'I gathered you weren't exactly bosom pals.'
"On, I wouldn't put it like that. You mustn't believe everything you hear.'
Morse let it ride. 'Mr. Ogleby wasn't in his room, you say?'
'Not while I was there.'
Morse nodded, and believed him. 'How long were you there, sir?'
'Quarter of an hour, I suppose. Must have been. If Ogleby or any of the others were there — well, I just didn't see them, that's all. And I'm pretty sure I would have done if they had been there.'
Morse nodded again. I think you're right, sir. I don't think anyone was there.' His mind drifted off, and for a brief second one of the silhouettes on the cavern wall focused in full profile — a profile that Morse thought he could recognize without much difficulty. .
Roope interrupted his thoughts. 'Anything else I can tell you?'
Morse drained his beer and said there was. He asked Roope to account for his activities during the whole of the previous Friday, and Roope gladly obliged: he had caught the 8.05 to London; arrived at Paddington at 9.10; caught the Inner Circle tube to Mansion House; conferred with his publishers about the final proofs of a forthcoming opus on Industrial Chemistry; left about 10.45; had a chicken salad in the Strand somewhere; spent an hour or so in the National Portrait Gallery in Trafalgar Square; and then returned to Paddington, where he'd caught the 3.05 for Oxford.
Morse himself couldn't have specified the reason, but suddenly he became convinced that somehow, somewhere, Roope was lying. It was all too pat, too slick. A good deal of it must be true (the bit about the publishers, for instance). Mm. He'd obviously gone to London all right; but exactly when had he returned? Roope said he'd left his publishers at about 10.45 am. A taxi to Paddington, perhaps? Easy! Roope could have been back in Oxford before lunchtime. 'Just as a matter of interest, sir' (he asked it very mildly), 'do you think you could prove all that?'
Roope looked at him sharply. 'I don't suppose I could, no.' The eyes were steady and steely.
'You didn't meet anyone you knew in London?'
I told you. I went to see—'
'Of course. But I meant later.'
'No, I didn't' The words were slow and evenly spaced, and Morse sensed that in spite of his slim build and his rather mannered trendiness, Roope was probably considerably tougher, both physically and mentally, than he appeared to be. One thing was sure: he wasn't very happy when his word was questioned. Was that perhaps why he and Bartlett. .?
'Well, never mind that now, sir. Tell me something else, if you will. Did you know Quinn before he came to Oxford?'
'No.'
'You came from that part of the country though, don't you?'
'You mean I haven't got an Oxford accent?'
'I'd put you down as a Yorkshireman.'
'You've done your homework, I see.'
'That's what they pay me for, sir.'
'I'm from Bradford, and so was Quinn. But let me spell it out. I'd never set eyes on him before he came before the interviewing committee. Do you believe that?'
'I believe everything you tell me, sir. Why shouldn't I?'
'You'd be a fool to believe everything some people told you.' There was little pretence now at masking the hostility in his voice, and Morse was beginning to enjoy himself.
'I think you ought to know,' said Morse quietly, 'that whatever else I am, I'm not a fool, sir.'
Roope made no reply and Morse resumed his questioning. 'Have you got a car?'
'No. I used to have, but I only live just up the Woodstock Road—'
'That's the bachelor flats, isn't it?
Roope suddenly relaxed and smiled ingenuously. 'Look, Inspector, why don't you ask me something you don't know?'
Morse shrugged his shoulders. 'All right. Tell me this. Was it raining when you came back from London?'
'Raining like hell, yes. I—' Suddenly the light dawned in his eyes. 'Yes. I got a taxi from the station — straight to the Syndicate! There'll be a record of that somewhere, surely?'
'Do you remember the driver?'
'No. But I think I remember the cab firm.'
Roope was right, of course. It shouldn't be all that difficult. 'We could try to—'
'Why not?' Roope got to his feet and picked up a pile of books. 'No time like the present, they say.'
As they walked up to Carfax and then left into Queen Street, Morse felt that he had gone wrong somewhere, and he said nothing until they reached the railway station, where a line of taxis was parked alongside the pavement. 'You'd better leave it to me, sir. I've got a bit of experience—'
'I'd rather do it myself, if you don't mind, Inspector.'
So Morse left him to get on with it; and stood there waiting under the 'Buffet' sign, feeling (he told himself) like the proverbial spare part at a prostitute's wedding.
Five minutes later a crestfallen Roope rejoined him: it wasn't going to be so easy as he'd thought, though he'd still like to do it himself, if Morse didn't mind, that was. But why should Morse mind? If the young fellow was as anxious as all that to justify himself. . 'Like another beer?'
They walked through the ticket area and came to the barrier.
'We only want a beer,' explained Morse.
' 'Fraid you'll need platform tickets, sir.'
'Ah, bugger that,' said Morse. He turned to Roope: 'Let's walk down to the Royal Oxford'
'Just a minute!' said Roope quietly. His eyes were shining again, and he retraced his steps and tapped the ticket collector on the shoulder. 'Do you remember me?'
'Don't think so, mate.'
'Were you here on duty last Friday afternoon?'
'No.' Dismissive.
'Do you know who was?'