The Silent World Of Nicholas Quinn

logical. And as Morse handed in his platform ticket and walked out into the bright afternoon, he was more firmly convinced than ever that someone else had been in Studio 2 that Friday afternoon. He looked at his watch: 145 pm. Tempting. By Jove, yes! The cinema was only three or four minutes' walk away, and Inga would be showing 'em all a few tricks. Ah well.

He signalled for a taxi: 'Foreign Examinations Syndicate, please.'

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

'I DON'T CARE WHAT you ask her,' snapped Morse. 'When I've fetched her in here, just keep her talking for ten minutes, that's all I ask.' Lewis, who half an hour previously had been summoned to the Syndicate building once more, looked inordinately uncomfortable. 'What do you want me to find out, though?'

'Anything you like. Ask her what her measurements are.'

'I wish you'd try to be serious, sir.'

'Well, ask her whether gin goes straight to her tits, or something.'

Lewis decided he would get nowhere with Morse in such a mood. What had happened to him? Something, surely; for suddenly he seemed as chirpy as a disc jockey.

Morse himself crossed the corridor, knocked on Monica's door, and went in. 'Can you spare a minute, Miss Height? Won't take long.' He escorted her politely to Quinn's office, showed her to the chair that faced Lewis, her reluctant interlocutor, and himself stood idly aside.

The phone went a few minutes later and Lewis answered it. 'For you, sir.'

'Morse here.'

'Ah, Inspector. Can I see you for a minute? It's, er, rather important. Can you come along straightaway?'

'I'm on my way.'

Both Lewis and Monica had heard the-voice plainly, and Morse excused himself without further explanation.

Once inside Monica's office, he worked swiftly. First, the bulky sheepskin jacket hanging up in the wall cupboard. Nothing much in either pocket — nothing much of interest, anyway. Next, the handbag. It would surely be here, if anywhere. Make-up, cheque book, diary, Paper-mate pen, comb, small bottle of perfume, pair of earrings, programme for a forthcoming performance of The Messiah, packet of Dunhill cigarettes, matches — and a purse. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the catch and poked his fingers amidst the small change and the keys and the stamps and—there it was. Ye gods. He'd been right! He was breathing nervously and noisily as he closed the handbag, placed it carefully back in its former position, left the room, closed the door quietly behind him, and stood alone in the corridor. He saw the implications — the extraordinarily grave implications — of the discovery he had just made. Certainly he'd been fairly sure that with a bit of luck he might find something. Yet now he'd found it, he knew there was something wrong, something that rang untrue, something that had not occurred to him before. Still, there was a quick way of finding out.

He hadn't been away for more than two or three minutes, and Lewis was relieved to see him back so soon. He sat on the corner of the table and looked at her. There were times (not very frequent, he admitted) when he seemed to lose all interest in the female sex, and this was one of them. She might as well have been a statue cast in frigid marble for all the effect she was having on him how. It happened to all men — or, at least, so Morse had heard. The womenopause, they called it. He took a deep breath. 'Why did you lie to me about last Friday afternoon?'

Monica's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, but she was not, it appeared, excessively surprised. 'It was Sally, wasn't it? I realized, of course, what your man was up to.'

'Well?'

'I don't know. I suppose it sounded less — less sordid, somehow, saying we went to my place.'

'Less sordid than what?'

'You know — motoring around, stopping in lay-bys and hoping no one else would pull in.'

'And that's what you did?'

'Yes.'

'Would Mr. Martin back you up?'

'Yes. If you explained to him why—'

'You mean you haven't done that already?' The tone of Morse's voice was becoming increasingly harsh, and Monica coloured deeply again.

'Don't you think we ought to ask him?'

'No I don't! You've got him round your little finger, woman! Anyone can see that. I'm not interested in your web of lies. I want the truth! We're investigating a murder — not a bloody parking offence!'

'Look, Inspector. I can't do much more than tell you—'

'Of course you can! You can tell me the truth.'

'You seem terribly sure of—'

'And so I am, woman! What the hell do you think that is?' He banged his right hand furiously on the top of the desk, and revealed the torn-off half of a cinema ticket. Across the top were the letters 10, and almost immediately after them the number 2; beneath were the words 'Rear Lounge', and along the right- hand edge, running downwards, were the numbers 93556.

Monica looked down at the ticket as if mesmerized.

'Well?'