“Well, I'll be damned!” said Sergeant Hemingway.
“Exactly,” said Hannasyde dryly, and picked up the paper, and once more read the notice on the front page.
HYDE.—On May 22nd, 1935, at a nursing-home, suddenly, JOHN HYDE, of 17 Gadsby Row, in his 50th year. No flowers by request.
The Sergeant scratched his nose. “And what's more, it may be true, Chief,” he pronounced. “What does it say?—suddenly? There you are then. All the time we've been chasing round after him the poor fellow's been lying in hospital with appendicitis. No wonder we couldn't find him! Well, well, and now where are we?”
“Get on to the office of the paper, and find out who sent in that notice,” commanded Hannasyde rather irritably. “And do try and keep your infernal imagination within bounds!”
The Sergeant shook his head sadly. “Yes, I thought this case would get on our nerves before we were through with it,” he remarked, and went out before his superior had time to reply.
He came back some little time later, and said: “Well, now I am going to surprise you, Super. That notice was sent in by General Sir Montague Hyde, of Crayly Court, Herts.”
“What?” exclaimed Hannasyde.
“Didn't know he'd got such classy relations, did we?” said the Sergeant cheerfully.
“Who is General Sir Montague Hyde?” demanded Hannasyde.
The Sergeant consulted the slip of paper in his hand. “Born 1871… eldest son of Sir Montague Hyde, 5th baronet… Educated Eton and Sand—”
“I don't want to know where he was educated, and you can cut out the Boer War, and the Great War, and his decorations, if any!” said Hannasyde. “What are his clubs? Has he a town address?”
“Green Street, Mayfair,” said the Sergeant. “Clubs, Boodle's and the Cavalry.”
Hannasyde glanced at his watch. “If he's in town I may catch him at his house, then,” he said, and got up, and reached for his hat and for the copy of the newspaper.
The General was in town, but an austere butler, looking down his nose at Superintendent Hannasyde, said frigidly that the General was still at his breakfast. Hannasyde expressed his willingness to await the General's pleasure, and sent in his card. He was ushered into a room at the back of the house, and informed presently by the butler that the General would see him in a few minutes.
A quarter of an hour later the General, a fine-looking old man with iron-grey hair, and a beak-like nose, entered the sombre room, nodded to Hannasyde, and with a glance at the card in his hand said, in the voice of one who commanded whole armies: “Well, Superintendent? What's all this?”
“I must apologise calling on you at such an early hour, sir,” said Hannasyde, “but my attention has been drawn to a certain notice appearing in today's paper for which I understand you are responsible.”
The General looked at him somewhat glassily. “What the deuce are you talking about, my good man?” he said. “What notice in what paper?”
Hannasyde produced the paper, and pointed out the fatal entry. The General, after a very sharp glance cast at him, got out a pair of spectacles, and held them over the bridge of his nose, and peered through them at the notice of John Hyde's death. He then lowered the paper, removed the spectacles from his nose, and desired to be told what this feller (whoever he might be) had to do with him.
“I am informed, sir, that the notice was inserted by you,” replied Hannasyde.
“You are informed!” said the General. “Who informed you?”
“The office of the paper in question, sir,” said Hannasyde.
“Then let me tell you, Superintendent, that you have been misinformed!” said the General. John Hyde? Never heard of the feller in my life!”
It was apparent to Superintendent Hannasyde that the General was displeased. He was required instantly to explain to the General what Scotland Yard meant by it. He did explain, as briefly as he was able, but the General, stating that he had no interest in Scotland Yard's damned activities and didn't want to hear about them,, demanded to know who was the impudent scoundrel who had dared to make use of his name? When he found that Hannasyde could give him no information on this Point he said, upon his word, he wondered what Scotland Yard was doing. He made it abundantly plain to the Superintendent that he expected him immediately to trace the perpetrator of this impudent hoax. He himself had every intention of getting to the bottom of the matter.
