‘The Burglar’ 
COLIN DEXTER

OFFICER: Chief Inspector E. Morse 
FORCE: Oxford CID 
TIME: 1995

CASES: ‘Last Bus to Woodstock’ (1975), ‘The Dead of Jericho’ (1981), ‘The Wench is Dead’ (1989), ‘The Daughters of Cain’ (1994) etc.

PROFILE: Chief Inspector Morse, the melancholy, pessimistic and sometimes gruff policeman, has been described as one of the most cerebral sleuths in contemporary crime fiction. An introverted but highly intelligent man, he has honed his exceptional talents during a long career with the Thames Valley Force at Oxford and won the respect, if not always the affection, of his fellow officers. Morse-who has only ever admitted that his Christian name begins with an E-is also a vulnerable man beneath the surface, a fact which has much to do with a tortured romance that occurred during his college days, and he now prefers, when off duty, to lose himself in the music of Wagner, good books, crossword puzzles or pints of real ale. Middle aged and a confirmed bachelor, he can be relied upon to devote himself wholeheartedly to solving a case and often drives himself and his long-suffering aide, Sergeant Lewis, to the edge of distraction. In the press, Morse is regularly referred to as the nation’s favourite detective-largely due to the extraordinary success of the several ITV series of his adventures starring John Thaw and Kevin Whately which attracted audiences in excess of eighteen million viewers!

CREATOR: Colin Dexter (b. 1930), despite the overwhelming success of Morse, remains the same unassuming and courteous man he has always been and still lives in Oxford where for many years he was a university administrator. A passionate crossword puzzle enthusiast, it was this love of unravelling clues that prompted Dexter to create Morse during a family holiday in Wales in 1972. He recalls, ‘It was raining and I’d just read a crime novel that I thought was lousy so I sat down to write a better one-and that was the beginning of ‘Last Bus to Woodstock’, a story about a detective called Morse.’ (The name, he says, sprang from his National Service days where he discovered he was very good at transmitting high speed Morse code!) At the most recent calculation, the Morse novels have been translated into seventeen languages and the TV series seen by a total of 750 million viewers worldwide. ‘The Burglar’, written for You magazine in 1994, is another of Morse’s wonderfully puzzling little cases, ostensibly just about a break-in. But you may be sure there is more to it than that...

THE STORY:

As he drove into Chaucer Crescent, Sergeant Lewis turned to speak to his passenger. ‘Not often you show much interest in things like this, sir.’
Morse shrugged. ‘I used to live near him, that’s all.’
‘Did you know him very well?’
‘I’ve never known anyone very well, Lewis. But he showed me his collection of cigarette cards once-very fine.’
‘Probably not got it any longer.’
‘Probably not,’ admitted Morse.
‘Valuable?’
‘Oh yes! No cigarette cards around these days, are there?’
Lewis unfastened the safety belt. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never smoked, myself.’
‘Well, just don’t be too critical of those who do,’ said Morse briskly, as he stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Anyway, it’s good for all of us to do a bit of fourth-grade clerical work occasionally-you know, licking stamps, that sort of thing.’
‘I’ve never actually seen you licking stamps...’
‘Lewis! I shall go crackers if you use that weasel word “actually” much more.’
Sergeant Lewis took a deep breath. Made no reply. Got out of the car.
Number fourteen was an unremarkable semi-detached property, and the house itself presented a somewhat unkempt appearance-except for the windows, which had recently been replaced. And it was through one of these replacement windows that Mrs Agnes Price, living immediately opposite at number eleven, had observed a man peering into the front ground-floor living-room...
‘I suppose we’d better go and have a word with the old girl,’ said Morse.
What a stressful morning it had become for Mrs Price! She knew that more often than not burglaries took place in the broad light of day rather than by torchlight in the small hours of the morning. But was the man she’d seen a burglar-or at least a potential burglar? There was no way of knowing really, was there?
It was her responsibility, though, to keep an eye on things, because Mr Robertson had left his keys with her-as he’d left them for each of the past seven years when he’d gone off on his mid-August holidays to Morocco. And it was clear what she ought to do, because the police booklet was quite specific: ‘If you see anything at all suspicious, don’t hesitate to ring us and ask to speak to your local crime prevention officer.’
She had hesitated though; hesitated too long. But at least her biggest worry was over: the worry that she might be causing the police a lot of needless trouble-and making herself look a fool into the bargain-if it was all a false alarm.
But it hadn’t been a false alarm.
The goldfish suddenly gave a flick of its tail and propelled itself upon another of its interminable orbits inside its bowl; and somewhere inside Mrs Price too there was a flick of self-importance as she saw the two men get out of the police car and open her front gate.
After all, this was the second visit from the police that morning.
Pity she’d left things a bit before ringing, thought Lewis, but he made no mention of the fact as he and Morse were seated in Mrs Price’s front room (Lewis beside the goldfish bowl) where the elderly widow repeated the evidence she’d given three quarters of an hour earlier.
The first thing she’d noticed was that he was standing there-the man-on the grass in front of Mr Robertson’s front window, and sort of peering inside, with his right hand up to his eye-just like the Americans used to salute in the old wartime films. (Morse smiled: nicely put!) Then he’d tried the side gate: locked, though. So he’d come hack to the front of the house; and after that-well, she thought he’d gone away. But he hadn’t-because he was back again about ten minutes later when he’d gone up to the front door and waited there a while and... and sort of listened.
A lot of burglaries took place when properties were empty, didn’t they? And she-well, she just hadn’t known what to do. She’d considered going over herself but... but he might still have been there!
Lewis nodded. ‘Much better to ring us-like you did, Mrs Price. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it, sir?’
But Morse made no reply, apparently unaware that he had been invited to corroborate his sergeant’s assertion.
So Mrs Price continued... She’d rung the police and the young PC Watson had arrived within ten minutes. They’d gone over to number fourteen together, where she’d let them both in. She’d picked up the letters from the doormat and put them on the hall stand-but she hadn’t touched anything else.
Things seemed fairly normal... downstairs. ‘Except for the french window, of course.’ Again Lewis nodded encouragingly. ‘But... but upstairs, in poor Mr Robertson’s bedroom-Oh dear!’
‘Would you recognise him again-the burglar?’
She shook her head. ‘He’d got his back to me most of the time.’
‘Was he white or coloured?’
‘White.’
‘Fair hair? Dark hair?’
‘Darkish.’
‘Was it long-or short?’
‘Shortish.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘I can’t really...’
‘Was he just wearing a shirt? I mean, it’s a lovely warm day.’
‘Yes I think he was just in his shirtsleeves.’
‘Can you remember what colour?’
‘Blue-bluish, I think.’
‘How old would you say?’
‘Young-youngish.’
The ‘h’ suffix was figuring frequently in Lewis’s notebook.
‘Was he carrying anything suspicious? You know what I mean... like...’
But Lewis seemed unable to provide any specific exemplification.
‘I think he was carrying something yes. But...’
‘That’s fine. Don’t worry!’ said Lewis, closing his notebook and getting to his feet. As Mrs Price handed him the keys, he asked one final question. ‘How long have you had the goldfish, by the way?’
‘Christ! You do ask some stupid questions,’ said Morse, as he and Lewis walked over to number fourteen. ‘”Was he just wearing a shirt?” ‘ you said. If he was, he’d have been arrested for indecent exposure, wouldn’t he?’
 ‘Mrs Price knew exactly...’ But Lewis abandoned any further explanation. ‘What would you have asked?’
‘Me? For a start I’d’ve asked whether this was normally kept shut,’ said Morse, pushing open the decrepit wooden gate. ‘Interesting things, gates. See this?’ He pointed to the notice lopsidedly nailed across the top bar. ‘No Free Newspapers.’
‘So we may assume, Lewis, that our suspicious visitor was probably not the paperboy-unless he couldn’t read, of course.’
Lewis shook his head. ‘Even if he couldn’t read, he’d still stick the paper through the letterbox, wouldn’t he?’
‘So?’
‘So what’s he doing looking through the window, sir?’
‘Ah! Now that’s a good question,’ said Morse as he pressed the doorbell button-with no audible consequence-before inserting the key into the Yale lock.
A dozen or so envelopes, brown and white, together with a few cards and leaflets, stood neatly stacked where Mrs Price had left them; and Morse quickly fingered through the pile, a slight frown forming on his forehead as he did so. But there was no one to observe such temporary puzzlement, since Lewis had already walked through to the dining-room at the rear of the house where earlier Mrs Price and PC Watson had quickly spotted the one-so far-incontrovertible piece of evidence of the burglar’s intrusion; and pretty certainly his means of ingress.
From the french window, which overlooked the semi-wilderness of the back garden, a small pane of glass had been carefully removed. The aperture thus created, though measuring only some few square inches, had clearly been sufficient for the burglar to insert a hand, to reach down, and to turn the dark brown key which now stood in the lock; and which-presumably?-Robertson must have left there.
‘Your old friend ought to be shot!’ ventured Lewis.
Morse grunted agreement.
‘The fingerprint boys’ll be pleased, though, sir.’
‘Waste o’ time, Lewis! We’re dealing with a professional here.’
They’re not all that bright, some of ‘em.’
‘Lewis! You’re missing the whole point.’
‘Which is?’
‘The glass. Where’s the glass? Not in here, is it?’
Lewis looked down at the threadbare green carpet. Not a sliver of glass was to be seen. Nor, it appeared, on the concreted area immediately outside.
‘No,’ continued Morse. ‘Somebody ns organised as that isn’t going to leave his signature. And I wouldn’t mind betting that he probably locked up after himself too.’
He was reaching out towards the french window when Lewis laid a hand on his arm.
‘Please don’t touch anything, sir!’
‘Stop treating me like a child!’ snapped Morse.
Considerably irked, Lewis followed his superior officer up the stairs, the passageway made even narrower by piles of books stacked at each side of every step. On the small landing, where the door of the front bedroom stood wide open, the two men came face to face straight away with a scene of chaos on a considerable scale.

