'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.'
The red light showed outside Bartlett's office, and as Lewis stood undecided before the door, Donald Martin walked past.
'That light means he's got somebody with him, doesn't it?'
Martin nodded. 'He'd be very annoyed if any of the staff interrupted him, but — I mean. ' He seemed extremely nervous about something, and Lewis took the opportunity (as Morse had instructed him) of disseminating the news that Quinn's colleagues would all soon be asked to account for their whereabouts the previous Friday.
'But what—? He can't really think—'
'He thinks a lot of things, sir.'
Lewis knocked on Bartlett's door and went in. Monica Height turned round with some annoyance on her face, but the Secretary himself, smiling benignly, made no reference whatsoever to the infraction of the golden rule. In answer to his query, Lewis was informed that he'd better see the chief clerk upstairs, who had been in charge of the whole operation and who almost certainly would have kept the register of all those who had been present for the fire drill.
After Lewis had left the room, Monica turned around and looked hard at Bartlett. 'What's all that about, pray?'
'You know you mustn't blame the police for trying to find out when Mr. Quinn was last seen alive. I must admit I'd not mentioned the fire drill—'
'But he was alive last Friday afternoon—there's not much doubt about that, is there? His car was here until about twenty to five. So Noakes says.'
'Yes, I know all about that.'
'Don't you think we ought to tell the police straightaway?'
'I've got a strong suspicion, my dear, that Chief Inspector Morse is going to find out far more than some of us may wish.'
But whatever might have been the cryptic implication of this remark, Monica appeared not to notice it. 'Don't you agree it may be very important, though?'
'Certainly. Especially if they think that Mr. Quinn was murdered last Friday.'
'Do you think he was murdered on Friday?'
'Me?' Bartlett looked at her with a gentle smile. 'I don't think it matters very much what I think.'
'You haven't answered my question.'
Bartlett hesitated and stood up. 'Well, for what it's worth the answer's "no".'
'When—?'
But Bartlett held up his finger to his lips and shook his head. 'You're asking as many questions as they are.'
Monica rose to her feet and walked to the door. 'I still think you ought to let them know that Noakes—'
'Look,' he said in a kindly way. 'If it'll make you happier, I'll let them know straight away. All right?'
As Monica Height left the room, Martin came up to her and said something urgently into her ear. Together they disappeared into Monica's office.
The chief clerk remembered the fire drill well, of course. Everything had gone according to plan, and the Secretary had scrutinized the final list himself before allowing his staff to resume their duties. Of the twenty-six permanent staff, only three had not ticked themselves off. But all had been accounted for: Mr. Ogleby was down at the Oxford University Press; one of the typists had flu; and one of the junior clerks was on holiday. Against Quinn's name was a bold tick in black biro. And that was that. Lewis walked downstairs and rejoined Morse.