The Riddle Of The Third Mile (22 page)

‘I’ve got to leave this morning; so if you’ll make out my bill, please?
^’

He sat down in one of the armchairs just opposite the reception desk, and breathed in very deeply. He’d spent another deeply troubled night, fitfully falling into semi-slumber, then waking up to find his blue pyjamas soaked in chilling sweat. Throughout these hours his head had thumped away as though some alien fiend were hammering inside his skull; and it was only after early tea that finally he’d slept a little while. He woke just after 9a.m., his head still aching, yet now with a dulled and

torrable pain. For a few minutes he had lain there almost happily, upon the creased and tumbled pillow. But soon the same old host of thoughts was streaming through the portals of his
brain, his eyeballs rolling round beneath the shuttered lids. And one thought fought a leading way through all the crowd- and one decision was made.

‘Mr Smith? Mr Smith?’

He heard her, and rose to pay the bill. Sometimes (as well he knew) his brain could play him false; but this particular contingency he had anticipated, and he paid his dues with ready cash, in notes of high denomination.

He left the Station Hotel (as Westerby had done before him) and walked to the ticket-office. Then, for many minutes, he stood in front of the high departures-board. But he could read nothing. His eyes no sooner focused on the times of trains for Oxford than the letters (white) upon their background (black) had leap-frogged astigmatically across his retina, leaving him in dizzied indecision.

He stepped to the nearest ticket-barrier. ‘Can you tell me my best bet for Oxford, please?’

‘Platform 9. Half-past ten. But you’ll have to-’

‘Thank you.’

The train was already in the platform and he pulled himself up into an empty first-class compartment, putting his ticket carefully into his wallet and leaning back against the head-rest…

Half an hour later he jerked forward as the train halted with something less than silken braking-power, and he looked out of the window: Reading. Still the solitary occupant of the compartment, he leant back again and closed his wearied eyes. Not long… and he’d be there!

Thirty-five minutes later he was jerked to a second awakening.

‘Tickets, please!’

He was gratified that he could find his ticket so easily,but his head was throbbing wildly.

‘This your ticket, sir?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I’m afraid you’ve missed your connection. We’ve just gone past Didcot. You’re on your way to Swindon.’

‘What? I don’t understand-’

‘You should have changed at Didcot for the Oxford train. You must have nodded off.’

‘But I’ve got to get to Oxford. I’ve – I’ve just
got
to get there.
’

‘Nothing we can do, sir. You’ll have to get the next train back
from Swindon-’

‘But it’s urgent!’

‘As I say, you’ll just have to wait till we get to Swindon.’ The collector punched the ticket and handed it back. ‘We won’t worry about any excess fare, sir. Genuine mistake, I’m sure.”

The next few minutes registered themselves in his mind as at aeon of frenzied agony. Sitting forward in his seat, he bit
deep
into the nails of his little fingers, fighting with all his power to
keep control of a brain that stood unsurely on a precipice.

Then the train stopped-more gently this time.

He was glad to find his legs steady as he got to his feet, and he felt much calmer now. He put the sweat-soaked handkerchief away inside his trouser pocket, took his case from the luggage rack, opened the left-hand door of the carriage-and stepped down into nothing. He fell on to the sharp stones of a slight
embankment on the south side of the line, and lay there hurt and wholly puzzled. Yet, strangely, he felt profoundly comfortable there: it seemed so easy now to sleep. The sun was blazing
down
from the clear-blue sky, and his head-at last! -was free from
pain.

‘You all right, sir?’

The ticket collector was crouching beside him, and he heard
some faintly sounding voices from afar.

‘I’m sorry…I’m sorry…’

‘Let me just help you up, sir. You’ll be all right.’

‘No! Please don’t bother. I’m just sorry, that’s all…’

He closed his eyes. But the sun was blazing still beneath his eyelids, glowing like some fiery orange, whirring and -ever larger-spinning down towards him.

But still there was no pain.

‘I’ll go and get some help, sir. Shan’t be a minute.’

The ticket collector vaulted nimbly up the shallow embankment, but already it was too late.

