though!”
“Best forget it, then,” counseled Morse.
“Rea-lly?” Strange allowed the disyllable to linger ominously. “When I was a lad, Morse, I once wrote off an entry for a Walt Disney competition and I drew a picture of Mickey Mouse on the front of the envelope.”
“Did you win?”
“No, I didn't. But let me just tell you one thing, matey: I'd like to bet you that somebody noticed it! That's the whole point, isn't it?”
“You've lost me, sir.”
Strange leaned back expansively. “When I asked Sergeant Dixon where
he
thought the letter was posted, he agreed with you: Lower Swinstead. And when I showed him the postmark he said it might
still
have been posted there, because he knew that some of the letters from that part of the Cotswolds were brought to Oxford for franking. So he went out and did a bit of legwork, and he traced the fellow who did the collections last week; and the postman remembered the envelope! There'd only been three letters that day in the box, and he'd noticed one of ‘em in particular. Not surprising, eh? So Dixon decided to test things, just for his own satisfaction. He addressed an envelope to himself and posted it at Lower Swinstead.”
Strange now produced a white unopened envelope and passed it across the desk. It was addressed in red Biro to Sergeant Dixon at Police HQ Kidlington, the pewter-gold first-class stamp canceled with the same circular franking:
Strange paused for effect. “Perhaps you ought to start eating doughnuts, Morse.”
“They won't let me have any sugar these days, sir.”
“There's no sugar in beer, you're saying?”
Lewis was expecting some semiflippant, semiprepared answer from his chief—something about balancing his intake of alcohol with his intake of insulin. But Morse said nothing, just sat there staring at the intricate design upon the carpet.
“One of these days, perhaps,” persisted Strange quietly, “you might revise your opinion of Dixon.”
“Why not put him in charge of the case? If you're still determined—”
“Steady on, Morse! That's enough of that. Just remember who you're talking to. And I'll tell you exactly why I'm not putting that idiot Dixon in charge. Because I've already put somebody else in charge—you and Lewis! Remember?”
“Lewis maybe, sir, but I can't do it.”
Feeling most uncomfortable during these exchanges, Lewis watched the color rise in Strange's cheeks as several times his mouth opened and closed like that of a stranded goldfish.
“You do realize you've got little say in this matter, Chief Inspector? I am
not
pleading with you to undertake an investigation for Thames Valley CID. What I
am
doing, as your superior officer, is telling you that you've been assigned to a particular duty. That's all. And that's enough.”
“No. It's not enough.”
For several minutes the conversation continued in a similar vein before Strange delivered his diktat:
“I see … Well, in that case … you give me no option, do you? I shall have to report this interview to the Chief Constable. And you know what that'll mean.”
Morse rose slowly to his feet, signaling Lewis to do the same. “I don't think you're going to report this interview to the Chief Constable or to the Assistant Chief Constable or to anyone else, for that matter, are you, Superintendent Strange?”
Sixteen
The vilest deeds like poison weeds
Bloom well in prison-air,
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the warder is Despair.
(Oscar Wilde,
The Ballad of Reading Gaol
)
Until comparatively recently, Harry Repp had associated the word “porridge” chiefly with the title of the TV comedy series and not with oatmeal stirred in boiling water. For as long as he could remember, his breakfasts had consisted of Corn Flakes covered successively (as his beer gut had ballooned) with full, semiskimmed, and finally the thinly insipid fully skimmed varieties of milk. It was his common-law
“Best forget it, then,” counseled Morse.
“Rea-lly?” Strange allowed the disyllable to linger ominously. “When I was a lad, Morse, I once wrote off an entry for a Walt Disney competition and I drew a picture of Mickey Mouse on the front of the envelope.”
“Did you win?”
“No, I didn't. But let me just tell you one thing, matey: I'd like to bet you that somebody noticed it! That's the whole point, isn't it?”
“You've lost me, sir.”
Strange leaned back expansively. “When I asked Sergeant Dixon where
he
thought the letter was posted, he agreed with you: Lower Swinstead. And when I showed him the postmark he said it might
still
have been posted there, because he knew that some of the letters from that part of the Cotswolds were brought to Oxford for franking. So he went out and did a bit of legwork, and he traced the fellow who did the collections last week; and the postman remembered the envelope! There'd only been three letters that day in the box, and he'd noticed one of ‘em in particular. Not surprising, eh? So Dixon decided to test things, just for his own satisfaction. He addressed an envelope to himself and posted it at Lower Swinstead.”
Strange now produced a white unopened envelope and passed it across the desk. It was addressed in red Biro to Sergeant Dixon at Police HQ Kidlington, the pewter-gold first-class stamp canceled with the same circular franking:
Strange paused for effect. “Perhaps you ought to start eating doughnuts, Morse.”
“They won't let me have any sugar these days, sir.”
“There's no sugar in beer, you're saying?”
Lewis was expecting some semiflippant, semiprepared answer from his chief—something about balancing his intake of alcohol with his intake of insulin. But Morse said nothing, just sat there staring at the intricate design upon the carpet.
“One of these days, perhaps,” persisted Strange quietly, “you might revise your opinion of Dixon.”
“Why not put him in charge of the case? If you're still determined—”
“Steady on, Morse! That's enough of that. Just remember who you're talking to. And I'll tell you exactly why I'm not putting that idiot Dixon in charge. Because I've already put somebody else in charge—you and Lewis! Remember?”
“Lewis maybe, sir, but I can't do it.”
Feeling most uncomfortable during these exchanges, Lewis watched the color rise in Strange's cheeks as several times his mouth opened and closed like that of a stranded goldfish.
“You do realize you've got little say in this matter, Chief Inspector? I am
not
pleading with you to undertake an investigation for Thames Valley CID. What I
am
doing, as your superior officer, is telling you that you've been assigned to a particular duty. That's all. And that's enough.”
“No. It's not enough.”
For several minutes the conversation continued in a similar vein before Strange delivered his diktat:
“I see … Well, in that case … you give me no option, do you? I shall have to report this interview to the Chief Constable. And you know what that'll mean.”
Morse rose slowly to his feet, signaling Lewis to do the same. “I don't think you're going to report this interview to the Chief Constable or to the Assistant Chief Constable or to anyone else, for that matter, are you, Superintendent Strange?”
Sixteen
The vilest deeds like poison weeds
Bloom well in prison-air,
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the warder is Despair.
(Oscar Wilde,
The Ballad of Reading Gaol
)
Until comparatively recently, Harry Repp had associated the word “porridge” chiefly with the title of the TV comedy series and not with oatmeal stirred in boiling water. For as long as he could remember, his breakfasts had consisted of Corn Flakes covered successively (as his beer gut had ballooned) with full, semiskimmed, and finally the thinly insipid fully skimmed varieties of milk. It was his common-law
Similar Books
