‘Few days ago. Some foreign gent, I think it is.’

‘The one from Oxford-that’s Mr Westerby, isn’t it?’

‘You know ‘im, then?’

‘Is he in?’

‘No. I ‘aven’t seen ‘im since ‘e came to look rarnd, like.’ The man hesitsted. ‘Nuffin wrong, is there?’

‘Everything’s wrong, Mr Hoskins, I’m afraid. You’d better show me round his flat, if you will.’

Rather laboriously the man led the way up the stairs to the first floor, produced a key from his overall pocket, and opened the door across from the landing with the apprehension of a man who expects to cast his eye upon a carpet swimming with carnage. But the pale-grey carpeting in the small (and otherwise completely unfurnished) ante-room provided evidence only of a recent, immaculate hoovering.

‘Main room’s through there, guv.’

Inside this second room, half a dozen pieces of heavy, mahogany furniture stood at their temporary sites around the walls, whilst the floor space was more than half covered by oblong wooden crates, several piled on top of others-crates each labelled neatly with the name and new address of a G. O. Westerby, Esq., MA; crates which Morse had recognized immediately, especially the one, already opened, which had contained the head of Gerardus Mercator (now standing on the | mantelpiece).

‘Mr Westerby already been here?’

‘Not seen ‘im guv. But o’ course, ‘e might “a” come later – after I was off. Looks like it, don’t it?’

Morse nodded, looking aimlessly around the room, and then trying the two fitted wardrobes, both of which were unlocked, empty, dusty. And Morse frowned, knowing that somewhere something was wrong. He pointed back to the ante-room. ‘Did you hoover the carpet in there?’

The man’s face (Morse could have sworn it) had paled a few degrees. ‘No-I just, as I said, look after the general cleaning, like-stairs and that sort o’ thing.’

But Morse sensed that the man was lying, and found no difficulty in guessing why: a caretaker in a block of flats like this… half a dozen wealthy and undomesticated men… a few nice little backhanders now and again just to dust and to clean… Yes, Morse could imagine the picture all right; and it might well be that a caretaker in such a block of fiats would know rather more about one or two things than he was prepared to admit. Yet Morse was singularly unsuccessful in eliciting even the slightest piece of information, and he changed the course of his questioning.

‘Did you show Mr Westerby round here?’

‘No, chap from the agents, it was-young fellow.’

‘Always the same young fellow, is it?’

‘Pardon, sir?’ \

‘You say they’ve just sold the other flat?’

‘Ah I see. No, I wasn’t ‘ere then.’

‘It’s not Mr Gilbert himself, is it-this young fellow you mention?’

‘I wouldn’t know-1 never met ‘im personally, like.’

‘I see.’ Again Morse sensed that the man was holding something back, and again he aimed blindly in the dark. ‘You know when Mr Westerby called again… when was it, about a week, ten days ago?’

‘I told you, sir. I only saw ‘im the once-the day ‘e looked round the place.’

‘I see.’ But Morse saw nothing, apart from the fact that far from hitting any bull’s-eye he’d probably missed the target altogether. Without any clear purpose he proceeded to look into the small kitchen, and then into the bathroom; but the only thing that mildly registered in his mind was that the parquet flooring in each was sparklingly clean, and he felt quite convinced now that Hoskins (almost certainly in contravention of his contract) was working a very profitable little fiddle for himself with his mop and his cleansing-fluid.

So it was that slowly and disconsolately Morse followed what he now saw as the marginally devious little caretaker down the broad staircase towards the front door. And at that point, had it not been for one fortuitous occurrence, perhaps the simple yet quite astounding truth of the present case might never have beached upon the shores of light. For Morse had heard a lift descending, and now he saw a dark-skinned, grey-suited man emerge from the side of the entrance-hall.

‘Arteraoon, sir,’ said Hoskins, touching some imaginary lock on his balding pate.

The affluent-looking Arab was walking in the opposite direction from the front door, and as he watched him Morse whispered to his companion: ‘Where’s he going?’

‘There’s a back entrance ‘ere, guv…’

But Morse hardly heard, for the Arab himself had looked over his shoulder, and was in turn looking back towards Morse with a puzzled, vaguely worried frown.

‘Who’s he?’ asked Morse very quietly.

‘ ‘e lives on the-’

But again Morse was not listening, for his thoughts- were travelling via the unsuspected lift towards the higher storeys. ‘He finishes work early, doesn’t he?’

‘ ‘e can afford to, guv.’

‘Yes. Like you can, sometimes, Hoskins! Take me up to the flat that’s just been sold!’

The small but extraordinarily efficient lift brought them swiftly up to the top storey, where Hoskins nervously fingered a bouquet of silvery keys, finally finding the correct one, and pushing open the door for the policeman to enter.

Things were at last falling into place in Morse’s mind, and as they stood by the opened door his aim was more deliberate.

‘Did they give you the afternoon off, Hoskins ?

‘What afternoon, guv?’ the man protested. But not for long.

It had been on the Friday, he confessed. He’d had a phonecall, and been given a couple of fivers-huh! -just for staying away from the place.

Morse was nodding to himself as he entered the rooms. Yes… the Gilbert twins: one of them a housing agent; the other a removals man. Sell some property-and recommend a highly reputable and efficient removals firm; buy some property-and also recommend the same paragon of pantechniconic skills. Very convenient, and very profitable. Over the years the two brothers must have worked a neatly dovetailed little business…

Now, again, Morse looked around him at a potentially luxurious flat in central London: the small entrance hall, the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom – all newly decorated. No carpets yet, though; no curtains, either. But there was not a flick of cigarette ash, not even a forgotten tin-tack, on the light-oak boards, as spotless as those of an army barrack floor before the CO’s inspection.

‘You’ve been cleaning in here, too?’ asked Morse.

The walls were professionally painted in lilac emulsion, the doors and fitted cupboards in brilliant-white gloss. And Morse, suddenly thinking back to his own bachelor flat with the heavy old walnut suite his mother had left him, began to envisage some lighter, brighter, modernistic furniture for himself as he opened one of the fitted wardrobes in the bedroom with its inbuilt racks and airy, deep recesses. And not just one of them!

But the second one was locked.

‘You got the key for this, Hoskins?’

No, sir. I only keep the keys for the doors. If people wants to lock things up…’

‘Let’s look in the kitchen!’

Beside the sink, Morse found a medium-sized screwdriver, the only object of any kind abandoned (it seemed) by the previous owner.

‘Think this’ll open it, Hoskins?’

‘I-I don’t want to get you in any trouble, sir-or me. I shouldn’t really ‘ave… I just don’t think it’s right to mess up the place and damage things, sir.’

(The “sir”s were coming thick and fast)

It was time, Morse thought, for some reassurance. ‘Look, Hoskins, this is my responsibility. I’m doing my duty as a police officer-you’re doing your duty as a good citizen. You understand that?’

The miserable man appeared a modicum mollified and nodded silently. And indeed it was he, after a brief and ineffectual effort from Morse, who proved the more successful; for he managed to insert the screwdriver far enough into the gap between the side of the cupboard door and the surrounding architrave to gain sufficient leverage. Then, with a joint prizing, the lock finally snapped, the wood splintered, and the door swung slowly open. Inside, slumped on the floor of the deep recess, was the body of a man, the head turned towards the wall; and almost exactly half-way between the shoulder-blades was a round hole in the dead man’s sports-jacket, from which was oozing still a steady drip of bright-red blood, feeding a darker pool upon the floor. Almost squeamishly, Morse inserted his left hand under the lifeless, lolling head… and turned it towards him.