‘Before you do that, please do one thing for me. I want to get a message to a Chief Inspector Morse-at the Thames Valley Police Headquarters. Please tell him I was-I was on my way to see him. Please tell him that I did it-do you understand me? Please tell him… that…’

But the man beside the track was speaking to himself; and even the curious heads that poked through nearby carriage-windows could make no sense of all the mumbled words.

Suddenly the sun exploded in a yellow flash and a jagged, agonizing pain careered across his skull. With a supreme effort of will he opened his eyes once more; but all was dark now, and the sweat was pouring down his face and seeping inside his gaping mouth. He
had
a handkerchief, he knew: it was in his trouser pocket. But he wanted a clean one. Yes, he had plenty clean ones. Why, he’d only bought a box of Irish linen ones very recently… from the shop in the Tun… only hundred yards away from Lonsdale College…

Another man now knelt beside the body-a young neuro-surgeon who was travelling up to Swindon General Hospital But he could do nothing; and after a little while he looked up at the ticket collector – then slowly shook his head.

In recent years Lewis had seldom spent two nights away from Oxford, and he didn’t care much for London. But it had been a busy and a fruitful time.

Late the previous Wednesday afternoon, Morse had insisted that it was to be he, Lewis, who should drive up the next morning. There was much to do (Morse had said): many loose ends to tie up; statements to be taken; and, not least, some ireful explanations to be made. So Lewis had taken his instructions, had
performed them more than adequately, and now (indulging his one real weakness in life) was driving far too fast along the M40 back to Oxford. It was mid-morning.

His London colleagues had been a friendly bunch, most of them – speaking in a careless, aitchless Cockney-yet all of them them shrewd and competent men. They could forgive Morse readily, of course, but none of them seemed to understand his actions very well. And Lewis, himself being only semi-enlightened, was unable to throw much further light. But certain things were now clear. The man found murdered in the top-storey flat in Cambridge Way was Alfred Gilbert, Esq., estate agent, and late bachelor of some parish or other in central London. The murder weapon so plain for all to see!) had been the screwdriver so conveniently found at the scene of the crime, upon whose handle were some smudgy prints that might or (as Lewis hoped} might not be soon identifiable. For the present there were few other clues. Of “Mr Hoskins” the police could find no trace, nor expected to do so, since the residents of Cambridge Way had always had a woman as their part-time concierge. But the police had been mildly mollified when Lewis had been able to produce Morse’s description of the man – from his age to his height, from chest-measurement to weight, from the colour of eyes to the size of his shoes.

After that, Lewis had done exactly as Morse had instructed. There had been three visits, three interviews, and three statements (slowly transcribed). First, the statement from the manager of the Flamenco Topless Bar; second, that from Miss Winifred Stewart, hostess at the Sauna Select; third, that from Mrs Emily Gilbert at her home in Berrywood Court. All three, in their various ways, had seemed to Lewis to be nervously defensive, and more than once he had found himself seriously doubting whether any of the trio was over-anxious to come completely clean. But Morse had blandly told him that any further investigations were not only futile but also quite unnecessary; and so he had ignored some obvious evasions, and merely written down what each had been prepared to tell him. Then, without much difficulty, he’d been able to discover at least something about the Gilbert brothers. Albert and the late Alfred had been public partners in a property-cum-removals firm, and private partners in a company christened Soho Enterprises-the latter owning, in addition to the topless bar, two dubious bookshops and a small (and strictly members-only) pornographic cinema. The London police knew a good deal about these activities anyway and inquiries were still proceeding, but already it seemed perfectly clear that even sex was suffering from the general recession. Of which fact Lewis him-self was glad, for he found the Soho area crude and sordid; and had the tempter looked along those streets, he could have entertained only the most desperate hope of pushing that broad and solid back through any of the doorways there. Finally, Lewis had been instructed to discover, if it were at all possible, the whereabouts of Albert Gilbert, Esq., although Morse had held out little prospect on that score – and Morse (as usual) had been right.

