Morse's Greatest Mystery and Other Stories (7 page)

“You sneaky little bastard.”

Evans drew the razor carefully down his left cheek, and left a neat swath in the white lather. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Jackson? Why did they ’ave to bug me bloody cell?” He nodded his head vaguely to a point above the door.

“Not a very neat job,” conceded Jackson.

“They’re not—they don’t honestly think I’m goin’ to try to—”

“They’re taking no chances, Evans. Nobody in his bloody senses would take any chances with
you
.”

“Who’s goin’ to listen in?”

“I’ll tell you who’s going to listen in, laddy. It’s the Governor himself, see? He don’t trust you a bloody inch—and nor do I. I’ll be watching you like a bleedin’ hawk, Evans, so keep your nose clean. Clear?” He walked towards the door. “And while we’re on the subject of your nose, Evans, it’s about time you changed that filthy snot-rag dangling from your arse pocket. Clear?”

Evans nodded. He’d already thought of that, and Number Two Handkerchief was lying ready on the bunk—a neatly folded square of off-white linen.

“Just one more thing, Einstein.”

“Ya? Wha’s’ at?”

“Good luck, old son.”

In the little lodge just inside the prison’s main gates, the Reverend S. McLeery signed his name neatly in the visitors’ book, and thence walked side by side with a silent prison officer across the exercise yard to D Wing, where he was greeted by Jackson. The Wing’s heavy outer door was unlocked, and locked behind them, the heavy inner door the same, and McLeery was handed into Stephens’s keeping.

“Get the razor?” murmured Jackson.

Stephens nodded.

“Well, keep your eyes skinned. Clear?”

Stephens nodded again; and McLeery, his feet clanging up the iron stairs, followed his new guide, and finally stood before a cell door, where Stephens opened the peep-hole and looked through.

“That’s him, sir.”

Evans, facing the door, sat quietly at the farther of the two tables, his whole attention riveted to a textbook of elementary German grammar. Stephens took the key from its ring, and the cell lock sprang back with a thudded, metallic twang.

It was 9:10
A.M.
when the Governor switched on the receiver. He had instructed Jackson to tell Evans of the temporary little precaution—that was only fair. (As if Evans wouldn’t spot it!) But wasn’t it all a bit theatrical? Schoolboyish, almost? How on earth was Evans going to try anything on today? If he was so anxious to make another break, why in heaven’s name hadn’t he tried it from the Recreational Block? Much easier. But he hadn’t.
And there he was now—sitting in a locked cell, all the prison officers on the alert, two more locked doors between his cell and the yard, and a yard with a wall as high as a haystack. Yes, Evans was as safe as houses …

Anyway, it wouldn’t be any trouble at all to have the receiver turned on for the next couple of hours or so. It wasn’t as if there was going to be anything to listen to, was it? Amongst other things, an invigilator’s duty was to ensure that the strictest silence was observed. But … but still that little nagging doubt! Might Evans try to take advantage of McLeery? Get him to smuggle in a chisel or two, or a rope-ladder, or—

The Governor sat up sharply. It was all very well getting rid of any potential weapon that
Evans
could have used; but what about
McLeery
? What if, quite unwittingly, the innocent McLeery had brought in something himself? A jack-knife, perhaps? And what if Evans held him hostage with such a weapon? Sort of hi-jack-knifed him?

The Governor reached for the phone. It was 9:12
A.M.

The examinee and the invigilator had already been introduced by Stephens when Jackson came back and shouted to McLeery through the cell door. “Can you come outside a minute, sir? You, too, Stephens.”

Jackson quickly explained the Governor’s worries, and McLeery patiently held out his arms at shoulder-level whilst Jackson lightly frisked his clothes. “Something hard here, sir.”

“Ma reading glasses,” replied McLeery, looking down at the spectacle case.

Jackson quickly reassured him, and bending down on the landing thumb-flicked the catches on the suitcase. He
picked up each envelope in turn, carefully passed his palms along their surfaces—and seemed satisfied. He riffled cursorily through a few pages of Holy Writ, and vaguely shook
The Church Times
. All right, so far. But one of the objects in McLeery’s suitcase was puzzling him sorely.

“Do you mind telling me why you’ve brought this, sir?” He held up a smallish semi-inflated rubber ring, such as a young child with a waist of about twelve inches might have struggled into. “You thinking of going for a swim, sir?”

McLeery’s hitherto amiable demeanour was slightly ruffled by this tasteless little pleasantry, and he answered Jackson somewhat sourly. “If ye must know, I suffer from haemorrhoids, and when I’m sitting down for any length o’ time—”

“Very sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to, er …” The embarrassment was still reddening Jackson’s cheeks when he found the paper-knife at the bottom of the case. “I think I’d better keep this though, if you don’t mind, that is, sir.”

It was 9:18
A.M.
before the Governor heard their voices again, and it was clear that the examination was going to be more than a little late in getting under way.

The Governor reached for the phone. “Jackson? Ah, good. Get Stephens out of that cell, will you? I think we’re perhaps overdoing things.”

