Lewis turned into HQ and sat down at Morse’s desk, giving his bubbling thoughts the chance to simmer down. The green box-file containing the few documents on the case was lying open before him, and he riffled through the sheets – most of them his own reports. In fact (he told himself) there were only two real clues, anyway, whatever anyone might say: the suit, and the torn letter. Yes… and that torn letter was here, in his hands now – together with Morse’s neatly written reconstruction of the whole. He looked down at the torn half once more, and the final “G” in line 7 and the final “J” in line 15 suddenly shot out at him from the page. Could it be?
He parked the police car half on the pavement outside the Examination Schools and felt like a nervous punter in a betting-shop who can hardly bear to read the latest 1,2,3 The lists were still posted around the entrance hall, and quickly he found the board announcing the final honours list for Geography and read through the names. Whew! It not only could be-it was. “Jennifer Bennet”. There she perched at the top of the list – that wonderful girl beginning with “J” whom he had found on a board beginning with “G”. And the college-Lonsdale. Lewis could hardly believe his eyes, or his luck. And there was more to come, for the bottom name of the examining sextet was none other than Westerby’s!
It was an excited Lewis who drove back to Kidlington; but, even as he drove, the conflicting nature of his morning’s findings was slowly becoming apparent to him. Most of what he had discovered was pointing with an insistent regularity in one direction-in the direction of George Westerby. And with Browne-Smith as the body and Westerby as the murderer, almost everything fitted the facts beautifully. Except… except that last bit. Because if the letter had been written to Westerby and not to Browne-Smith… oh dear! Lewis was beginning to feel a little lost. He wondered if Morse had spent such a successful morning in London. He doubted it-doubted it genuinely. But how he longed to talk to Morse!
Back in the office, Lewis typed up his findings and although spelling had never been Lewis’s strong suit, yet he felt rather pleased with his present reports, particularly with his little vignette of Westerby:
Londoner. Little dapper bumshious fellow -slightly deaf- pretty secretive. Tends to squint a bit, but this may be the usual cigarette at the corner of his mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Unable to get any answer from the house in Cambridge Way, Morse now reflects upon his meeting with the manager of the Flamenco Topless Bar.
Like Browne-Smith before him, Morse walked slowly up the shallow steps of Number 29 and rang the bell. But he, too, heard no sound of ringing on the other side of the great black door. He rang again, noticing as he did so the same board that Browne-Smith must have seen, with its invitation to apply to “Brooks & Gilbert (Sole Agents)”. Almost imperceptibly he nodded; almost imperceptibly he smiled. But there was still no sign of any movement in the house, and he bent down to look through the highly polished brass letter-box. He could make out the light-olive carpeting on the wide staircase that faced him; but the place seemed ominously silent. He walked across the street lad looked up at the four-storied building, admiring the clean-cut architecture, and the progressively foreshortened oblongs of the window-frames, behind which – as far as he could see – there was not the slightest tell-tale twitching of the curtainings. So he walked away along the street, entered a small park, and sat down on a bench, where he communed for many minutes with the pigeons, and with his thoughts. On the taxi-journey he had sought in his mind to minimize the risks he had already run that moring; and yet, as he now began to realize, those risks had been decidedly dangerous, especially after he had walked through the door marked “Private”… He’d started off in the quiet monotone of a man whose authority was beyond that of other men: ‘It matters to me not a single fart in the cosmos, lad, whether you tell me about it here and now, or in one of the cells of Her Majesty’s nearest nick.’
‘I don’t know who the bloody hell you think you are, talking to me like that. Let me tell you -’
‘Before you tell me anything, just call in one of your tarts out there, preferably the one with biggest tits, and tell her to bring me a large Scotch, preferably Bell’s. On the house, I suggest -because I’m here to help you, lad.’
‘I was going to tell you that I’ve got friends here who’d gladly kick the guts out of the likes of you.’
‘ “Friends”, you say?’
‘Yeah-friends!’
‘If you mean what you say, lad, I don’t honestly think they’re going to thank you very much if you bring them into this little business-and get ‘em involved with me.’
‘They’re one helluva sight tougher than you, mate!’
‘Oh no! You’ve got it all wrong, lad. And one little thing. You can curse and swear as much as you like with me, but you must never call me “mate” again! Is that understood? I’ve told you who I am, and I shan’t be telling you again.’
The manager swallowed hard. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve got a van full of squaddies outside. Is that it?’
Morse allowed a vague smile to form at the corners of his mouth. ‘No, that’s not it. I’m here completely on my own-and, what’s more no one else knows I’m here at all. Well, let’s be honest, almost no one. And if we get along, you and me, I shan’t even tell anyone that I’ve been here, either. No need really, is there?’
The manager was biting down hard on the nail of his left index finger, and Morse pressed home his obvious advantage.
‘Let me give you a bit of advice. You’re not a crook-you’r not in the same league as most of the murderous morons I deal with every day. And, even if you were, I wouldn’t need a posse of police to go around protecting me. You know why, lad?” Morse broke off for a few seconds, before focusing his eyes with almost manic ferocity upon the youngish man seated opposite him. Then he shook his head almost sorrowfully. ‘No, you don’t know why, do you? So let me tell you. It’s because the archangels look after me, lad-always have done. And most especially when I’m pursuing my present calling as the protector of Law and eternal Justice!’ Morse managed to give each of these mighty personages a capital letter; and pompous as he sounded, he also sounded very frightening.
Certainly, this was the impact upon the manager, for he appeared now to have little faith that he would be likely to emerge victorious from any conflict with the archangelic trio. He walked to the door, and sounded suddenly resigned as he asked “Racquel” to fetch two double Scotches; whilst, for a rather frightened Morse, the prospect of finding himself dead or dying in a Soho side-street was gradually receding.
The manager’s story was brief.
The club was registered in the name of Soho Enterprises Limited, although he had never himself met anyone (or so he thought) directly from this syndicate. Business was transacted through a soberly dressed intermediary-a Mr Schwenck- who periodically visited the bar to look around, and who collected takings and paid all salaries. About three weeks or so ago (he couldn’t remember exactly), Mr Schwenck had announced that a certain Mr William would very soon be calling; that the said Mr William would make his requests known, and that no questions were to be asked. In fact, the bearded Mr William had requested very little, spurning equally the offers of hospitality from the bar and from the bra-less hostesses. He had taken away a projector and two reels of pornographic film, and announced that he would be back the following morning. And he had been, bringing with him a small blue card (given to the manager) and a cassette of some piano music (given to the girl behind the bar). Thereafter he had stood quietly at the bar, reading a paperback and drinking half a glass of lime-juice. Another man (so the manager had been informed) would probably be coming in that morning; and at some point this newcomer would be directed to the office where he was to be given the blue card, plus an address. That was all.