At the Headington roundabout Lewis was debating whether to call in for a few minutes and tell the missus he was safely home. But he didn’t. He knew the chief would be waiting.

During the previous two days Morse had hardly over-exerted himself, fully recognizing his own incompetence in such matters
as
mounting a man-hunt or supervising the search (yes -yet another one!) of the waters out at Thrupp. But he
had done
two things, in each case retracing the ground that Lewis had trodden before him. First, he had visited the Blood Transfusion Centre at the Churchill Hospital, where he asked to look through the current records; where after only a couple of minutes he nodded briefly; where he then asked to see the records for the previous five years, in this second instance spending rather longer before nodding again, pushing the drawers of the filing-cabinet to, thanking the clerk, and departing. Second, he’d driven down to the Examination Schools, where he spent more than an hour with the Curator, finally thanking him, too, and leaving with the contented look of a man who has found what he sought. Now, again, as he sat at his desk that Saturday morning, he looked contented -and with even better reason, for the call had come through at 9.30. He’d
known
there must be something in the waters of the Thrupp canal…

The sight of Lewis gladdened him even more. ‘Get some egg and chips while you were away?’

Lewis grinned. ‘Once or twice.’

‘Well, let’s hear from you. By the way, I hope you’ve noticed hardly any swelling at all now, is there?’

Twenty minutes later the phone rang. ‘Morse here. Can I help you?’ Lewis observed that the Chief Inspector’s pale, ill-shaven face was tautening as he listened. Listened only; till finally he said, ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ and with a look of unwonted agitation slowly put the receiver down.

‘What was all that about, sir?’

‘That was London on the line- Westerby’s just been found -he’s been murdered-they found him this morning-in a bedroom near Paddington-strangled with packing-twine.’

It was Lewis’s turn now to reflect with puzzlement on this troublous news. From what Morse had told him earlier, the case was almost over-with just a few arrests to come. So what on earth did
this
mean? But already Morse was on his feet and looking in his wallet.

‘Look, Lewis! You just get those reports of yours sorted out and typed up -then get off home and see the missus. Nothing more for you today.’

‘You sure there’s nothing I can do?’

‘Not got a couple of fivers to spare, have you?’

After Morse had left, Lewis rang his wife to say that he’d be in for a latish lunch. Then, beginning to get his documents in order, he reached for
Chambers’! Dictionary:
Morse was a fanatic about spelling.

The phone rang ten minutes later: it was the police surgeon.

‘Not there? Where the ‘ell’s he got to, then?’

‘One or two complications in the case, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, just tell the old bugger, will you, that the leg he’s found would make the height about 5 foot 10 inches – 5 foot 11 inches. All right? Doesn’t help all that much, perhaps, but it might cut out a few of the little ‘uns.’

‘What
leg?’ Lewis felt utterly confused.

‘Didn’t he tell you? Huh! Secretive sod, isn’t he’? He’s had half a dozen divers out this last couple of days… Still, he was right, I suppose. Lucky, though! Just tell him anyway-if he comes back.’

‘Perhaps he knew all the time,’ said Lewis quietly.

The phone was going all the time now. A woman’s voice was put through from the operator: but, no, she would speak to no one but Morse, Then Strange (himself, this time), who slammed down the receiver after learning that Morse had gone to London.

Then another woman’s voice-one Lewis thought he almost recognized: but she, too, refused to deal with any underling. Finally, a call came through from Dickson, on reception; a call that caused Lewis to jolt in amazement.

‘You
sure!’

‘Yep. Swindon police, it was. Said he was dead when the ambulance got there.’

‘But they’re sure it’s him?’

‘That’s what they said, Sarge-sure as eggs is eggs.’ Lewis put down the phone. It would be impossible to contact Morse in transit: he never drove anything other than his privately owned Lancia. Would Morse be surprised? He’d certainly
looked
surprised about an hour ago on learning of the death of Westerby. So what about this? What about Dickson’s latest information? That the body just recovered from a shallow embankment on the Didcot-Swindon railway-line was certainly that of Oliver Browne-Smith, late fellow of Lonsdale College, Oxford.