to leave messages, sir'); but she couldn't quite remember. . something like. . no. Just something about 'going out', she thought. About being 'back soon', perhaps? But she couldn't really remember — that was obvious.

Morse had interviewed her in Quinn's office, and after she had gone he lit a cigarette and considered things anew. It was certainly interesting. Why wasn't the note still there? Quinn must have come back, crumpled up the note. . But the wastepaper basket was empty. Cleaners! But Quinn had been alive at about 11 or 11.15 that Friday morning. That was something to build on, anyway.

To Lewis was entrusted the task of finding the caretaker and of discovering what happened to the Syndicate's rubbish. And for once the luck was with him. Two large, black plastic sacks of wastepaper were standing in a small loading bay at the side of the building, awaiting collection, and the job of sifting through the papers was at least a good deal more congenial than delving into rubbish bins. Comparatively quick, too. Most of the waste paper was merely torn across the middle, and not screwed into crumpled balls: outdated forms mostly and a few first drafts of trickier letters. No note from Quinn to his confidential secretary, though, and Lewis felt disappointed, for that was the prime object of the search. But there were several (identical) notes from Bartlett, which Lewis immediately sensed might well be of some interest; and he took them along to Quinn's office, where the receiver that Morse held to his ear was emitting the staccato bleeps of the 'engaged' signal. He further smoothed out one of the notes, and Morse put down the receiver and read it:

Mon, 17th Nov

Notice to all Staff

PRACTICE FIRE DRILL

The fire alarm will ring at 12 noon, on Friday, 21st Nov, when all staff must immediately stop working, turn off all fires, lights and other electrical appliances, close all windows and doors, and walk through the front door of the building and out into the front parking area. No one is to remain in the building for any reason, and normal work will not be resumed until everyone is accounted for. Since the weather seems likely to be cold and wet, staff are advised to take their coats etc., although it is hoped that the practice will take no longer than ten minutes or so. I ask and expect your full co-operation in this matter.

Signed T. G. Bartlett (Secretary)

'He's a careful soul, isn't he, Lewis?'

'Seems pretty efficient, sir.'

'Not the sort to leave anything to chance.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'I was just wondering why he didn't tell me about this fire drill, that's all.' He smiled to himself, and Lewis knew that that wasn't all.

'Perhaps he didn't tell you because you didn't ask him.'

'Perhaps so. Anyway, go along and ask him if there was a roll-call. You never know — we may be able to postpone Quinn's execution from 11.15 to 12.15.'