The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (31 page)

'It's all right. It's not your problem; it's mine. That's what they pay me for, isn't it? I can't expect a fat salary for nothing, can I?'

Mrs. Bartlett put her arm lovingly on his shoulder. 'I don't know what they pay you, and

I don't want to know. If they paid you a million it wouldn't be too much! But—' She was

worried, and the little Secretary knew it.

'I know. The world suddenly seems to have gone crazy, doesn't it? That was Martin's

wife. He's not home yet.'

'Oh no!'

'Now, now. Don't start jumping to silly conclusions.'

'You don't think—?'

'You go and sit down and pour yourself a gin. And pour one for me. I shan't be a

minute.' He found Monica's number and dialled. And like someone else the day

before, he found himself mechanically counting the dialling tones. Ten, twenty, twenty-

five. Sally must be out, too. He let it ring a few more times, and then slowly replaced

the receiver. The Syndicate seemed to be on the verge of total collapse.

He thought back on the years during which he had worked so hard to build it all up.

And somehow, at some point, the foundation had begun to shift and cracks to appear

in the edifice above. He could almost put the exact time to it: the time when Roope had

been elected on to the Board of the Syndics. Yes. That was when things had started

crumbling. Roope, For a few minutes the little Secretary stood indecisively by the

phone, and knew that he could willingly murder the man. Instead he rang Morse's

number at the Thames Valley HQ, but Morse was out, too. Not that it mattered much.

He'd mention it to him in the morning.

MRS. SETH ARRIVED at a quarter to ten and made her way upstairs to the Board Room.

She was the first of the Syndics to arrive, and as she sat down her thoughts drifted

back . . . back to the last time she had sat there, when she had recalled her father . . .

when Roope had spoken . . . when Quinn had been appointed . . . The room was

gradually filling up, and she acknowledged a few muted 'good mornings'; but the

atmosphere was one of gloom, and the other Syndics sat down silently and let their

own thoughts drift back, as she had done. Sometimes one or two of the graduate staff

attended Syndics' meetings, but only by invitation; and none was there this morning

except Bartlett, whose tired, drawn face did little more than reflect the communal

mood. A man was sitting next to Bartlett, but she didn't know him. Must be f1rom the

police. Pleasant-looking man: about her own age—mid-, late-forties; going a bit thin

on top; nice eyes, though they seemed to look at you and through you at the same

time. There was another man, too—probably another policeman; but he was standing

diffidently outside the magic circle, with a notebook in his hands.

At two minutes past ten, when all except one of the chairs were occupied, Bartlett

stood up and in a sad and disillusioned little speech informed the assembly of the

police suspicions—his own, too—that the integrity of their own foreign examinations

had been irreparably impaired by the criminal behaviour of one or two people, people

in whom the Syndicate had placed complete trust; that it was the view of Chief

Inspector Morse ('on my right') that the deaths of Quinn and Ogleby were directly

connected with this matter; that, after the clearing-up of the comparatively small

Autumn examination, the activities of the Syndicate would necessarily be in abeyance

until a complete investigation had been made; that the implications of a possible shut-

down were far-reaching, and that the full cooperation of each and every member of the

Syndicate would be absolutely essential. But such matters would have to wait; the

purpose of their meeting this morning was quite different, as they would see.

The Dean thanked the Secretary and proceeded to add his own lugubrious thoughts

on the future of the Syndicate; and as he tediously ummed and ahed his way along, it

became clear that the Syndics were getting rather restless. Words were whispered

along the tables: 'One or
two
, didn't Bartlett say?' Who do you think?' 'Why have we got the police
here?
' 'They
are
the police, aren't they?'

The Dean finished at last, and the whispering finished, too. It was a strange reversal of the natural order, and Mrs. Seth thought it had everything to do with the man seated on

Bartlett's right, who thus far had sat impassively in his chair, occasionally running the index finger of his left hand along the side of his nose. She saw Bartlett turn towards

Morse and look at him quizzically; and in turn she saw Morse nod slightly, before

slowly rising to his feet.

'Ladies and gendemen. I asked the Secretary to call this meeting because I thought it

only proper that you should all know something of what we've discovered about the

leakage of question papers from this office. Well, you've heard something about that

and I think' (he looked vaguely at the Dean and then at Bartlett) 'I think that we may

say that officially the meeting is over, and if any of you have commitments that can't

wait, you should feel free to go.' He looked around the tables with cold, grey eyes, and

the tension in the room perceptibly tautened. No one moved a muscle, and the

stillness was profound. 'But perhaps it's proper, too,' resumed Morse, 'that you should

know something about the police investigations into the deaths of Mr. Quinn and Mr.

Ogleby, and I'm sure you will all be very glad to know that the case is now complete—

or almost complete. Let's put it in the official jargon, ladies and gentlemen, and say

that a man has been arrested and is being held for questioning in connection with the

murders of Quinn and Ogleby.'

The silence of the room was broken only by the rustle of papers as Lewis turned over

a page in his notebook: Morse held the ring and the assembled Syndics hung on his

every word. 'You will know, or most of you will, that last Monday one of your own

colleagues, Mr. Christopher Roope, was detained in connection with Quinn's murder.

