“You know very well that I do, Mr Matthews. But if you think that, I don't understand why you refused to cooperate with me in any way when I called on you before.”
Randall regarded him with an expression of courteous surprise. “My dear Superintendent, my recollection of your call is that you came to ask me what I knew of one John Hyde. I knew nothing of him, and I told you so. I don't remember being asked to co-operate with you?”
“You were aware that I attached importance to him, however. Why did you choose to visit Brown without telling me?”
“For very much the same reason that I chose to have my hair cut yesterday without telling you,” drawled Randall. “And—er—would not my telling you have been a little superfluous? I felt quite sure that the myrmidon on duty in Gadsby Row would tell you all about my visit.”
“He could not tell me what you had discovered, Mr Matthews, and you made no attempt to. How am I to take that?”
“Exactly as you please, of course,” replied Randall. “But I should like to remind you that I am not—ah, employed by Scotland Yard to gather information, and to assure you that if you imagine it has ever been my practice gratuitously to help policemen, or, in fact, anyone else, you have a singularly erroneous idea of my character.”
“Mr Matthews,” said Hannasyde bluntly, “I tell you frankly that the attitude you have chosen to adopt will do you no good. It leads me to suspect very strongly that for some reason best known to yourself you do not want your uncle's murderer to be discovered.”
Randall's expressive black brows rose. “You should not give way to mere prejudice, Superintendent,” he said. “Are you accusing me of suppressing valuable evidence? I would point out to you that when you asked me if I had elicited from Brown where Hyde had kept his papers I told you with the utmost readiness.”
“With the utmost readiness when it was too late to be of use!” Hannasyde said sternly.
“Now you are talking in riddles,” sighed Randall. “If you want me to understand you you will have to be more intelligible.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that John Hyde's safe was visited early this morning, and its entire contents removed?” asked Hannasyde.
Randall's brow wrinkled slightly. “No, I don't know that I think it would,” he replied, after a pause for consideration. “Perhaps he was aware of the interest you take in him.”
Hannasyde pulled the folded newspaper out of his pocket, and handed it to Randall. “Take a look at the announcements of deaths, Mr Matthews!” he said.
Randall glanced down the column, and said placidly: “Well, well! How very disconcerting! Does it happen to be true?”
“I have every reason to believe that it is entirely false,” answered Hannasyde. “But it enabled some person calling himself Hyde's brother to get at the safe, and to walk off with the contents.”
“I don't wonder that you are out of humour,” said Randall sympathetically. “Can't you trace this person? And did the officials in charge of the safe-depository just break open the safe, or use a skeleton key, or what? It all sounds most irregular.”
“That wasn't necessary,” said Hannasyde. “The so-called brother had Hyde's key in his possession.”
Randall laid down the paper. “Had he indeed? Well, that puts me in mind of a piece of information which I think might be really useful to you. Brown told me that Hyde always carried that key on his watch chain.”
There was a pause. Hannasyde still stood looking at Randall from under heavy brows, and at last he said slowly: “Did he?”
“Yes,” said Randall, putting a cigarette between his lips, and feeling in his pocket for his lighter. It was not there; he glanced round the room, saw it lying on his desk, and strolled over to get it. “Which, when one comes to think about it (but I admit I haven't thought very deeply) would seem to imply that either John Hyde is dead, or that the person calling himself his brother was in reality Hyde himself.” He lit his cigarette, and slid the lighter into his pocket. “Or,” he continued reflectively, “it might, of course, mean several other things.”
“As what?” Hannasyde asked.
Randall exhaled two spirals of smoke down his thin nostrils. “As, for instance, that he has been robbed of his key by some person unknown, or even murdered. I should look for an unidentified corpse if I were you, Superintendent. Failing that, why not find out who put that notice in the paper?”
“I mean to,” said Hannasyde. He added with startling abruptness: “Do you ever visit the Cavalry Club, Mr Matthews?”
“Frequently,” replied Randall. “Why?”
“Have you been there recently, may I ask?”
“Yes, I lunched there a couple of days ago,” replied Randall without the least hesitation. “Have you any objection?”
“None at all, Mr Matthews. And do you ever write letters on the club notepaper?”
“Certainly not,” replied Randall rather haughtily. “I am not a member of the club. Are there any other little things you would like me to tell you?”
“There are many things I should like you to tell me, Mr Matthews, but I think I will not trouble you with them today.” He picked up the newspaper, and restored it to his pocket.
“I believe,” said Randall, faintly smiling, “that for some obscure reason of your own, you connect me with the disappearance of Hyde, or his papers, or both. Would you like to search my flat?”
Somewhat taken aback Hannasyde said shortly: “No, Mr Matthews, I should not. I have no warrant to search your flat, nor do I suppose that I should find anything if' I had. I will wish you good-morning.”
Randall opened the door for him, and followed him out into the hall. “Good-bye, my dear Superintendent,” he said, with his hand on the latch of the front door. “Or shall I say au revoir? Come in any time you're passing: I am always pleased to see you.”
“You are too kind!” said Hannasyde. “Good-bye, Mr Matthews!”
He went out, just as Stella Matthews came up the stairs on to the landing.
“Why, if it is not my beloved little cousin Stella!” said Randall, an inflexion of surprise in his voice. “My sweet, is it possible that you have come to call on me, or have you merely got into the wrong house?”
Stella murmured good-morning to the Superintendent, and waited until he had disappeared round a bend in the staircase. “No, I've come to see you—on business,” she replied. “I tried Mr Carrington's office, but he was out, so I thought I might as well come here, and sound you.” She walked into the dove-grey hall, and looked critically about her. “What a weird-looking room!” she remarked. “Like some of Guy's efforts.”
“My God!” said Randall in a failing voice. “My poor ignorant child, have you no discrimination?”
“I don't like rooms to be affected,” replied Stella. “I call this damned affected.”
Randall said lovingly: “Shall I now tell you what I think of that hat you are wearing, my precious?”
“As a matter of fact, I know it isn't one of my better efforts,” admitted Stella candidly. “So you needn't trouble. Where can we talk?”
“In here,” said Randall, leading the way to the library. “Don't hesitate to say what you think of this room, will you? Your opinion is entirely valueless, but I shouldn't like you to feel constrained to keep it to yourself.”
“Well, I don't mind this room,” said Stella. “A bit opulent, perhaps, but that's your affair.” She walked over to the fireplace, inspected a bronze figure on the mantelpiece, and said rather haltingly: “Look here—I—you're probably wondering what on earth I've come here for.”
“Oh no!” said Randall, setting his finger on the bell. “You have come here because you want me to do something for you. I have few illusions, my pet.”
“No, I don't. Not exactly. At least—Well, I'd better explain.”
“Reserve your explanations until you have removed that hat and powdered your nose,” said Randall.
“I'm not going to remove it. I've only come for a minute.”
“Whether you have come for a minute or for an hour, I decline to sit looking at that utterly discordant atrocity. I did not invite you to my flat, and if you do not care to make yourself presentable you may go away again,” said Randall coolly.