'And you did see somebody?'
'Yes.'
'Could you recognize the person you saw coming out of Studio 2 that day?'
'Yes.'
'And is that person someone known to you?'
'Yes.'
'Is that someone here, in this room, now?'
'Yes.'
'Will you please indicate to us who that person is?'
Monica Height lifted her arm and pointed. It seemed almost like a magnetic needle pointing to the pole, gradually settling on to its true bearing. At first Mrs. Seth thought that the arm was pointing directly at Morse himself. But that couldn't be. And then she followed that accusing finger once more, and she couldn't believe what she saw. Again she traced the line. Again she found the same direction. Oh no. It couldn't be, surely? For Monica's finger was pointing directly at one man—the Secretary of the Syndicate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
LEWIS (MIRABILE DICTU) had not been kept completely in the dark. It was Lewis who had taken his turn of guard-duty in watching Roope's house. It was Lewis who had seen Roope leave that house and walk slowly to the car park at the railway station. It was Lewis who had traced the paperboy and who had discovered the address of the person to whom Roope had written his brief and urgent note. It was Lewis who had summoned Morse to the station buffet, and who had shared with him the magnificent view of two men seated in the front of a dark-brown Vanden Flas at the furthest reach of the railway car park. It was Lewis who had arrested Roope as he had ventured forth, for the last time, the previous morning.
But if Lewis had not been kept in the dark, neither had he exactly been thrown up on to the shores of light; and later the same afternoon he was glad of the oppotunity to get a few things clear.
'What really put you on to Bartlett, sir?'
Morse sat back expansively in the black-leather chair and told him. 'We learned fairly early on in the case, Lewis, that there was some animosity between Bartlett and Roope; and I kept asking myself why. And very gradually the light dawned: I'd been asking myself the wrong question — a non-question, in fact. There was no antagonism between the two at all, although there had to appear to be. The two of them were hand in glove over the Al-jamara business, and whatever happened they were anxious for the outside world never to have the slightest suspicion of any collusion between them. It wasn't too difficult, either. Just a bit of feigned needle here and there; sometimes a bit of a row in front of the other Syndics; and above all they had their superb opportunity when the appointment of a successor to Bland cropped up. They had the whole thing planned. It didn't matter much to either of them who was appointed; what mattered was that they should disagree, and disagree publicly and vehemently, about the new appointment. So when Bartlett went one way, Roope went the other. It was as simple as that. If Bartlett had been pro-Quinn, Roope would have been anti-Quinn.' A slight frown furrowed Morse's forehead, but was gone almost immediately. 'And it worked beautifully. The rest of the Syndics were openly embarrassed about the hostility between their young colleague, Roope, and their respected Secretary, Bartlett. But that was just as it was meant to be. No one was going to believe that either of them had the slightest thing in common. No one. At first their carefully-nurtured antagonism was merely meant to serve as a cover for the crooked arrangements they made with the emirate; but later on, when Quinn discovered the truth about them, the arrangement was ideal for the removal of Quinn. You see what I mean?'
'Yes, I do,' said Lewis slowly. 'But why on earth did Bartlett, of all people, agree to—'
'I know what you mean. I'm sure that in the normal course of events he would never have been tempted in the slightest to line his own pockets at the expense of the Syndicate. But he had an only child, Richard; a young man who had started off life with quite brilliant promise; who carried the high hopes of a proud mum and a proud dad. And suddenly the whole world collapses round the Bartlett's ears. Richard's been working too hard, expectations are too high, and everything goes wrong. He has a nervous breakdown, and goes into hospital. And when he comes out it is clear to the Bartletts that they've got a terrible problem on their hands. He's sent to specialist after specialist, consultant after consultant — and always the same answer: with a prolonged period of treatment he might get well again. You discovered yourself, Lewis, that within the past five years Richard Bartlett has spent some time in the most advanced and expensive psychiatric clinics in Europe: Geneva, Vienna, London, and God knows where else. And this isn't for free, remember. It must have cost Bartlett thousands of pounds, and I don't think he'd got that sort of money. His salary's more than adequate, but— Well, Roope must have known all about this and, however it came about, the two of them struck a pact. Originally it had been Bland and Roope, I should think. But Bland decided to go for even richer pickings, and Roope had to have someone inside the Syndicate if the goose was still to lay the golden eggs. I don't know exactly how they worked it between them, but—'
'Do you know exactly how Bartlett murdered Quinn, sir?'
'Well, not exactly. But I've a pretty good idea, because it was the only way the deception could have been worked. Just think a minute. You get your dose, a pretty hefty dose, of cyanide. Roope sees to that side of things. Now, from an indecently large dose of cyanide death follows almost immediately, so there's little problem about actually killing Quinn. I should think that Bartlett called him into his office and suggested a drink together. He knew that Quinn was very fond of sherry and told him to pour himself one — and probably one for Bartlett at the same time. He must have wiped the sherry bottle and the glasses beforehand so that—'
'But wouldn't Quinn have smelled the cyanide?'
'He might have done, in normal circumstances; but Bartlett had timed his actions almost to the second. Everything that morning had been geared with devilish ingenuity to the next few minutes.'
The fire drill you mean.'
'Yes. Noakes had been instructed to set off the alarm at twelve noon precisely and he'd been told to wait for the word from the boss. So? What happens? As soon as Quinn is pouring the sherries, Bartlett picks up the phone, probably turning his back on Quinn, and says 'OK Noakes'. And a second or two later the alarm goes. But this is the point, Lewis. Quinn can't hear the alarm. The bell is just inside the entrance hall, and
