upstairs with the curtains open, and there was only one way for Quinn's body to be carted out, and that was by the front door of the garage. There was nothing to do but to wait; but he couldn't wait there. He must have been feeling desperate when he rang up Bartlett; but Bartlett came up with the masterstroke — the note on Quinn's desk! It was a wonderful piece of luck but, my God! they needed some luck at that stage. Bartlett had only just got back from Banbury, but he drove off again almost immediately, called in at the Syndicate for the note, and met Roope as arranged at the shopping area behind Pinewood Close, where Roope had already bought the groceries. I suppose it must have taken Bartlett at least twenty minutes, but time was still on their side — just. Roope got back to Quinn's, took off his muddy boots, left the note — and went out again. He must have got wet through; but imagine his immense relief, as he watched and waited, first to see Mrs. Evans come and go, and then, almost miraculously, an ambulance draw up and take. Mrs. Greenaway off to the maternity hospital. The house was in darkness then; no one was about; the street lamp was broken; the curtain could go up on the last act. He carries Quinn's body to the back door and into the house, puts it on the carpet by the chair in the living-room, arranges the sherry bottle and the glass on the coffee table, lights the fire — and Bob's your uncle. He walks over the back field again, and catches a bus down to Oxford.'
Lewis reflected. Yes, that's how it must have happened all right, but one thing still puzzled him mightily: 'What about Ogleby? Where does he fit in?'
'As I've told you, Lewis, a good deal of what Ogleby told us was true, and I think he was virtually certain that Bartlett had killed Quinn long before I ever—'
'Why did he keep it all to himself, though?'
'I dunno. I suppose he must have been trying to prove something to himself before—'
'It doesn't sound very convincing, sir.'
'No, perhaps not.' Morse stared out onto the yard and once again wondered why on earth Ogleby. . Mm. There were still one or two loose ends that wouldn't quite tie in. Nothing vital, though — and Lewis interrupted his thoughts.
'Ogleby must have been a clever fellow, sir.'
'Oh, I don't know. Remember he had a couple of leagues' start on me.'
'How do you mean, sir?'
'How many times do I have to tell you? He was in the office that afternoon.'
'Must have been upstairs, then, because—'
'No. That's where you're wrong. He must have been downstairs. And what's more we know exactly where he was and when he was there. He must have realized when he finally got back from lunch that he was the only one of the graduates in the office, and that this was as good a chance as he was going to get to poke around in Bartlett's room. Whether Quinn had told him that he suspected Bartlett and Roope, or just Bartlett — we can't know for certain. But he's got cause to suspect Bartlett, and he decides to do a bit of investigation. No one is going to come in, because no one's there. At about 4.30 he hears voices outside — Roope's and Noake's — and he doesn't want to get caught. Where's the obvious place for him to hide, Lewis? In the small cloakroom just behind Bartlett's desk, where I went the first afternoon we went to the office. Ideal! He just stands inside and waits; and he doesn't have to wait long. But what does Ogleby find when he emerges from the cloakroom? He discovers that the cinema ticket and the keys which he'd found earlier have gone! His thoughts must have been in a complete whirl, and he daren't leave Bartlett's office. He hears Noakes in the corridor outside, and later he hears someone walking about, and a few doors opening and slamming to. And still he has to stay where he is. Anyway, he finally satisfies himself that it's safe to come out, and the first thing he notices is that Quinn's car has gone! Perhaps he looks into Quinn's room, I don't know. Has Quinn come in? And gone out again? I don't know how much of the truth he suspected at that point — not much, perhaps; but he knows that Roope has taken some keys and a mysterious cinema ticket, a ticket which he has carefully copied into his diary. It's his one piece of real evidence, and he does what I did. He rang Studio 2, and tried to find out—'
'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
