Colin Dexter - Morse’s Greatest Mystery and other stories

“What? Three spelling mistakes in one word? Three? Come off it! He spells it with a ‘V’ instead of a ‘W’; he sticks a spurious ‘i’ in before the ‘e’; and he misses the umlaut off the ‘u’—”

“The what, sir?”

Morse peeled the back off a beer-mat and wrote out the correct spelling of the opera: “Die Walküre.”

“Ullman’s German though, isn’t he?” asked Lewis slowly.

“German origin, yes.”

“So why... why didn’t he notice, well — what you noticed?”

“I’m beginning to think he did, Lewis. I’m beginning to think he did.”

“But you still felt pretty certain that Dr. Ullman was going to be burgled tonight?”

“If I’d felt all that certain, I’d have had a few heavies round the corner in a police van.”

“Well, at least he’s still got all that valuable furniture of his — that’s one good thing.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“You got anything valuable in the furniture line yourself, sir?”

“Me? Oh, just the one piece, that’s all. The family heirloom — nest of tables — Chippendale — 1756. What about you?”

“Just the big mahogany wardrobe — Utility — 1942. We’ve been trying to give it away this last year but nobody seems to appreciate the quality.”

Lewis drove the two of them back up to North Oxford, where on Morse’s instruction they stopped for a brief while outside Ullman’s residence once again. And even as they watched, the small portly figure of Eric Ullman passed across the uncurtained window of the lighted front room.

“If he’s been burgled tonight, I’m a Dutchman,” volunteered Lewis.

But Lewis was no Dutchman, Morse knew that. “You get off home, Lewis. I’ll walk from here.”

“You sure, sir? It must be all of three hundred yards.”

“Less of the sarcasm, Sergeant!”

“Night, sir.”

Morse had put out his two Co-op semi-skimmed milk tokens, and was pouring himself a touch of the malt — when he suddenly knew that something was terribly wrong. Why hadn’t he spotted the short note on the kitchen table immediately?

Sorry about the inconvenience — very sorry indeed. It was the only thing you’d got worth pinching though and I’m hoping I’ll get a good price.

That was all.

Morse bounded up the stairs, where on the landing he surveyed the empty square of unhoovered carpet upon which, until so very recently, had stood the one objet d’art that had been passed down from one generation of the Morse clan to the next — the family heirloom — the nest of tables — Chippendale — 1756.

It was Sergeant Dixon on night duty. “Thank goodness you’ve rung, sir. We’ve been trying to get you but your phone’s not been answering—”

“I’ve been out , man! You don’t mind , do you?”

“Course not. It’s just that you’ve had burglars, I’m afraid—”

“That’s exactly what I’m ringing to tell you!”

“No need to worry though, sir. They didn’t pinch anything. We’ve caught ’em — the pair of ’em.”

“You’ve done what ?”

“You see this fellow rang us and said there was somebody in your flat, but when our boys got there they’d scarpered. This fellow’d got the number though — white Self Hire van — and we stopped it out on the A40 near Wheatley. Just a few old tables in the back — don’t think they could’ve taken anything of yours, sir. They must have got wind of us somehow, I reckon.”

“Who was this fellow?”

“A Dr. Ullman, sir — lives quite near you, so he said.”

Morse was shaking his head yet again as he put down the phone. Everything — almost everything — was becoming clear at long last. The same thought must have struck the two of them, both himself and Ullman, in the King’s Arms that lunchtime; the same strange thought that far from being a gesture of courtesy and gratitude, the letter and the opera ticket were merely the appropriate stages in a subtle strategy of deception.

Yes!

And Morse’s thinking had gone one step further.

And Ullman’s thinking had gone two steps further.

Morse locked his front door very carefully behind him and walked out into the night.

“A wee drop of the malt, Chief Inspector?”

“Excellent!”

“I was hardly expecting you tonight.”

“Did you ever think of joining the police force, Doctor?”

“I’m not tall enough.”

“You were always a move or so ahead of me!”

“Ah! But to be honest with you I did have one little advantage over you. I’ve got a pair of wrens nesting in the front garden, you see, and I was watching them through the field-glasses recently when I noticed a woman, at the bus stop just outside; and I could see that she was watching something, too — watching the house, the drive, the garage... Then two days later I saw her again, and I looked at her very closely through the field-glasses and I could see she was copying something down in a red notebook, writing with her left hand — and I noticed that she had a white scar on the nail of her middle finger, as if she’d trapped it in a door. And then I saw her again , didn’t I...?”

Ullman smiled, and as he did so his features momentarily took on an almost sinister appearance.

“And you felt pretty certain that it was me who was going to get burgled tonight,” said Morse slowly.

“It seemed logical, yes. After all, if you were watching my property, you couldn’t be watching your own as well, now could you?”

“You took a huge risk though.”

“You think so?” The little man appeared puzzled.

“Well, if they burgled you , while you were round at my place watching me...”

“Oh no. I’ve finished taking risks, you see. The private detective I hired to keep a look-out here was the very best in the business, so they told me: black belt at judo, Lord knows what else.”

“He must have been pretty good — we certainly didn’t spot him.”

“Her , Chief Inspector. She said she’d probably do her ‘free-newspaper-delivery’ routine—”

“Bloody ’ell!” mumbled Morse to himself.

“—and I told her she could pack it in for the night just after I’d rung the police — just before I got back here — about nine o’clock.”

“Ten past nine, to be accurate — that’s when we spotted you.”

“Er” — Ullman coughed modestly and drained his malt — “if we’re to be accurate, Chief Inspector, shouldn’t it be when we spotted you ?”

For the last time that day Morse shook his head. Then draining his own glass and making his farewell, slowly he walked the three hundred yards back home.

Long as had been my acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, I had seldom heard him refer to his early life; and the only knowledge I ever gleaned of his family history sprang from the rare visits of his famous brother, Mycroft. On such occasions, our visitor invariably addressed me with courtesy, but also (let me be honest!) with some little condescension. He was — this much I knew — by some seven years the senior in age to my great friend, and was a founder member of the Diogenes Club, that peculiar institution whose members are ever forbidden to converse with one another. Physically, Mycroft was stouter than his brother (I put the matter in as kindly a manner as possible); but the single most striking feature about him was the piercing intelligence of his eyes — greyish eyes which appeared to see beyond the range of normal mortals. Holmes himself had commented upon this last point: “My dear Watson, you have recorded — and I am flattered by it — something of my own powers of observation and deduction. Know, however, that Mycroft has a degree of observation somewhat the equal of my own; and as for deduction, he has a brain that is unrivalled — virtually unrivalled — in the northern hemisphere. You may be relieved, however, to learn that he is a trifle lazy, and quite decidedly somnolent — and that his executant ability on the violin is immeasurably inferior to my own.”