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But before leaving Room 231, he dipped a hand gently into the inside breast-pocket of the dead man’s jacket, withdrawing a wallet of pigskin leather.

“Do we know who found him — and how?” asked Lewis, as the two detectives walked down the grandly wide staircase to the reception area of The Randolph.

“That’s exactly what I hope you’re going to find out for me.”

Three-quarters of an hour later Sergeant Lewis had discovered all there was to be known. Not much, but enough. And he reported to Morse.

Sherwood had reserved the double-bedded, en suite, five-star room by phone only the previous evening — with no opportunity thus afforded for any written confirmation. He had booked in, on his own, at about 5:40 P.M. But the form, duly completed at reception, was comparatively uninformative: Name(s) — “Sherwood”; Home Address — “53 Leominster Drive, Shrewsbury”; Signature — “Peter Sherwood.” The two boxes beside the questions Are you here on business? On leisure? remained unticked, and the space for Car Registration was completed with a dismissive dash. That was all, except for a tick in the Cash box alongside How do you intend to settle your account?

The Guest Registration Card thus negotiated, £140 (in twenties) had been paid; and no further details were disclosed by Sherwood or demanded by the chicly uniformed receptionist. Any wake-up call in the morning? “No.” Any newspaper? “Yes — the Telegraph.” Sherwood had taken the key, politely declined the offer of help with his two suitcases, and that was that.

No woman on the scene — no one remembered a woman at all.

Sherwood was scheduled to attend a two-day conference on Computer Technology being held at Rewley House — very close by, just up at the top of St. John Street, almost immediately opposite The Randolph.

Now clearly of importance had been two telephone calls. The first, probably an outside call, asking to be put through to Mr. Sherwood; the second, presumably made from inside the hotel, reporting to the operator that medical assistance was urgently required in Room 231. The Senior Concierge, Roy Harden, had immediately gone up to the room, where he’d found the door slightly ajar — and Sherwood lying across the threshold of the bathroom. Already dead by the look of him. From the room itself Harden had promptly telephoned the house-doctor; and then the manager, with whose assistance two minutes later he’d carried Sherwood’s body over to the bed. A room-maid had cleared up the broken glass from the bathroom — for there seemed to be no suspicious circumstances at the time. It was only because of the house-doctor’s marginal unease over the head wound that the manager had deemed it prudent to call in the police. Just to be on the safe side.

“What do you think so far?” asked Morse.

“Same as you, sir. Cherchez la belle femme. He’s off to another conference — he invites his mistress — they know how to work things — he has a heart attack — she’s scared out of her wits — rings for the doc — and then gets pretty smartish out of it.”

“Ye-es...” Morse picked up the dead man’s wallet. “No railway tickets in here, Lewis.”

“So?”

“They don’t very often collect railway tickets from passengers these days, do they?”

Lewis followed the drift of Morse’s thinking. “They probably came by car, you mean?”

“Her car, like as not. He tells his wife he’s going to the railway station, and his lady-love picks him up there. Then when she gets him here, she just nips off and parks her car somewhere nearby — and there’s no need for anyone to know her registration number or anything. Very neat. Very easy.”

Lewis nodded agreement. “It’s getting easier all the time to commit adultery.”

Morse looked up sharply. “Let’s be slightly more accurate about things, Lewis. What you mean is that the preconditions for adultery are easier to handle: fewer eyebrows raised; fewer questions asked; fewer details to be filled in; just fork out your fee for the room... But whether it’s really become emotionally easier, psychologically easier... physically easier — well, I just wouldn’t know, would I?”

Saving Lewis the possible embarrassment of any reply, the young pathologist now appeared beside them in the Chapters Bar.

Morse beamed happily, and pushed forward his emptied glass. “Ah, Doctor Hobson! What’ll you have to drink? Lewis here is in the chair.”

But Dr. Hobson shook her pretty head. “I can’t stay, I’m afraid.”

“Pity!”

“You’re feeling all right, Chief Inspector?”

“Pardon?”

“They told me the only thing you ever wanted from any pathologist was an estimated time of death.”

“Oh, I know that already,” replied Morse. “Six o’clock — to the minute, I’d say.”

Laura Hobson smiled, refusing to rise to the bait. “About six o’clock, yes. I hope you don’t expect me to be quite so precise as you, though? I’m just a humble medical scientist myself. No foul-play, though. I’m fairly sure of that.”

“Fairly sure?”

“As I say, I’m just a scientist. Good night.”

“He was a neat and tidy enough man,” resumed Lewis. “The bag he’d packed for himself — well, it was all laid out with sort of military precision. You know, socks, hankies, spare pants, washing kit — all in their proper compartments.”

“Condoms?”

“Yes, sir, in a little compartment at the front.”

“It’s all very sad, isn’t it?”

“More sad for the wife, if you ask me.”

“It was the wife I was thinking of,” replied Morse quietly.

Lewis thought it wise to change tack. “You seem very sure about the time?”

“There a Diabetic Card here in the wallet, giving details and times of daily injections: 7 A.M.; 6 P.M.; 10:30 P.M. ‘Military precision,’ did you say? I think you’re right.”

“We’d know it was just before or just after six anyway, wouldn’t we? From the telephone calls, I mean.”

“Ye-es.”

“Who do you think made the first call, sir?”

“Same woman who made the second. She rang from a phone-box outside — said she’d parked OK — asked him for the room number — told him to leave the door slightly ajar — promised she’d be with him in just a few minutes...”

“... saw him lying there — realized he was dead — and rang for help.”

“Where did she ring from, though?” asked Morse slowly.

“Bedroom, I should think?”

“I wonder... She’d have to stand just over him when she rang, wouldn’t she?”

“Not everybody’s quite so put off by dead bodies as you, sir.”

The Senior Concierge, now re-summoned, briskly confirmed his earlier evidence, and Morse had only one additional question.

“Was the telephone off the hook when you went into the room?”

“Yes, sir. Dangling on the cord.”

“And you replaced it?”

“I replaced it.”

“I see.”

“Should I have left it?”

“No, no!” For some reason Morse seemed almost relieved, and the concierge left.

“I wish all our witnesses were as bright and unequivocal as Mr. Harden, Lewis!”

“Important, is it, this phone business?”

“No. I don’t think so. Not now.”

Lewis looked at his watch. “We shall have to do something about his wife, sir.”

“You know the routine better than I do.”

Yes, Lewis did.