'But he couldn't. So he went along himself.'
Morse nodded. 'And found nothing, poor blighter, except one thing: that in all probability the ticket he'd found must have been bought that very afternoon.'
'Funny, isn't it, sir? They were all there that afternoon.'
'All except Quinn,' corrected Morse sombrely. "Have you got your car here?'
'Where are we going, sir?'
'I think we'd better follow in Ogleby's footsteps, and have a look around in Bartlett's office.'
As Lewis drove him for the last time to the Syndicate building, Morse allowed his mind to come to tentative grips with the one or two slight inconsistencies (very slight, he told himself) that still remained. People did odd things on occasions; you could hardly expect a smoothly logical motive behind every action, could you? The machine was in good working order now, there was no doubt of that, the cogs fitting neady and biting powerfully. Just a bit of grit in the works somewhere. Only a little bit, though.
In Cell № 2, the little Secretary sat on the bare bed, his mind, like Yeats's long-legged fly, floating on silence.
WHO?
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 alclass="underline" 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.'