The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn

'Like you are, Inspector.' Roope bestirred himself at last. He took out a cigarette and lit it, putting the match carefully into the ashtray. 'I can't honestly think that you expect me to believe such convoluted nonsense.' He spoke carefully and rationally, and appeared much more at ease with himself. 'If you've nothing better to talk about than such boy-scout fancy-dress twaddle, I suggest you release me immediately. But if you want to persist with it, I shall have to call in my lawyer. I refused to do this when you told me of my rights earlier — I knew my rights, anyway, Inspector — but I thought I'd rather have my own innocence at my side than any pettifogging lawyer. But you're driving me a bit too far, you know. You've not the slightest shred of evidence for any of these fantastic allegations you've made against me. Not the slightest! And if you can't do any better than this I suggest that it may be in your own interests, not just mine, to pack in this ridiculous charade immediately.'

'You deny the charges then?'

'Charges? What charges? I'm not aware that you've made any charges.'

'You deny that the sequence of events—'

'Of course, I deny it! Why the hell should anyone go to all that trouble—?'

'Whoever murdered Quinn had to try to establish an alibi. And he did. A very clever alibi. You see all the. indications in this case seemed to point to Quinn being alive on Friday evening, certainly until the early evening, and it was vital—'

'You mean Quinn wasn't alive on Friday evening?'

'Oh no,' said Morse slowly. 'Quinn had been dead for several hours.'

There was a long silence in the small room, broken finally by Roope. 'Several hours, you say?'

Morse nodded. 'But I'm not quite sure exactly when Quinn was murdered. I rather hoped you might be able to tell me.'

Roope laughed aloud, and shook his head in bewilderment. 'And you think I killed Quinn?'

'That's why you're here, and that's why you're going to stay here — until you decide to tell me the truth.'

Roope's voice suddenly became high-pitched and exasperated. 'But — but I was in London that Friday. I told you that. I got back to Oxford at four-fifteen. Four-fifteen! Can't you believe that?'

"No, I can't,' said Morse flatly.

'Well, look, Inspector. Let's just get one thing straight. I don't suppose I could account for my movements — at least not to your satisfaction — from, let's say, five o'clock to about eight o'clock that night. And you wouldn't believe me, anyway. But if you're determined to keep me in this miserable place much longer, at least charge me with something I could have done. All right! I drove Quinn's car and did his shopping and God knows what else. Let's accept all that bloody nonsense, if it'll please you. But charge me with murdering Quinn as well. At twenty past four — whenever you like, I don't care! Five o'clock. Six o'clock. Seven o'clock. Take your pick. But for Christ's sake show some sense. I was in London until three o'clock or so, and I was on the train until it reached Oxford. Don't you understand that? Make something up, if you like. But please, please tell me when and how I'm supposed to have murdered the man. That's all I ask.'

As Lewis looked at him, Morse seemed to be growing a little less confident. He picked up the papers in front of him and shuffled them around meaninglessly. Something seemed to have misfired somewhere — that was for sure.

'I've only got your word, Mr. Roope' (it was Mr. Roope now) 'that you caught that particular train from London. You were at your publishers', I know that. We've checked. But you could—'

'May I use your phone, Inspector?'

Morse shrugged and looked vaguely disconsolate. 'It's a bit unusual, I suppose, but—'

Roope looked through the directory, rang a number, and spoke rapidly for a few minutes before handing the receiver to Morse. It was the Cabriolet Taxis Services, and Morse listened and nodded and asked no questions. 'I see. Thank you.' He put down the phone and looked across at Roope. 'You had more success than we did, Mr. Roope. Did you find the ticket collector, too?'

'No. He's had the flu, but he'll be back at work this week sometime.'

'You've been very busy.'

'I was worried — who wouldn't be? You kept asking me where I was, and I thought you'd got it in for me, and I knew it would be sensible to try to check. We've all got an instinct for self-preservation, you know.'

'Ye-es.' Morse ran the index finger of his left hand along his nose — many, many times; and finally came to a decision. He dialled a number and asked for the editor of the Oxford Mail. 'I see. We're too late then. Page one, you say? Oh dear. Well, it can't be helped. What about Stop Press? Could we get anything in there?. Good. Let's say er "Murder Suspect Released. Mr. C. A. Roope (see page 1), arrested earlier today in connection with the murder of Nicholas Quinn, was released this afternoon. Chief Inspector—" What? No more room? I see. Well, it'll be better than nothing. Sorry to muck you about. Yes, I'm afraid these things do happen sometimes. Cheers.'

Morse cradled the phone and turned towards Roope. 'Look, sir. As I say, things like this do—'

Roope got to his feet. 'Forget it! You've said enough for one day. Can I assume I'm free to go now?' There was a sharp edge on his voice.

'Yes, sir. And, as I say. ' Roope looked at him with deep contempt as the feeble sentence whimpered away. 'Have you a car here, sir?'

'No. I don't have a car.'"

'Oh no, I remember. If you like, Sergeant Lewis here will—'

'No, he won't! I've had quite enough of your sickening hospitality for one day. I'll bus it, thank you very much!'

Before Morse could say more, he had left the room and was walking briskly across the courtyard in the bright and chilly afternoon.

During the last ten minutes of the interview Lewis had felt himself becoming progressively more perplexed, and at one stage he had stared at Morse like a street-idler gaping at the village idiot. What did Morse think he was doing? He looked again at him now, his head down over the sheets of paper on the table. But even as Lewis looked, Morse lifted his head, and a strangely self-satisfied smile was spreading over his face. He saw that Lewis was watching him, and he winked happily.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE MAN INSIDE the house is anxious, but reasonably calm. The phone rings stridently, imperiously, several times during the late afternoon and early evening. But he does not answer it, for he has seen the post-office van repairing (repairing!) the telephone wires just along the road. Clumsy and obvious. They must think him stupid. Yet all the time he knows that they are not stupid, either, and the knowledge nags away in his mind. Over and over again he tells himself that they cannot know, can only guess; can never prove. The maze would defeat an indefatigable Ariadne, and the ball of thread leads only to blind and bricked-up alleyways. Infernal phone! He waits until the importunate caller has exhausted a seemingly limitless patience, and takes the receiver off its stand. But it purrs — intolerably. He turns on the transistor radio at ten minutes to six and listens, yet with only a fraction of his conscious faculties, to the BBCs City correspondent discussing the fluctuations in the Financial Times index, and the fortunes of the floating pound. He himself has no worries about money. No worries at all.