The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

THE SYNDICATE BUILDING had been locked up, and all the staff informed to stay away until further notice. Only Noakes was performing his wonted dudes, and was on hand to let the two policemen in.

Seated at Bartlett's desk, Morse amused himself by switching the red and green lights on and off. He seemed like a little lad with a new toy, and it was clear to Lewis that as usual he would have to do the donkey-work himself.

It was over half an hour later, after Lewis had methodically gone through the safe (and found nothing of interest) that Morse, who had hitherto been staring vacantly round the room, finally condescended to bestir himself. The top right-hand drawer of Bartlett's desk had little to offer but neatly-stacked piles of office notepaper, and Morse idly abstracted a sheet and surveyed the decimated graduate team:

T. G. Bartlett, PhD, MA Secretary

P. Ogleby, MA Deputy Secretary

G. Bland, MA

Miss M. M. Height, MA

D. J. Martin, BA

Mm. The typists had been instructed to strike through Bland's name, and print in Quinn's at the bottom. But that wouldn't be necessary any longer. Just strike through the top three; much quicker. And then there were two. Would Miss Height be asked to take over? Advertise for new personnel? Or would the Syndicate just fold up? God knew that Donald Martin wasn't going to make much of a Deputy if it were to carry on. What a wet he was! And God help the young men they might appoint if Monica twitched her bewitching backside at 'em! Morse took out his Parker pen and slowly crossed through the names: Dr. Bartlett; Philip Ogleby; George Bland. Yes, just the two of them left — and now they could fornicate for a few months to their hearts' content. A few months! Huh! That's all Quinn had been there; not even long enough to get his name printed on the notepaper. Nicholas Quinn. Morse thought back for a few moments to the lip-reading class he'd attended. Would Quinn have been able to cope at the office if his hearing had failed him completely? No, perhaps not. Lip-reading might be a wonderful thing, but even the teacher of the class had made a mistake, hadn't she? When he'd asked her.

Morse froze where he sat, and the blood seemed to surge away from his arms and from his shoulders, leaving the top of his body numbed and tingling. Oh God — no! No! Surely not! Oh Christ, oh Blessed Virgin Mary, oh all the Saints and all the Angels — no! His hand was shaking as he wrote out the two names on the notepaper, and he found it impossible to keep his voice steady.

'Lewis! Drop whatever you're doing. Go and stand over by the door and take this notepaper with you.'

A puzzled Lewis did as he was told. 'What now, sir?'

'I want you to read those two names to me — just using your lips. Don't whisper them. Just mouth them, if you know what I mean.'

Lewis did his best

'Again,' said Morse, and Lewis complied.

'And again. and again. and again. and again.' Morse nodded and nodded and nodded and nodded, and there was a vibrant excitement in his voice as he spoke again. 'Get your coat, Lewis. We've finished here.'

She would say nothing at all for a start, but Morse was merciless. 'Did you clean the blood off?' (He'd asked the question a dozen times already.) 'My God, you must be blind if you can't see what's been happening. How many other women has he had? Who was he with last night? Don't you know? Have you never suspected? Did you clean the blood off? Did you? Or did he? Don't you understand? — I've got to know. Did you clean it off? I've got to know.'

Suddenly she broke down completely and burst into bitter, hysterical tears. 'He said — there'd been — an accident. And he — he said he'd — tried — tried to help — until — the ambulance came. It was — it was in — in the Broad — just opposite — opposite Blackwells — and—'

The door opened and a man came in. 'What the hell?' His voice had the lash of a whip, and his eyes shone with a primitive, blazing madness. 'What's that fucking man Roope been telling you, you snooping bastard?' He advanced on Morse, and lashed out wildly, whilst Mrs. Martin rushed from the room with a piercing scream.

'You should get yourself into better shape, Morse. You're pretty flabby, you know.'

'It's the beer,' mumbled Morse. 'Ouch!'

'That's the last one. See me in a week's time, and we'll take 'em out. You're all right'

'Bloody good job I had Lewis with me! Otherwise you'd have had another corpse.'

'Good, was he?'

Morse smiled crookedly and nodded. 'Christ, you should have seen him, doc!'

In Morse's office the next morning it was Lewis's turn to grin. 'Must be a bit tricky talking, sir — with all those stitches round your mouth.'

'Mm.'

Well? Tell me, then.'

'What do you want to know?'

'What finally put you on to Martin?'