You will know, too, I think, that he was released shortly afterwards. The evidence

against him appeared to us insufficient to warrant further detention, and everything

seemed to point to the fact that he had a perfectly valid alibi for 1the period of time on Friday, 21st November, when in the view of the police Quinn must have been

murdered: Yet I must tell you all here and now that without a shadow of doubt Roope

was the person responsible for selling the soul of the Syndicate—certainly in Al-

jamara, and for all I know in several of your other oversea centres as well.' Some of

the Syndics drew in their breaths, some opened their mouths slightly, but never for a

second did their eyes leave Morse. '
And
, ladies and gentlemen, in all this his principal lieutenant was your former colleague, Mr. George Bland.' Again the mingled surprise

and shock around the table; but again the underlying hush and expectation. 'The

whole thing was brought to light by the vigilance and integrity of one man—Nicholas

Quinn. Now, precisely when Quinn made his discovery we shall perhaps never know

for certain; but I should guess it may well have been at the reception given by the Al-

jamara officials, when the drink was flowing freely, when some of the guilty were less

than discreet, and when Quinn read things on the lips of others so clearly that they

might just as well have been shouted through a megaphone. And it was, I believe, as

a direct result of Quinn's deeply disturbing discovery that he was murdered—to stop

him talking, and so ensure that those guilty of betraying public confidence should

continue to draw their rewards—very considerable rewards, no doubt—from their

partners in crime abroad. Furthermore, I think that in addition to telling the guilty party of what he knew, or at least of what he strongly suspected, Quinn told someone else:

someone he firmly believed had absolutely nothing to do with the crooked practices

that were going on. That someone was Philip Ogleby. There is evidence that Quinn

had far too much to drink at the reception, and that Ogleby followed him out as he left.

Again I am guessing. But I think it more than likely that Ogleby caught up with Quinn,

and told him that he would be a fool to drive himself home in such a drunken

condition. He may have offered to drive him home, I don't know. But what is almost

certain is that Quinn told Ogleby what he knew. Now, if Ogleby were in the racket

himself, many of the things which were so puzzling about Quinn's murder would begin

to sort themselves out. Of all Quinn's colleagues, Ogleby was the one person who had

no alibi for the key period of Friday afternoon. He went back to the office after lunch,

and he was there—or so he said—the rest of the afternoon. Now whoever killed Quinn

had to be in the office both in the latter part of the morning, and again between half

past four and five; and if any single person from the office was guilty of murdering

Quinn, there was only one genuine suspect—
Ogleby
, the very man in whom Quinn

had confided.'

There was a slight murmur around the table and one or two of the Syndics stirred

uneasily in their chairs; but Morse resumed, and the effect was that of a conductor

tapping his baton on the rostrum.

'Ogleby lied to me when I questioned him about his exact whereabouts that Friday

afternoon. I've been able to look back on the evidence he gave, since my Sergeant

here'—a few heads turned and Lewis sheepishly acknowledged his moment of glory

—'took full notes at the time, and I can now see where Ogleby lied—where he
had
to lie. For example, he insisted that he was in the office at about 4.30 p.m., when not only Mr. Roope but also Mr. Noakes, the caretaker, could swear quite categoxically that he

wasn't
. Now, this I find very strange. Ogleby lied to me on the one point which seemed to prove his guilt. Why? Why did he say he was here all that afternoon? Why did he

begin to tie the noose round his own neck? It's not an easy question to answer, I

agree. But there is an answer; a very simple answer:
Ogleby was not lying
. On that point, at least, he was telling the truth. He
was
here, although neither Roope nor Noak1es saw him. And when I looked back on his evidence, I began to ask myself

whether one or two other things, which on the face of it seemed obvious lies, were in

fact nothing of the sort. So it was that I gradually began to understand exactly what

had happened that Friday afternoon, and to realize that Ogleby was entirely innocent

of the murder of Nicholas Quinn. The fact of the matter is that precisely because

Ogleby was in the office on the afternoon of Friday, 21st November,
he knew who had

murdered Quinn
; and because of this knowledge, he was himself murdered. Why

Ogleby didn't confide his virtually certain suspicions to me, I shall never really know. I think I can guess, but . . . Anyway, we can only be grateful that the murderer has been

arrested and is now in custody at Police Headquarters. He has made a full statement.'

Morse pointed dramatically to the empty chair. 'That's where he usually sits, I believe.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, your own colleague,
Christopher Roope
.'

A babel of chatter now broke out in the room, and Mrs. Seth was weeping silently. Yet

even before the general hubbub had subsided there was a further moment of high

drama. After several whispered conversations along the top table, the Vice-Dean

requested permission to make a brief statement, and Morse sat down and began

doodling aimlessly on the blotter in front of him.

'I hope the Chief Inspector will forgive me, but I wish to clear up one point, if I may. Did I understand him to say that whoever killed Quinn had to be in the Syndicate building

both in the morning and also at the end of the afternoon?'

Morse replied at once. 'You understood correctly, sir. I don't wish to go into all the

details of the case now; but Quinn was murdered at about twelve noon on Friday—no,

let me be more honest with you—at
precisely
twelve noon on Friday 21st, and his

dead body was taken from this building, in the boot of his own car, at approximately

4.45 p.m. Docs that satisfy you, sir?'

The Vice-Dean coughed awkwardly and managed to look extraordinarily

uncomfortable. 'Er, no, Chief Inspector. I'm afraid it doesn't. You see I myself went to