“As you wish, sir.”

The Governor heard the exchanges in the cell, heard the door clang to once more, and heard McLeery announce that the examination had begun at last.

It was 9:25
A.M.
; and there was a great calm.

At 9:40
A.M.
die Examinations Board rang through, and the Assistant Secretary with special responsibility for modern languages asked to speak to the Governor. The examination had already started, no doubt? Ah, a quarter of an hour ago. Yes. Well, there was a correction slip
which some fool had forgotten to place in the examination package. Very brief. Could the Governor please …?

“Yes, of course. I’ll put you straight through to Mr. Jackson in D Wing. Hold the line a minute.”

Was this the sort of thing the Governor had feared? Was the phone call a fake? Some signal? Some secret message …? But he could check on that immediately. He dialled the number of the Examinations Board, but heard only the staccato bleeps of a line engaged. But then the line
was
engaged, wasn’t it? Yes. Not very intelligent, that …

Two minutes later he heard some whispered communications in the cell, and then McLeery’s broad Scots voice:

“Will ye please stop writing a wee while, Mir. Evans, and listen carefully. Candidates offering German, 021–1, should note the following correction. On page three, line fifteen, the fourth word should read
goldenen
, not
goldene;
and the whole phrase will therefore read
zum goldenen Löwen
, not
zum goldene Löwen.’
I will repeat that …”

The Governor listened and smiled. He had taken German in the sixth form himself, and he remembered all about the agreements of adjectives. And so did McLeery, by the sound of things, for the minister’s pronunciation was most impressive. But what about Evans?
He
probably didn’t know what an adjective
was
.

The phone rang again. The Magistrates’ Court. They needed a prison van and a couple of prison officers. Remand case. And within two minutes the Governor was wondering whether
that
could be a hoax. He told himself not to be so silly. His imagination was beginning to run riot.

Evans!

* * *

For the first quarter of an hour Stephens had dutifully peered through the peep-hole at intervals of one minute or so; and after that, every two minutes. At 10:45
A.M.
he nipped off to the gents’, and was in such a hurry to get back that he found he’d dribbled down his trousers. But everything was still all right as he looked through the peep-hole once more. It took four or five seconds—no more. What was the point? It was always more or less the same. Evans, his pen between his lips, sat staring straight in front of him towards the door, seeking—it seemed—some sorely needed inspiration from somewhere. And opposite him McLeery, seated slightly askew from the table now: his face in semi-profile; his hair (as Stephens had noticed earlier) amateurishly clipped pretty closely to the scalp; his eyes behind the pebble lenses peering short-sightedly at
The Church Times;
his right index finger hooked beneath the narrow clerical collar; and the fingers of the left hand, the nails meticulously manicured, slowly stroking the short black beard.

At 10:50
A.M.
the receiver crackled to life and the Governor realized he’d almost forgotten Evans for a few minutes.

At 10:51
A.M.
Stephens was more than a little surprised to see a grey regulation blanket draped round Evans’s shoulders, and he frowned slightly and looked at the examinee more closely. But Evans, the pen still between his teeth, was staring just as vacamtly as before. Blankly beneath a blanket … Should Stephens report the slight irregularity? Anything at all fishy, hadn’t Jackson said? Mm. He looked through the peephole once again, and even as he did so Evans pulled the dirty blanket more closely to himself. Was he planning a sudden batman leap to suffocate McLeery in the blanket? Don’t be daft! There was never any sun on this side of the prison; no heating, either, during the summer months, and it could be quite chilly in some of the cells. Mm. Stephens decided to revert to his earlier every-minute observation.

At 11:20
A.M.
the receiver once more crackled across the silence of the Governor’s office, and McLeery informed Evans that only five minutes remained. The examination was almost over now, but something still gnawed away quietly in the Governor’s mind. He reached for the phone once more.

At 11:22
A.M.
Jackson shouted along the corridor to Stephens. The Governor wanted to speak with him—“
Hurry
, man!” Stephens picked up the phone apprehensively and listened to the rapidly spoken orders. Stephens himself was to accompany McLeery to the main prison gates. Understood? Stephens personally was to make absolutely sure that the door
was locked on Evans after McLeery had left the cell. Understood?

Understood.

At 11:25
A.M.
the Governor heard the final exchanges.

The Governor heard the door clang to for the last time. The examination was over.

“How did he get on, do you think?” asked Stephen as he walked beside McLeery to the main gates.

“Och. I canna think he’s distinguished hissel, I’m afraid.” His Scots accent seemed broader than ever, and his long black overcoat, reaching almost to his knees, fostered the illusion that he had suddenly grown slimmer.

Stephens felt pleased that the Governor had asked
him
, and not Jackson, to see McLeery off the premises, and all in all the morning had gone pretty well. But something stopped him from making his way directly to the canteen for a belated cup of coffee. He wanted to take just one last look at Evans. It was like a programme he’d seen on TV—about a woman who could never
really
convince
herself that she’d locked the front door when she’d gone to bed: often she’d got up twelve, fifteen, sometimes twenty times to check the bolts.