Hannasyde left him, twenty minutes later, breathing vengeance, and felt sorry for the hapless editor who was shortly to receive a call from him. He himself visited the offices of the newspaper, but could discover little there. The notice had been typewritten, enclosed in a half-sheet of Cavalry Club writing-paper with the name and address of General Sir Montague Hyde also typed on it.
“Then it wasn't Brown,” said the Sergeant decidedly. “He's got a nerve all right, but not enough nerve to go waltzing into the Cavalry Club and asking for a bit of notepaper. Why, I wouldn't have myself! Come to think of it, whoever pulled this one must have got nerve enough for a rhinoceros.”
“Yes,” said Hannasyde, and added with a reluctant smile: “Also a certain sense of humour. And I took Ferguson off!”
“You did?” said the Sergeant. “I suppose he hadn't got any black boots?”
Hannasyde ignored this heavy sarcasm, and replied: “It was no use having Matthews watched if he knew of it. He succeeded in giving Ferguson the slip three times, you know.”
“If you ask me,” said the Sergeant severely, “he complained about the boots just on purpose to get you to take Ferguson off.”
“He complained about the boots to annoy me,” said Hannasyde. “He could have shaken him off at any time he pleased. If you know you're being followed it's child's play to get clear in London.” He thought for a moment. “If it was he who put that notice in the paper what was his object?”
“Bit of comic relief,” suggested the Sergeant.
Hannasyde looked at him frowningly. “Hyde's papers,” he said abruptly. “Somebody wants to get hold of them.”
“Well, we shouldn't mind having a squint at them ourselves,” agreed the Sergeant. “But if young Matthews got the name of Hyde's lawyer out of Brown he's cleverer than I am, that's all I can say. Unless he knew all along, which somehow I don't think.”
“Not a lawyer,” Hannasyde said. “Matthews couldn't get papers out of a lawyer on the strength of that notice. And if the papers aren't—Good God, why didn't I think of it? A safe-deposit, Sergeant! Get me the names of all the big safe-deposits in London: there aren't many of them. We've got to stop anyone getting hold of those papers—if we're in time.”
But they were not in time. The first safe-depository Hannasyde rang up stated that Mr John Hyde's papers had been removed an hour ago by his brother, Mr Samuel Hyde, who had signed a receipt for them. Hannasyde, suppressing a desire to swear, made the rest of his way to the City, and presented himself in person at the Safe-Depository. The receipt for the contents of John Hyde's safe was signed in a sloping, copybook handwriting. Mr Samuel Hyde, said the official who had attended to him, had produced the notice of Mr Hyde's sudden death, together with a copy of his will, wherein his own name appeared as sole executor. Mr Samuel Hyde was in possession of Mr John Hyde's keys: everything had seemed to be perfectly in order.
“What did he look like?” Hannasyde asked. “Was he a young man, smartly dressed?”
“Oh no, not at all,” replied the official. “Really, I didn't study him very closely, but he had grey hair, I'm sure. What I should call a very sallow complexion, as though he'd been in the East. I don't remember him being smartly dressed. He wore an overcoat—quite an old looking overcoat. In fact, he was very like his brother, very.”
“If he was the man I suspect,” said Hannasyde, “there is one thing about him you could not fail to have noticed. Had he very vivid blue eyes, and extremely long eyelashes?”
“Well, I'm afraid I couldn't say,” was the apologetic answer. “He was wearing smoked spectacles, you see.”
“My lord!” exclaimed the Sergeant involuntarily. A few minutes later, when they had left the building, he said: “It's the man himself, Chief. Somehow or other Brown managed to tip him off. And if you want to know what I think, when we've laid our hands on Mr Vanishing Hyde we'll have got Gregory Matthews' murderer. You think it over: first, there's —”
“Thanks, I am thinking it over,” said Hannasyde. “I can see that Hyde's the likeliest person to have inserted the notice of his own death—if he wanted to disappear. I can see that there would have been nothing easier for him to have done than to have made a Will appointing a fictitious person as his executor. But what I do not see is why it should have been necessary to darken his face, and pretend to be someone else merely to get his own papers out of his own safe. If you've got an answer to that, let me have it!”