'Well, it's what I said before, though I didn't really have a clue what I was talking about I told you the key to this case lay in the fact that Quinn was deaf. And so it was. But I kept on thinking what a marvel he must have become at lip-reading, and I overlooked the most obvious thing of all: that even the best lip-reader in the world is sometimes going to make a few mistakes; and Quinn did just that. He saw Roope talking to the sheik, and he read a name wrongly on his lips. I learned from the lip-reading class that the commonest difficulty for the deaf is between the consonants "p", "b" and "m", and if you mouth the words "Bartlett" and "Martin", there's very little difference on the lips. The "B" and the "M" are absolutely identical, and the second part of each of the names gets swallowed up in the mouth somewhere. But that's not all. It was Doctor Bartlett, and Donald Martin. Just try them again. Very little difference to see; and if you put the two names together, there's every excuse for a deaf person mixing them up. You see, Roope would never have called the Secretary "Tom", would he? He'd never been on Christian name terms with him, and he never would be. He'd have called him "Bartlett" or "Doctor Bartlett". And the sheik would almost certainly have given him his full title. But Martin — well, he was one of them; one of the boys. He was Donald Martin.'

'Bit of a jump in the dark, if you ask me.'

'No, it wasn't. Not really. There were one or two loose ends that somehow refused to tuck themselves away, and I had an uneasy feeling that I might have got it all wrong. As you yourself said, it was so much out of character. Bartlett's spent so much of his life building up the work of the Syndicate that it's very difficult to see him stooping to the sort of corruption we've got in this case — let alone murder. But I still couldn't see in what other direction the facts were pointing. Not, that is, until I suddenly saw the light as we sat in Bartlett's office, and then all the loose ends seemed to tidy themselves up automatically. Just think. Quinn discovered — or so he believed — that Bartlett was crooked, and he rang him up. Rang him up, Lewis! You can guess how Quinn dreaded ringing anyone up. The fact of the matter was that he couldn't face Bartlett with it any other way, because he just couldn't believe that he was guilty.'

'Did Quinn tell Bartlett that he suspected Roope as well?'

'I should think so. Quinn must have been a man remarkably free from any deception, and he probably told both Bartlett and Roope everything he suspected.'

'But why didn't Bartlett do something about it?'

'He must have thought that Quinn had got everything cockeyed, mustn't he? Quinn was accusing him — the Secretary! — of swindling the Syndicate; and if Quinn was totally wrong about himself, why should he think that Quinn was right about Roope?'

Lewis shook his head slowly. 'All a bit thin, if you ask me, sir.'

'In itself, yes. But let's turn to Monica Height. How on earth are we to account for the bundle of lies she was prepared to tell? It's fairly easy now to see why Martin must have been happy to agree to the lies they cooked up together after Monica told him she'd seen Bartlett coming out of the cinema. In fact I should think that he almost certainly instigated them himself, because it was going to suit his book very well not to have himself associated with Studio 2 in any way. And later, after Monica learned that Quinn himself might have been in Studio 2 that same afternoon she immediately realized that things would look pretty black for Bartlett if she said anything about seeing him there. And so she continued to conceal the truth. Why, Lewis? For the very same reason that Quinn couldn't face Bartlett: because she just couldn't believe that he was guilty.'

Lewis nodded. Perhaps it was all adding up slightly better now.

'And above all,' continued Morse, 'there was Ogleby. He worried me the most, Lewis, and you made the key point yourself: why didn't he tell me what he knew? I think there are two possible reasons. First, that Ogleby was quite prepared to go it alone — he was always a loner, it seems. He knew he hadn't long to live anyway, and it may have added that extra bit of mustard to his life to carry out a single-handed investigation into the quite extraordinary situation he'd stumbled across. It couldn't have mattered much to him that he might be living dangerously — he was living dangerously in any case. But that's as may be. I feel sure there was a second reason, and a much more compelling one. He'd discovered what looked like extremely damning evidence against Bartlett — a man he'd known and worked with for fourteen years—and he just couldn't believe that he was guilty. And he was determined to say nothing which could lead us to suspect him — not until he could prove it, anyway.'

'But he didn't get the chance—'

'No,' said Morse quietly. He leaned back in his chair and gently rubbed bis swollen lip. 'Anything else while we're at it, my son?'

Lewis thought back over the whole complex case and realized that he hadn't quite got it straight in his mind, even now. 'It was Martin, then, who did all of the things you accused Bartlett of?'

'Indeed it was. And more. Martin killed Quinn at exactly the same time and in almost exactly the same way. The deed was done in Martin's office, and Martin had exactly the same opportunity as Bartlett would have had. Admittedly, he was taking a slightly bigger risk, but he'd planned the whole thing — at least up to this point — with meticulous care. You see, the main plot must have been hatched up immediately after Bartlett had announced the fire drill for Friday. But the Syndicate staff only received that notice on the Monday, and there wasn't all that much time; and in the event they had to improvise a bit as the situation developed. On the whole I suppose they made the best of the opportunities that arose, but they tried to be a bit too clever — especially about the Studio 2 business, which landed them both in a hell of a lot of unnecessary trouble.'

