Morse rose to his feet and put his empty glass down on the cluttered mantelpiece, above which, on the white chimney-breast, four six4nch squares in different shades of yellow had been painted---with the name of each shade written in thick pencil inside each square: Wild Primrose, Sunbeam, Buttermilk, Daffodil White.
'Which d'you like best?' she asked. 'I'm considering some redecoration.'
There it was again, in the last sentence--the gear-shift from casual slang to elegance of speech. Interesting...
'But won't you be leaving here after you're married?
'Christ! You can't leave it alone, can you? All these bloody questions!'
Morse turned towards her now, looking d0azn at her as she sat on the side of the bed.
'Why did you invite me here? I only ask because you're making me feel I'm unwelcome--an intruder--a Nosey Parken Do you realise that?'
She looked down into her glass. 'I felt lonely, that's all. I wanted a bit of company.'
'Haven't you told Mr. Davies--about your aaiscarriage?'
'No.'
'Don't you think '
'Augh, shut up! You wouldn't know what it feels like, would you? To be on your own in life...'
'I'm on my own all the time,' said Morse.
'That's what they all say, did you know that? All them middle-aged fellows like you.'
Morse nodded and half smiled; and as he atalked to the door he looked at the chimney-breast again.
Yellow s a difficult colour to live with; but I'd go for the Daffodil White, if I were you.'
Leaving her still seated on the bed, he trod down the nar-row, squeaking stairs to the Jaguar, where for a few minutes he sat motionless, with the old familiar sensation tingling across his shoulders.
Why hadn't he thought of it before?
Chapter Forty-seven
Given a number which is a square, when can we write it as the sum of two other squares?
(DIOPHANTUS, Arithmetic)
Lewis was eager to pass on his news. Appeals on Radio Oxford and Fox FM, an article in the Oxford Mail, local enquiries into the purchase, description, and condition of Brooks's comparatively new bicycle, had proved, it ap- peared, successful. An anonymous phone-call (woman's voice) had hurriedly informed St. Aldate's City Police that if they were interested there was a 'green bike' chained to the railings outside St. Mary Mags in Cornmarket. No other details.
'Phone plonked down pronto,' the duty sergeant had said.
'Sure it wasn't a 'Green dyke' chained to the railings?' Lewis had asked, in a rare excursion into humour.
Quite sure, since the City Police were now in possession of one bicycle, bright green--awaiting instructions.
The call had come through just after midday, and Lewis felt excitement, and gratification. Somebody--some mother or wife or girlfriend had clearly decided to push the hot property back into public circulation. Once in a while pro cedure and patience paid dividends. Like now.
If it was Brooks's bike, of course.
Morse, however, on his rather late return from lunch, was to give Lewis no immediate opportunity of reporting his potentially glad tidings.
'Get on all right at the hospital, sir?'
'Fine. No problem.'
'Tve got some news--'
'Just a minute. I saw Miss Smith this morning. She'd been in the JR1 overnight.'
'All right, is she?'
'Don't know about that. But she's a mixed-up youn girl, is our Eleanor,' confided Morse.
'Not really a girl, sir.'
'Yes, she is. Half my age, Lewis. Makes me feel old.'
'Well, perhaps...'
'She gave me an idea, though. A beautiful idea.' Morse stripped the cellophane from a packet of cigarettes, too! one out, and lit it from a box of matches, on which his eyes lingered as he inhaled deeply. 'You know the probler we're faced with in this case? We've got to square the first case the murder of Mc Clure.'
'No argument there.'
'Then we've got to square the second case--the theft of a Northern Rhodesian knife. And the connection betwee these two--'
'But you said perhaps there wasn't any connection.'
'Well, there is and now I know what it is.'