“Well, I have,” said the Sergeant briskly. “The notice of his death wasn't meant for the safe-deposit people, Super. It was meant for us. He wants us to think he's dead, and we wouldn't be very likely to do that if we found he'd walked into that place and taken out his papers with his own hands, would we? He's got brains, this bird, that I will say. When you asked them at the safe-depository to describe John Hyde they didn't say one word about any sun-glasses. Seems as though he only wore them in Gadsby Row. All you got out of those fellows was that Hyde was a middle-aged man, and nothing particular to look at. Now how I look at it is this: in case you hit on the notion of a safe-deposit Hyde wanted to have it on record that it wasn't him who'd taken the stuff out of his safe. But though I wouldn't call those blokes we've been talking to an observant lot, it stands to reason they'd know John Hyde if they saw him. So he provides for that by putting on his spectacles, darkening his skin, and calling himself Hyde's brother. Neat, I call it.”
Hannasyde said nothing for a few minutes, but walked on beside the Sergeant, frowning. “You may be right,” he said at last. “But I can't see my way. Look here, Hemingway! Go and see Brown, and try and scare him into telling you what Randall Matthews wanted that day. I'm going to see Randall himself.”
“I might scare Brown,” said the Sergeant, “but it's my belief that it would take a herd of wild elephants to scare young Randall. What's more, I can't make out what he wants with Hyde anyway. Or his blooming papers, if it comes to that. You can't have it both ways, Chief. Seems to me that's what we're trying to do.”
“If you mean that the case is in a muddle, I know that,” said Hannasyde bitterly.
“It always was in a muddle,” replied the Sergeant. “The trouble is the more we go into it the worse the muddle grows. Proper mess, that's what it is. But what I mean is, if Hyde's the man we're after—for reasons at present unknown—Randall's out of it. If Randall pulled the murder, Hyde's out of it.”
“Somewhere there's a connection between them,” Hannasyde said. “There must be. I don't pretend to know what it is, but I've got to find out.”
The Sergeant scratched his nose. “Well, I'm bound to say I don't see it,” he confessed. “Friend Randall's motive for doing his uncle in is as plain as a pikestaff. We don't know what Hyde's motive may have been, but how it can have had anything to do with helping Randall to a nice little fortune has me beat. It don't make any kind of sense, Super.”
“I know, I know, but I've got to follow up the clues I've got. Randall didn't want me to pursue investigations into Hyde. He talked about mares' nests, and tried to make me believe he was not interested in Hyde. But he was sufficiently interested to pay a call on Brown, and to stay for nearly an hour in his shop.”
“Yes,” admitted the Sergeant. “And I wouldn't wonder but what he knows one or two members of the Cavalry Club.”
“Nothing more likely,” said Hannasyde. “I've got to try and rattle him.”
“It's him that'll do the rattling,” said the Sergeant darkly. “He's the nearest thing to a snake I've seen outside of the Zoo.”
On this pronouncement they parted, the Sergeant boarding an omnibus bound for the Bank, and Hannasyde making his way westwards to St James's Street.
He found Randall at home, writing letters at his desk. Randall, as Benson ushered the Superintendent into the room, said without looking up from his task: “Do come in, and make yourself quite at home, my dear Superintendent. We are becoming almost boon companions, I feel. You will find cigarettes on the table by the sofa. Forgive me if I finish this letter, won't you?”
“Please do finish it,” said Hannasyde. “For I want your undivided attention, Mr Matthews!”
“You shall certainly have it,” replied Randall, his hand continuing to travel across the paper. He signed his name, enclosed the letter in an envelope, and sealed it. Then he took the telephone receiver off its hook, and dialled a number, and while waiting for an answer wrote the direction on the envelope. After that he picked up a newspaper, folded open at the racing news, and spoke into the telephone. Having placed three bets with his bookmaker he laid down the receiver, and got up. “The more arduous of the day's tasks being accomplished, I am now almost entirely at your disposal, Superintendent,” he said. “Which reminds me that I have to thank you for the removal of the brown-booted gentleman. That was most considerate of you, but you need only have given him a pair of black boots. I had no personal feeling against him, I assure you. In fact, I thought he had a nice, kind face.”
