He left Adam Street, and journeyed east, to the City. At Foster's Bank the manager was civil, but by no means friendly. The Bank, he said, was no doubt what Superintendent Hannasyde would consider old-fashioned; they had old-fashioned ways in it; he himself greatly deplored the modern methods of the police in trying to obtain information through Banks. Time was…
Hannasyde, who never made enemies wantonly, listened, and sympathised, and quite agreed with the manager. In the end he got some information out of him, though not very much. The manager knew very little about John Hyde, who hardly ever came in person to the Bank. He had opened an account a good many years ago now. It was believed that he was an agent for some northern firm of manufacturers; his address was 17 Gadsby Row; the manager regretted he could give Hannasyde no further information.
Gadsby Row, which was a narrow, crowded street in the heart of the City, did not take Hannasyde long to find. He turned down it from the busy thoroughfare which it bisected, and, threading his way between hurrying typists and bare-headed errand-boys, soon arrived at No. 17. This was found to be a newsagent's shop, which also sold the cheaper kinds of cigarettes and tobacco. It was a mean little place, with dirty, fly-blown windows, and it bore the name H. Brown on the fascia board. A couple of steps led up into the interior of the shop, which was dark, and small, and smelled of stale smoke. Hannasyde walked in, and almost at once a door at the back of the shop opened, and a stout woman in an overall came into the shop, and asked him what he wanted.
“I am looking for a Mr John Hyde,” said Hannasyde. “I understand this is where he lives.”
“He ain't in,” she replied shortly. “Don't know when he'll be back.”
“Where can I find him, do you know?”
“I couldn't say, I'm sure.”
The door at the back of the shop opened again, and a middle-aged man with a wispy moustache and a pair of watery blue eyes came out in his shirt-sleeves, and said: “What's the gentleman want, Emma?”
“Someone asking for Mr Hyde,” she answered indifferently.
“You'll have to call back. He's not here.”
“That's what I told him,” corroborated his wife. “Is this where he lives?” asked Hannasyde.
“No, it isn't,” said Mr Brown, eyeing him with dawning dislike.
“Then perhaps you can tell me where he does live?”
“No, I'm sorry, I can't. Take a message, if you like.” Hannasyde produced a card, and gave it to him.
“That's my name,” he said. “It may help your memory a bit.”
Mr Brown read the legend on the card, and shot a swift, lowering look at the Superintendent. His wife craned her neck to see the card, and perceptibly changed colour. She stared at Hannasyde and thrust out her lip a little. “We don't want no busies here!” she announced. “What d'you want to know?”
Hannasyde, who was accustomed to being regarded by the Mrs Browns of this world with deep distrust, did not set a great deal of store by her obvious uneasiness, but replied in a business-like voice: “I've told you what I want to know. Where can I find Mr John Hyde?”
“How can we tell you what we don't know?” she cried. “He ain't here, that's all.”
Her husband nudged her away. “That's O.K., Emma: you get back to the kitchen.” He put the Superintendent's card down on the counter, and said with a smile that showed a set of discoloured teeth: “That's right, what she says. We haven't set eyes on Mr Hyde, not since last Tuesday.”
“What does he do here?”
Mr Brown caressed his stubbly chin. “Well, you see, in a manner of speaking he owns the place.”
Hannasyde frowned. “You mean he owns this shop?”
“No, not to say the shop, he doesn't. The whole house is his.”
“He's your landlord, in fact?”
“That's it,” agreed Mr Brown. “He's an agent for one of them big firms up north. I don't know as he's got what you'd call a fixed address, barring this. You see, he travels about a lot in the way of business.”
“Do you mean that he has an office here, or what?”
“That's right You can see it if you like. There ain't anything there.”
“How long has he been here?”
“Well, I couldn't say offhand,” said Mr Brown vaguely. “A goodish time. Somewhere round about seven or eight years, I think.”
“What age man is he? What does he look like?”
“He's nothing particular to look at. I don't know as I could hardly describe him. He hasn't got the sort of face you can take hold of. Middle-aged, he is, and keeps himself to himself. What do you want with him?”
“That's my business. How often does he come here?”
“Pretty often,” Mr Brown said sullenly.
“Come along, answer! Does he come here every day?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not. It ain't nothing to do with me. He comes as he pleases.”
“When did you see him last?”
“I told you. It was last Tuesday. I ain't laid eyes on him since.”
“Did he say he was going away?”
“No, he didn't. He didn't say nothing.”
“Didn't give you any address for his letters to be forwarded to?”
Mr Brown shot him another of his lowering glances. “There hasn't been no letters.”
There was little more to be got out of him. After one or two more questions which were answered in the same grudging manner, Hannasyde left the shop. The personality of Mr John Hyde, about which he had felt, an hour earlier, only a mild curiosity, had suddenly become a problem of unexpected importance. The elusive Mr Hyde would have to be found, and his connection with Gregory Matthews traced to its source. It was a job for the department, but while he was on his way to Scotland Yard Hannasyde all at once changed his mind, and instead of going to Whitehall, got on an omnibus bound for Piccadilly, and went to pay a call on Mr Randall Matthews.
Chapter Nine
It was nearly noon by the time Hannasyde arrived at Randall's flat, but that elegant young gentleman received him in a brocade dressing-gown of gorgeous colouring and design. He seemed, with the exception of his coat, to be fully clad under the glowing robe, so Hannasyde concluded that the wearing of it was due rather to a love of the exotic than to actual sloth. He smiled inwardly at the thought of Sergeant Hemingway's appreciation of the dressing-gown, could he but have seen it, and embarked without preamble on an explanation of his visit.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr Matthews,” he said, “but I think you may be able to help me.”
“How gratifying!” said Randall. “Let me give you a glass of sherry.”
“Thank you, but I won't take anything just now. Does the name of Hyde convey anything to you?”
Randall poured himself out a glass of sherry, and replaced the stopper in the decanter. “Well—parks,” he said.
“No.”
“Give me time,” said Randall, picking up his wineglass. “Stevenson?” he suggested.
“Nothing else, Mr Matthews?” Hannasyde asked, watching him closely.
Randall met the steady gaze with one of his blandest looks. “Well, not just at the moment,” he said. “Do you want to pursue the subject? Because if so I'm afraid you'll have to explain things to me. I don't seem to be very intelligent this morning.”
“You don't happen to recall having heard your uncle mention that name at any time?” Hannasyde persisted.
Randall continued to look at him over the rim of his wineglass. “No, I can't say that I do,” he replied. He strolled over to a chair, and sat down on the arm of it. “Will you have a cigarette, or a nice game of Blind Man's Bluff?” he inquired.
Hannasyde accepted the cigarette. “I'm disappointed, Mr Matthews. I hoped that you might be able to throw some light on this little problem. I have been going through your uncle's Bank books.” He struck a match, and held it to the end of his cigarette. “And I find that quite a substantial part of his income has apparently been derived from a person going by the name of John Hyde. Or, possibly, from some business of which Hyde is the representative.”