authority.’”
“Sorry!”
But Morse was continuing with the text, as if the well-remembered words brought some momentary respite to his peevishness: “ ‘Having under me soldiers, and I say unto one, Go and he goeth; and to another, Come and he cometh'.”
“Lewis cometh,” said Lewis quietly.
Fifteen
I have received no more than one or two letters in my life that were worth the postage.
(Henry Thoreau)
“C'm in!
C'm in!” It was 8:45 A.M.
“Ah! Morse. Lewis.”
Perhaps, in all good faith, Strange had intended to sound brisk rather than brusque; yet, judging from Morse's silence as he sat down, the Chief Superintendent had not effected a particularly good start. He contrived to beam expansively at his two subordinates, and especially at Morse.
“What does ‘The Ringer’ mean to you?”
“Story by Edgar Wallace. I read it in my youth.”
Morse had spoken in clipped, formal tones; andLewis, with a millimeter rise of the eyebrows, glanced quickly at his impassive face.
Something was wrong.
“What about you, Sergeant? You ever read Edgar Wallace?”
“Me?” Lewis grinned weakly. “No, sir. I was a
Beano-boy
myself.”
“Anything else, Morse?”
“A campanologist?”
“Could be.”
Morse sat silently on.
“Anything else?”
“It's a horse that's raced under the name of a different horse—a practice, so they tell me, occasionally employed by unscrupulous owners.”
“How does it work?”
Morse shook his head. “I've seldom donated any money to the bookmakers.”
“Or anyone else for that matter.”
Morse sat silently on.
“Anything else?”
“I can think of nothing else.”
“Well, let me tell you something. In Oz, it's what you call the quickest fellow in a sheep-shearing competition. What about that?”
“Useful thing to know, sir.”
“What about a ‘dead ringer’?”
“Somebody almost identical with somebody else.”
“Good! You're coming on nicely, Morse.”
“No, I'm not. I've stopped.”
Strange shook his massive head and smiled bleakly. “You're an odd sod. You never seem to see anything that's staring you in the face. You have to look round half a dozen corners first, when all you've really got to do is to look straight up the bloody street in front of you!”
Lewis, as he sat beside his chief, knew that such a criticism was marginally undeserved, and he would have wished to set the record aright. But he didn't, or couldn't. As for Morse, he seemed quietly unconcernedabout the situation: in fact (or was Lewis misunderstanding things?) even a little pleased.
“What about this, then?” Suddenly, confidently, Strange thrust the letter across the desk; and after what seemed to both the other men an unnecessarily prolonged perusal, the slow-reading Morse handed it back. Without comment.
“Well?”
“‘The Ringer', you mean? You think it's the fellow who decided to ring you—”
“Ring me
twice!”
“It's a possibility.”
“Where do you think it was posted?”
“Dunno. You'll have to show me the envelope.”
“Guess!”
“You're expecting me to say Lower Swinstead.”
“No. Just waiting for your answer.”
“Lower Swinstead.”
“Explain
that
, then!” Strange produced a white envelope on which, above the lurid red capitals, the pewter-gold first-class stamp was canceled with a circular franking:
“All right,” conceded Morse. “I'll try another guess. What about Oxford?”
“Hm! What about the writing on the envelope?”
“Probably an A-level examiner using up one of his red pens. His scripts were sending him bananas and he happened to see your invitation in one of the newspapers. He just wondered why it was only the candidates who were allowed to make things up, so he decided to have a go for himself. He's a nutter, sir. A harmless nutter. We always get them—you know that.”
“Oh, thank you, Morse!”
“No fingerprints, sir?” asked Lewis diffidently.
“Ah, no. No fingerprints. Good question,
“Sorry!”
But Morse was continuing with the text, as if the well-remembered words brought some momentary respite to his peevishness: “ ‘Having under me soldiers, and I say unto one, Go and he goeth; and to another, Come and he cometh'.”
“Lewis cometh,” said Lewis quietly.
Fifteen
I have received no more than one or two letters in my life that were worth the postage.
(Henry Thoreau)
“C'm in!
C'm in!” It was 8:45 A.M.
“Ah! Morse. Lewis.”
Perhaps, in all good faith, Strange had intended to sound brisk rather than brusque; yet, judging from Morse's silence as he sat down, the Chief Superintendent had not effected a particularly good start. He contrived to beam expansively at his two subordinates, and especially at Morse.
“What does ‘The Ringer’ mean to you?”
“Story by Edgar Wallace. I read it in my youth.”
Morse had spoken in clipped, formal tones; andLewis, with a millimeter rise of the eyebrows, glanced quickly at his impassive face.
Something was wrong.
“What about you, Sergeant? You ever read Edgar Wallace?”
“Me?” Lewis grinned weakly. “No, sir. I was a
Beano-boy
myself.”
“Anything else, Morse?”
“A campanologist?”
“Could be.”
Morse sat silently on.
“Anything else?”
“It's a horse that's raced under the name of a different horse—a practice, so they tell me, occasionally employed by unscrupulous owners.”
“How does it work?”
Morse shook his head. “I've seldom donated any money to the bookmakers.”
“Or anyone else for that matter.”
Morse sat silently on.
“Anything else?”
“I can think of nothing else.”
“Well, let me tell you something. In Oz, it's what you call the quickest fellow in a sheep-shearing competition. What about that?”
“Useful thing to know, sir.”
“What about a ‘dead ringer’?”
“Somebody almost identical with somebody else.”
“Good! You're coming on nicely, Morse.”
“No, I'm not. I've stopped.”
Strange shook his massive head and smiled bleakly. “You're an odd sod. You never seem to see anything that's staring you in the face. You have to look round half a dozen corners first, when all you've really got to do is to look straight up the bloody street in front of you!”
Lewis, as he sat beside his chief, knew that such a criticism was marginally undeserved, and he would have wished to set the record aright. But he didn't, or couldn't. As for Morse, he seemed quietly unconcernedabout the situation: in fact (or was Lewis misunderstanding things?) even a little pleased.
“What about this, then?” Suddenly, confidently, Strange thrust the letter across the desk; and after what seemed to both the other men an unnecessarily prolonged perusal, the slow-reading Morse handed it back. Without comment.
“Well?”
“‘The Ringer', you mean? You think it's the fellow who decided to ring you—”
“Ring me
twice!”
“It's a possibility.”
“Where do you think it was posted?”
“Dunno. You'll have to show me the envelope.”
“Guess!”
“You're expecting me to say Lower Swinstead.”
“No. Just waiting for your answer.”
“Lower Swinstead.”
“Explain
that
, then!” Strange produced a white envelope on which, above the lurid red capitals, the pewter-gold first-class stamp was canceled with a circular franking:
“All right,” conceded Morse. “I'll try another guess. What about Oxford?”
“Hm! What about the writing on the envelope?”
“Probably an A-level examiner using up one of his red pens. His scripts were sending him bananas and he happened to see your invitation in one of the newspapers. He just wondered why it was only the candidates who were allowed to make things up, so he decided to have a go for himself. He's a nutter, sir. A harmless nutter. We always get them—you know that.”
“Oh, thank you, Morse!”
“No fingerprints, sir?” asked Lewis diffidently.
“Ah, no. No fingerprints. Good question,
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