“He would no doubt be flattered to hear you say so,” replied Hannasyde. “I am sorry if his presence hampered your movements in any way. That was not my intention.”
“Of course it wasn't,” agreed Randall affably.
Hannasyde looked directly across at him. “Perhaps you have guessed why I have come here today, Mr Matthews?”
“Well, no, I don't think I have,” said Randall. “Unless, of course, it is to ask me what I was able to discover from the unsavoury gentleman in Gadsby Row?”
Hannasyde felt all at once a strong desire to take Mr Randall Matthews by the throat and choke him. Instead he answered in his most even tones: “Yes, it is to ask you that, Mr Matthews.”
“Delighted,” murmured Randall. “But I'm afraid I didn't discover anything of very much importance.”
“My information,” said Hannasyde, “is that you asked Brown if he knew where Hyde kept his papers.”
It was a bold stroke, but if its design was to make Randall betray the least sign of uneasiness it failed. “And does your information include Brown's answer?” inquired Randall politely.
“I am waiting for you to tell me what that was, Mr Matthews. And I think you would be wise to do so.”
“My dear Superintendent, you mustn't—you really mustn't utter veiled threats to me,” said Randall with gentle reproach. “They are quite unnecessary, believe me. If you don't know where Hyde's papers are—but I find that almost incredible—I will tell you. They are in a safe-deposit. Now, isn't that disheartening? I paid ten pounds for the knowledge, too.”
“Why didn't you bring this news to me, Mr Matthews?”
“But why should I?” asked Randall, very bland. “Surely if I could discover it, you clever experts could do so too?”
“We experts,” said Hannasyde, nettled, “are not allowed to resort to bribery!”
“Ah, I daresay that hinders you considerably,” nodded Randall.
“What made you take so sudden an interest in Hyde?” asked Hannasyde. “When last I saw you you were at pains to convince me that you had no interest in him.”
“You infected me with some of your own enthusiasm, Superintendent,” said Randall, with a graceful bow.
“Did I indeed?” said Hannasyde grimly. “And was it my enthusiasm which made you anxious to find out where Hyde's papers were kept?”
“Strictly speaking,” said Randall, “I wasn't anxious about his papers. But it is my business as executor to my late uncle to wind up his estate. I think Mr Hyde wants winding up with the rest, don't you?”
“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.
Stella flushed, but took off the offending hat and threw it aside. “All right, then. You don't lose many opportunities of making yourself objectionable, do you?”
“I endeavour to live up to your expectations, my love,” said Randall. He turned, as Benson came into the room. “The sherry, Benson. Or do you prefer a cocktail, Stella?”
“I don't want either, thanks.”
“Bring the sherry, Benson. And lay for Miss Matthews.”
“Oh, I haven't come to lunch!” said Stella hurriedly.
“Lay for Miss Matthews,” repeated Randall. He picked up the cigarette-box, and offered it to Stella. “Must you oppose my every suggestion, darling? Or are you afraid of poison?”
“Shut up!” Stella said fiercely. “We've had enough of that subject! I wish now I hadn't come.”
“Why did you?” he inquired.
She suddenly looked rather forlorn, and said in an undecided voice: “I don't know. I mean, I had to see either you or Mr Carrington. It's about the money uncle left me.”
“Which you wouldn't touch if you were starving,” said Randall. “What do you want me to do with it? Found a home for lost cats?”
“No, I don't. I know I said I wouldn't touch it, but I've changed my mind.”
“You've plenty of time to change it again before you're twenty-five,” said Randall.
“Yes, but that's the whole point. I —” She broke off, for Benson had come back into the room with the sherry. When he had set the tray on the table and gone away again, she took a firm grip on her handbag, and said: “What I want to know is this: if I—if I signed a paper saying I wouldn't marry Deryk Fielding, ever, could I possibly have the money now?”
Randall paused in the act of pouring out the sherry, and raised his head. “Don't tell me you've quarrelled with the boy friend?” he said.
“No, we haven't quarrelled, but I've decided not to marry him, that's all,” replied Stella curtly.
