'Just the one set of prints on the bottle, sir — and on the glass.'
'Mm.'
'Can we move the body?'
'Sooner the quicker. I suppose we'd better go through his pockets, though.' He turned again to the surgeon. 'You do it, will you, doc?'
'You getting squeamish, Morse? By the way, did you know he wore a hearing aid?'
At one minute to two, Morse got to his feet and looked down at Lewis.
Time for another if you drink that up smartish.'
'Not for me, sir. I've had enough.'
'The secret of a happy life, Lewis, is to know when to stop and then to go that little bit further.'
'Just a half, then'
Morse walked to the bar and beamed at the barmaid. But in truth he felt far from happy. He had long since recognized the undoubted fact that his imagination was almost invariably fired by beer, especially by beer in considerable quantities. But today, for some reason, his mind seemed curiously disengaged; sluggish even. After the body had been removed he had spent some time in the downstairs front room, used by Quinn as a bedroom-cum-study; he had opened drawers, looked through papers and folders, and half-stripped the bed. But it had all been an aimless, perfunctory exercise, and he had found nothing more incriminating than the previous month's copy of Playboy; and it was whilst sitting on the uncovered mattress scanning a succession of naked breasts and crotches that Lewis, after completing his tedious inventories, had found him.
'Anything interesting, sir?'
'No.' Morse had guiltily returned the magazine to the desk and fastened up his overcoat.
Just as they were about to leave, Morse had noticed the green anorak on one of the clothes pegs in the narrow hallway.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BARTLETT KNEW THAT the man had been drinking and found himself feeling surprised and disappointed. He had been expecting the call all the afternoon, but it had not come through until half past three. The four of them had been seated in his office since lunchtime (the red light on outside) talking in hushed voices amongst themselves about the shattering news. Graphically Martin had recounted again and again the details of his morning discovery, and had taken some muted pleasure, even in these grim moments, at finding himself, quite unprecedentedly, at the centre of his colleagues' attention. But invariably the conversation had reverted to the perplexing question of who had been the last to see Quinn alive — and where. They all agreed, it seemed, that it had been on Friday, but exactly when and exactly where no one seemed able to remember. Or cared to tell. .
Monica Height watched the Inspector carefully as he came in, and told herself, as they were briefly introduced, that his eyes held hers a fraction longer than was strictly necessary. She liked his voice, too; and when he informed them that each would be interviewed separately, either by himself or by Sergeant Lewis (standing silently by the door), she found herself hoping that in her case it would be him. Not that she need have worried on that score: Morse had already mentally allocated her to himself. But first he had to see what Bartlett could tell him.
'You've locked Quinn's door, I hope, sir.'
'Yes. Immediately I got your message.'
'Well, I think you'd better tell me something about this place: what you do, how you do it, anything at all you think may help. Quinn was murdered, sir — little doubt about that; and my job's to find out who murdered him. There's just a possibility, of course, that his murder's got nothing at all to do with this place, or with the people here; but it seems much more probable that I may be able to find something in the office here that will give me some sort of lead. So, I'm afraid I shall be having to badger you all for a few days — you realize that, don't you?'
Bartlett nodded. 'We shall all do our best to help you, Inspector. Please feel completely free to carry out whatever inquiries you think fit.'
'Thank you, sir. Now, what can you tell me?'
During the next half-hour Morse learned a great deal. Bartlett told him about the purpose, commitments, and organization of the Syndicate, about the personnel involved at all stages in the running of public examinations. And Morse found himself surprised and impressed: surprised by the unexpected complexities of the operations involved; and, above all, impressed by the extraordinary efficiency and grasp of the Pickwickian little Secretary sitting behind his desk.
'What about Quinn himself?'
Bartlett opened a drawer and took out a folder. 'I looked this out for you, Inspector. It's Quinn's application for the job here. It'll tell you more than I can.'
Morse opened the folder and his eyes hurriedly scanned the contents: curriculum vitae, testimonials, letters from three referees, and the application form itself, across the top of which Bartlett had written: 'Appointed w.e.f. 1st Sept'. But again Morse's mind remained infuriatingly blank. The cogs in the machine were beginning to turn all right, but somehow they refused to engage. He closed the folder, defensively mumbling something about studying it later, and looked again at Bartlett. He wondered how that clear and supremely efficient mind would be tackling the problem of Quinn's murder, and it appeared that Bartlett could almost read his thoughts.
'You know that he was deaf, don't you, Inspector?'
'Deaf? Oh yes.' The police surgeon had mentioned it, but Morse had taken little notice.
'We were all very impressed by the way he coped with his disability.'
'How deaf was he?'
'He would probably have gone completely deaf in a few years' time. That was the prognosis, anyway.'
For the first time since Bartlett had been talking the merest flicker of interest showed itself in Morse's eyes. 'Little surprising you appointed him, perhaps, sir?'
'I think it's you who would have been surprised, Inspector.
You could hardly tell he was deaf, you see. Apart from dealing with the phone, which was a problem, he was quite remarkable. He really was.'
'Did you, er, did you appoint him, you know, because he was deaf?'
'Did we feel sorry for him, you mean? Oh no. It seemed to the, er, the, er, committee that he was the best man in the field.'
'Which committee was that?'
Did Morse catch a hint of guardedness in Bartlett's eyes? He wasn't sure. What he did know was that the teeth of the smallest cog had now begun to bite. He sat back more happily in his chair.
'We, er, had all twelve Syndics on that committee — plus myself, of course.'
'Syndics? They're, er—?'
'They're like governors of a school, really.'
'They don't work here?'
'Good gracious, no. They're all university dons. They just meet here twice a term to see if we're doing our job properly.'
'Have you got their names here?'
Morse looked with interest down the typed list that Bartlett handed to him. Printed beside the name of each of the Syndics were full details of university, college, degrees, doctorates and other academic honours, and one name in the list jumped out at him. 'Most of them Oxford men, I see, sir.'
'Natural enough, isn't it?'
'Just one or two from Cambridge.'
'Ye-es.'
'Wasn't Quinn at Magdalene College, Cambridge?' Morse began to reach for the folder, but Bartlett immediately confirmed the fact.