He put down the phone, and Lewis looked at him expectantly.
'Well, sir?'
'I told you Lewis. You're a genius.'
'Her car was out of order?'
Morse nodded. 'Miss Jennifer Coleby rang the Cowley Tire and Battery Co. at 6.15 p.m. on the evening of Wednesday, 29 September. She said it was urgent — a very flat front tire. They couldn't get there until sevenish and she said that was too late.'
'We're making headway, sir.'
'We are, indeed. Now what about our bus ride?'
The two men caught the 11.35 4A to Woodstock. It was half empty and they sat in the front seat on the upper deck. Morse was silent and Lewis mulled over the strange developments in the case. The bus made good speed and stopped only four times before reaching Woodstock. At the third of these stops Morse gave his sergeant a dig in the ribs and Lewis looked out to see where they were. The bus had pulled into a shallow lay-by just outside Begbroke, at a large, thatched house with its garden crowded with tables and chairs set under brightly striped umbrellas; he bent his head down to the bottom of the side window to see the name of the public house and read the two words Golden Rose.
'Interesting?' said Morse.
'Very,' replied Lewis. He thought he might as well say some thing.
They alighted at Woodstock and Morse led the way. 'Ready for a pint, Sergeant?'
They walked into the cocktail bar of The Black Prince. 'Good morning, Mrs. McFee. You won't remember me, I suppose?'
'I remember you very well, Inspector.'
'What a memory,' said Morse.
'What can I get for you, gentlemen?' She was clearly not amused.
'Two pints of best bitter, please.'
'Official business?' Her dislike of Morse's manner was not quite enough to stifle her natural curiosity.
'No. No. Just a friendly visit to look at you again.' He's in good spirits this morning, thought Lewis.
'I see from the paper that you're hoping. .' she fumbled for the words.
'We're making progress, aren't we, Sergeant?'
'Oh yes,' said Lewis. After all, he was the other half of those intensive inquiries.
'Don't they ever give you a few hours off?" asked Morse.
'Oh, they're very good really.' She was softening a little towards him; it was always nice to be reminded how hard she worked. 'As a matter of fact I've got tonight and all of Saturday and Sunday off.'
'Where shall we go?' asked Morse.
The hostess smiled professionally. 'Where do you suggest, Inspector?' Good for you, my girl, thought Lewis.
Morse asked for the menu and studied it in some detail.
'What's the food like here?' asked Morse.
'Why don't you try it?'
Morse appeared to consider the possibility but asked instead if there was a good fish-and-chip shop near by. There wasn't. Several customers had come in and the policemen left by the side entrance and walked into the yard. To their right, a car was sitting up on its haunches, with each of the front wheels off. Underneath the car, suitably protected from the grease and oil, and wielding a formidable wrench, lay the landlord of The Black Prince, and by his side the folding tool-box which had so recently housed a long and heavy tire-spanner.
Unnoticed by Morse and Lewis as they left the premises, a young man had entered the cocktail bar and ordered a tonic water. Mr. John Sanders had apparently made a sufficient recovery from his bouts of shivery fever to join once more in the social life of Woodstock, if not to resume his duties with Messrs Chalkley and Sons.
On the bus journey back Morse was deeply engrossed in a Midland Counties bus time-table and a map of North Oxford. Occasionally he looked at his watch and made a brief entry in a note-book. Lewis felt hungry. It had been a pity about the fish-and-chip shop.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Friday, 15 October, p.m.
A BULKY ENVELOPE marked 'confidential' arrived on Morse's desk at 3.30 that afternoon—'from the Principal'. He had done a very careful and thorough job — that was quite clear. There were ninety-three typewriters, it appeared, in Lonsdale College. Most of them belonged to the college and had found their various ways into the rooms of the fellows; over twenty were the personal property of members of the college. Ninety-three sheets of paper, each numbered, were neatly arranged beneath a bull-dog clip. Two further sheets, stapled together, provided the key to the typewritten specimens, and, appropriately enough, the Principal's typewriter was given the no. 1 designation. Morse riffled the sheets. It was going to be a bigger job than he'd thought, and he rang the laboratory boys. He learned it would take an hour or so.
Lewis had spent most of the afternoon typing his reports and did not return to Morse's office until 4.15 p.m.
'You hoping to have the weekend off, Lewis?'
'Not if there's something you want me for, sir.'
'I'm afraid we have rather a lot to do. I think it's time we had a little confrontation, don't you?'
'Confrontation?'
'Yes. A gentle little confrontation between a certain Miss Coleby and a certain Mr. Crowther. What do you think?'
'Might clear the air a bit.'
'Ye-es. Do you think the old establishment could run to four clean cups of coffee in the morning?'
'You want me to join you?'
'We're a team, Lewis, my boy. I've told you that before.' Morse rang Town and Gown and asked for Mr. Palmer.
'Hew shell I see is calling?' It was the prim little Judith.
'Mister Plod," said Morse.
'Hold on, please, Mr. Plod. . you're threw.'
'I didn't quite catch your name, sir? Palmer here.'
'Morse. Inspector Morse.'