most. Why, he repeated to himself, why had Monica and Donald Martin lied so clumsily about it? And as he wrestled with the problem once again, he began to convince himself that all four of them — Monica, Martin, Ogleby, and Quinn — must have had some collective reason for being in Studio 2 that Friday afternoon, for he just could not bring himself to believe that their several paths had converged for purely fortuitous reasons. Even Morse, who accepted the majority of improbable coincidences with a curiously credulous gullibility, was not prepared to swallow that! Something—something must have happened at Studio 2 that afternoon. What? Think of anything, Morse, anything — it wouldn't matter. Quinn had got there early, just after the doors opened. Then Martin had come in, sneaking into the back row and waiting and looking nervously around. Had he seen Quinn? Had Quinn seen him? The lights must have been dim; but not so dim as all that, especially as the eyes slowly accustomed themselves to the gloom. Then, what? Monica had come in, and Martin saw her, and they sat there together, and Martin told her that he had seen Quinn. What would they do? They'd leave. Pronto! Go on, Morse. If Martin had seen Quinn — and Quinn had not seen him — he would have left the cinema immediately, waited outside for Monica, told her that they couldn't stay there, and suggested somewhere else. . Yes. But where had Ogleby fitted in? The number on his ticket, some forty-odd numbers after Quinn's, suggested (if the manageress had done her sums right) that Ogleby had not appeared in Studio 2 until about four or five o'clock. How did that fit into the pattern, though? Augh! It didn't fit. Try again, Morse. Something must have frightened Monica off, perhaps. Yes. That was a slightly more promising hypothesis. Had she seen something? Someone? The cause of all the lies? After learning that Quinn had been in Studio 2, she had told another lie, and. . Oh Christ! What a muddle his mind was in! The pictures flickered fitfully upon the wall, the faces fading and changing, and fading again. .
'You've been a long way away, Inspector.'
'Mm? Oh, sorry. Just daydreaming.'
'About me?'
'Among others.'
On the table beside the bed was a copy of The Times, folded at the crossword page; but only three or four words were written into the diagram, and Morse found himself wondering and wandering off again. Wondering if Monica knew where the Islets of Langerhans were situated. . Well, if she didn't, the nurse could soon—Just a minute! His thinning hair seemed to be standing on end, and his scalp suddenly tingled with a thousand tiny prickles. Oh yes! It was a beautiful idea, and the old questions flooded his brain. In what sea are the Islets of Langerhans? When was George Washington assassinated? Who was Kansas-Nebraska Bill? In what year did R.A. Butler become prime minister? Who composed the Trout Quartet? By what name was the Black Prince known when he became king? The questions were all non- questions. Georgie W. wasn't assassinated, and K.N. Bill wasn't anybody; he was a Bill before the Senate. The same with all of them. They were questions which couldn't be answered, because they were questions which couldn't be asked. Morse had become besotted with trying to find out who had been at Studio 2, when they had been there, why they had been there. But what if they were all non-questions? What if no one had been in Studio 2? Everything in the case had been designed to mislead him into thinking that they had been there. Some of them — all of them, perhaps— wanted him to think so. And he had blindly stumbled along the gangway down the darkened cinema, groping his way like a blind man, and trying to see (O fool of a fool!) who was sitting there. But perhaps there was no one, Morse. No one!
'Who did you see going into Studio 2, Miss Height?'
'Why don't you call me 'Monica'?'
The nurse put her head through the curtains, and told Morse that he really ought to leave now; he'd already gone way over his time. He stood up and looked down at her once more, and kissed the top of her head gently.
'You didn't see anyone going in to Studio 2, did you, Monica?'
For a second there was hesitation in her eyes, and then she looked at him earnestly. 'No. I didn't. You must believe that.'
She took Morse's hand and squeezed it gently against her soft breast. 'Come again, won't you? And try to look after me.' Her eyes sought his and he realized once more how desperately desirable she would always be to lonely men — to men like him. But there was something else in her eyes: the look of the hunted fleeing from the hunter; the haunted look of fear. 'I'm frightened, Inspector. I'm so very frightened.'
Morse was thoughtful as he walked the long corridors before finally emerging through the flappy celluloid doors into the entrance road by the side of the Radcliffe, where the Lancia stood parked on an 'Ambulance Only' plot. He started up the engine and was slowly steering through the twisting alleys that led down into Walton Street when he saw a familiar figure striding up towards the hospital. He stopped the car and wound down the window.
'I'm glad to see you, Mr. Martin. In fact I was just coming along to see you. Jump in.'
'Sorry. Not now. I'm going to see—'
'You're not.'
'Who says?'
'No one's going in to see her until I say so.'
'But when—?'
'Jump in.'
'Do I have to?'
Morse shrugged his shoulders. 'Not really, no. You please yourself. At least, you please yourself until I decide to take you in.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'What it says, sir. Until I decide to take you in and charge you—'
'Charge me? What with?'
'Oh, I could think up something pretty quickly, sir.'
