'Your husband rang to ask us to look at his typewriter. He said the carriage was getting stuck.'
'Oh, I see. Come in, will you?'
The typewriter man rather ostentatiously took from his pocket a small box, containing, one must have supposed, the requisite tools of the trade, stepped with an obvious diffidence into the narrow hallway and was ushered into the room off the right-hand side of the hall where Bernard Crowther spent so much of his time considering the glories of the English literary heritage. He spotted the typewriter immediately.
'Do you need me?' Mrs. Crowther seemed anxious to resume her culinary duties.
'No, no. Shan't be more than a few minutes — unless it's really wonky.' His voice sounded strained.
'Well, call me when you've finished. I'm only in the kitchen.'
He looked carefully around, made a few perfunctory tappings on the typewriter, slid the carriage tinkling to and fro several times, and listened carefully. He could hear the clink of plates and saucers; he felt fairly safe and very nervous. Quickly he slid open the top drawer on the right of the small desk: paper-clips, biros, rubbers, elastic bands — nothing very suspicious. Systematically he tried the two lower drawers, and then the three on the left. All pretty much the same. Wadges of notes clipped together, bulky agendas for college meetings, file-cases, writing paper, more writing paper and yet more — ruled, plain, headed, foolscap, folio, quarto. He repeated his pathetic little pantomime and heard, in welcome counter-point, an answering clatter of crockery. He took one sheet from each of the piles of writing paper, folded them carefully and put them into his inside pocket. Finally taking one sheet of quarto he stood it in the typewriter, twiddled the carriage and quickly typed two lines of writing:
After assessing the many applications we have received, we must
regretfully inform you that our application.
Mrs. Crowther showed him to the door. 'Well, that should be all right now, Mrs. Crowther. Dust in the carriage-bearings, that's all.' Lewis hoped it sounded all right.
'Do you want me to pay you?'
'No. Don't bother about that now.' He was gone.
At twelve noon Lewis knocked on Bernard Crowther's door in the second court of Lonsdale College and found him finishing a tutorial with a young, bespectacled, long-haired undergraduate.
No rush, sir,' said Lewis. 'I can wait perfectly happily until you've finished.'
But Crowther had finished. He had met Lewis the previous Saturday, and was anxious to hear whatever must be heard. The youth was forthwith dismissed with the formidable injunction to produce an essay for the following tutorial on 'Symbolism in
Lewis told him exactly what had occurred that morning; he made no bones about it and confessed that he had not enjoyed the subterfuge. Crowther showed little surprise and seemed anxious only about his wife.
'Now, sir,' said Lewis. 'If you say you expected a man from Kimmons to come and look at your typewriter, no harm's been done. I want to assure you of that.'
'Couldn't you have asked me?'
'Well, yes, sir, we could. But I know that Inspector Morse wanted to make as little fuss as possible.'
'Yes, I'm sure.' Crowther said it with an edge of bitterness in his voice. Lewis got up to go. 'But why? What did you expect to find?'
'We wanted to find out, sir, if we could, on what machine a certain, er, a certain communication was written.'
'And you thought I was involved?'
'We have to make inquiries, sir.'
'Well?'
'Well what, sir?'
'Did you find out what you wanted?'
Lewis looked uneasy. 'Yes, sir.'
'And?'
'Shall we say, sir, that we didn't find anything at all, er — at all incriminating. That's about the position, sir.'
'You mean that you thought I'd written something on the typewriter and now you think I didn't.'
'Er, you'd have to ask Inspector Morse about that, sir.'
'But you just said that the letter wasn't written on. .'
'I didn't say it was a letter, sir.'
'But people do write letters on typewriters don't they, Sergeant?'
'They do, sir.'
'You know, Sergeant, you're beginning to make me feel guilty.'
'I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to do that. But in a job like ours you've got to suspect everybody really. I've told you all I can, sir. Whatever typewriter we're looking for wasn't the one in your house. But there's more than one typewriter in the world, isn't there, sir?'
Crowther did not contest the truth of the assertion. A large bay window gave a glorious view on to the silky grass of the second court, smooth and green as a billiard table. Before the window stood a large mahogany desk,