'Don't get cross with me, sir, but can you just go over that again. I still—'

'I don't think Studio 2 figured in the original plan at all — though I may be wrong, of course. The original idea must have been to try to persuade any caller at Quinn's office that he was there or thereabouts during that Friday afternoon. It was all a bit clumsy, but just about passable — the note to his typist, the anorak, the filing cabinet, and so on. Now, I'd guess that Martin's nerves must have been pretty near breaking-point after he'd killed Quinn, and he must have breathed a huge sigh of relief when he managed to persuade Monica to spend the afternoon with him: the fewer people in the office that afternoon the better, and being with Monica gave him a reasonable alibi if things didn't go according to plan. As I say, I don't think that at this stage there was the remotest intention of planting the torn half of a cinema ticket on Quinn's body. But remember what happened Martin and Monica decided to lie about going to the cinema; and Martin himself gradually began to take stock of the situation. He must have realized that the elaborate attempt to convince everyone that Quinn was alive and well at the Syndicate was pretty futile. No one's there to be convinced Bartlett's not there — he knows that; he himself and Monica are not there, either; Quinn is dead; and Ogleby is out lunching with the OUP people and may not go back to the office at all. So. He gets his brainwave: he'll get Roope to put the cinema ticket in one of Quinn's pockets.'

'But when—?'

'Just a minute. After leaving the cinema — by the way, Martin lied to me there, and I ought to have noticed it earlier. He tried to stretch his alibi by saying he left at a quarter to four; but as we know from Monica they both left just before the film was due to end — at about a quarter past three. Obviously they'd want to get out before the general exodus — less risk of being seen. Anyway, after leaving the cinema, they went their separate ways: Monica went home; and so did Martin, except that on his way he called in at the Syndicate, at about 3.20, found no one about — not even Ogleby — and left his own cinema ticket in Bartlett's room for Roope to pick up.'

'But Roope wouldn't have known—?'

'Give me a chance, Lewis. Martin must have written a very brief note—"Stick this in his pocket", or something like that — and put it with the ticket and the keys. Then, about ten minutes later, Ogleby got back, found everyone else out, and decided that this was as good an opportunity as he'd get of poking around in Bartlett's room; and he was so puzzled by what he found there that he copied out the cinema ticket into his diary.'

'And then Martin went home, I suppose.'

Morse nodded. 'And made sure, I should think, that somebody saw him, especially during the vital period between 4.30 and 5 o'clock, when he knew that Roope was performing his part in the crime. He must have thought he could relax a bit; but then Roope rang him up from Quinn's house at just after 5 o'clock with the shattering news that Quinn's charlady — Well, you know the rest.'

Lewis let it all sink in, and he finally seemed to see the whole pattern clearly. Almost the whole pattern. 'What about the paperboy? Did Roope send him with a letter to Bartlett just—'

'—just to make things difficult for Bartlett, yes. Roope must have said he wanted to have an urgent talk with him about police suspicions — or something like that. Roope knew, of course, that we were watching him like a hawk, and so he walked slowly down to the railway station and let us follow him.'

'You haven't talked to Bartlett about that?'

'Not yet. After we'd let him go, I thought we ought to give him a bit of a breather, poor fellow. He's had a rough time.'

Lewis hesitated. 'There is just one more thing, sir.'

'Yes?'

'Bartlett will have something to explain away, won't he? I mean he did go to Studio 2.'

Morse smiled as widely as his swollen mouth would allow him. 'I reckon I can answer that one for you. Bartlett's as human as the rest of us, and perhaps it's a long time since he's seen the likes of Inga Nielsson unbuttoning her blouse. The film started at 1.30, and since he didn't need to leave for Banbury until about 2.30, he decided to be a dirty old man for an hour or so. But don't blame him, Lewis! Do you hear me? Don't blame him. He must have gone in immediately the doors opened, sat there in the rear lounge, and then, as his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, he saw Martin come in. But Martin didn't see him; and Bartlett did what anyone in his position would do — he got out, quick.'

'And that's when Monica saw him?'

'That's it.'

'So he didn't see the film after all?'

Morse shook his head sadly. 'And if you've got any more questions, leave 'em till tomorrow. I've got a treat for you tonight.'

'But I promised the wife—'

Morse pushed the phone over. 'Tell her you'll be a bit late.'

They sat side by side in a fairly crowded gathering, with only the green 'Exit' lights shining up brightly in the gloom. Morse had bought the tickets himself — rear lounge: after all, it was something of a celebration.

'Christ, look at those!' whispered Morse, as the camera moved in on the buxom blonde beauty, her breasts almost toppling out over the low-cut closely-clinging gown.

'Take it off!' shouted a voice from somewhere near the front, and the predominantly male audience sniggered sympathetically, whilst Morse settled himself comfortably in his seat and prepared to gratify his baser instincts. And with only token reluctance, Lewis prepared to do the same.