Bill Robertson, a tall, stooping, seventy-five-year-old bachelor, returned from his annual holiday in Morocco a week late.
At nine a.m. the Heathrow Customs had been ready for him. And on the coach journey back to Oxford, he’d sought to come to terms with the news that the property had been ransacked, and that the police were anxious to be with him when he first set foot in number fourteen again.
‘Doesn’t seem too much wrong,’ he began tentatively, as together with Morse and Lewis he stood first in the hallway, then in the front room; then in the dining-room-where Lewis pointed to the french window, now liberally besprinkled with dusting powder.
It was Robertson who broke the ensuing silence. ‘I’m so sorry-really should have had it fixed before I went, shouldn’t I?’
‘You mean to say...?’ began Lewis slowly.
Robertson nodded. ‘I was trying to get a bit of gardening done, and the handle of the rake, well, sort of just went straight through the window.’
‘And you left the key in the lock,’ added Morse quietly.
Robertson nodded like a guilty schoolboy.
‘You know,’ said Lewis, ‘you might just as well have left a notice on the gate telling everybody that the back door was wide open.’
‘You’re right. But... but I’m still a bit surprised that everything’s been left so tidy.’
Lewis walked to the foot of the stairs, wondering what his own immaculately methodical wife would have made of this man’s idea of tidiness.
‘Just wait a little while, if you will, sir!’
‘I’m in for a shock-is that what you’re telling me?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Lewis quietly.
In the bedroom all the drawers from the two large mahogany chests had been removed and lay, on their sides or upside down, alongside the single bed, forming (as it were) the basis of a pyramid, whose superstructure comprised (variously) piles of such things as bed-linen, shirts, pyjamas, cardigans; phrase books, maps, paperbacks, diaries; the great motley heap littered at its apex with pens and pencils, bottle-openers, tubes of ointment, and small-denominational coinage, as if the contents of the various canisters and jars scattered around the room had been sprinkled over the entire accumulation.
Robertson stood silent.
And Lewis stood silent.
And Morse himself, after seeing his way past the wreckage, stood silent too, as he looked out over the quiet crescent, where a postman was working his way along the opposite side of the street-a youngish, darkish man wearing a light-bluish short-sleeved shirt; for the morning was just as gloriously warm as it had been at the same time a week previously.
And Morse smiled sadly, if contentedly, to himself, for all the clues now fitted into place: the light-blue shirt; the malfunction of the front-door bell; the card he’d read in the stack of mail inviting the householder to collect a recorded-delivery package; the missing pane in the french window; and, above all, the fecklessness of his former neighbour.
‘Take your time, sir!’ prompted the gentle Lewis. ‘No need to say anything for a while. Just have a quiet look around and try and tell us what’s missing.’
Meanwhile, Morse had turned his back on the bedroom window-the replacement bedroom window. Apart from a first perfunctory greeting, he’d said nothing, and still said nothing, although he now saw the whole thing so clearly. Perhaps, given a minute or so longer, he would himself have revealed the extraordinary truth concerning the burglary of number fourteen Chaucer Crescent. But he had no need, for quietly, sadly, Robertson did it for him, as he picked up a Moroccan phrase book from the top of the pyramid.
‘You know, gentlemen, it’s very difficult for me to tell you what’s missing here-if anything-because this room looks to me exactly the same as when I went away!’