Randall went on pouring out the sherry. “I expect you would rather I didn't ask you why,” he remarked. “But you can't have everything you want, my pet. Why have you come to this momentous decision?”
“Various reasons. For one thing I find I'm—not really—in love with him.”
“And for another you've discovered that he isn't really in love with you. It's nice to see glimmerings of intelligence in you, darling.”
“You're perfectly right,” said Stella, keeping her voice rigidly under control. “He thought I was going to inherit a lot of money, and when I didn't he cooled off. Have a good laugh: I don't mind. I think it's rather funny myself. Anyway, I'm not breaking my heart over it.”
“Why should you?” said Randall, handing her a glass. “Are you expecting me to ooze sympathy?”
“No, I'm not. I didn't come here to talk about Deryk, only to tell you that the engagement's off, and to ask if I can have the money uncle left me.”
“When you're twenty-five, certainly.”
“The whole point is that I want it now,” said Stella.
“Why this sudden need?”
“Because I'm frightfully hard-up, and I want to share a flat with a girl I was at school with, and get something to do. Only I shall probably have to learn shorthand or something first, and if I'm not earning anything I don't quite see how I'm to live. Mother says she can't afford to increase my allowance—besides, she's dead against the idea, anyway—and I haven't got any money of my own, except what uncle left me. Of course, I know the Will said not till I'm twenty-five, but I thought if I signed a paper promising not to marry Deryk, and you and Mr Carrington agreed—because if both the trustees agree you can sort of wangle things, can't you?”
“Not to my knowledge. As I haven't the remotest intention of agreeing, the point doesn't arise.”
“Why not?” Stella demanded. “As long as I sign a paper, what difference can it possibly make? I don't mean I want to blue the capital. All I want is the income from it.”
“You won't get it, my love.”
Stella put down her glass, and rose. “Thanks so much!” she said. “I was a fool to come. I might have known you'd put a spoke in my wheel if you could. But considering what you've inherited, I think you might have been willing to let me have my rotten two thousand!”
“Dear cousin,” said Randall, “until after Probate I have inherited nothing, and nor have you. After Probate the first charity that meets my eye will get the lot.”
Stella was so surprised that for a moment she could only stare at him. Then she said: “Rot! I don't believe you!”
Randall laughed. “I don't suppose you do, my sweet.”
“But why?” she demanded. “What's the idea?”
He shrugged. “Oh, I already have enough for my—er—simple needs,” he said.
“Either you're mad or you're up to something,” said Stella with conviction. “Whoever heard of giving away a whole fortune?”
“Yes, I feel that there's a certain pleasing originality about it,” agreed Randall. “Have some more sherry?”
She shook her head. “No thanks. Even you wouldn't do a thing like that for a gesture. Is it to stop people saying that you probably killed uncle because you were hard-up?”
“Do they say so?” inquired Randall. “I thought that particular theory was confined to the members of my affectionate family. Moreover, I'm not hard-up.”
She said shrewdly: “It's my belief you know something about uncle's death that we don't.”
“If by that ambiguous remark you mean that you believe I had something to do with uncle's death, I would point out to you, my sweet one, that the last time I saw him was on Sunday, May 12th.”
“I know. And I didn't mean that. I don't see how you could have done it. What does that Superintendent think?”
“He, like you, sweetheart, doesn't see how I could have done it. It disheartens him, I'm afraid.”
“Randall, will they ever find out who did it?”
“Why ask me?” he countered.
“Because you know something. It's no good saying you don't. I don't see how you could have murdered uncle, but I'm certain you're hiding some fact, or clue, or something which you don't want anyone to get hold of. I haven't forgotten that I saw you coming out of uncle's room that day. You were looking for something.”
“I was,” said Randall imperturbably. “But I didn't find it.”
“What was it?” she asked. “I don't know.”
“Don't know?”
“Not yet. I was looking for something that might have contained the poison. I admit it was a forlorn hope.”
“I don't think I altogether believe you,” said Stella.
“Well, that doesn't surprise me,” he replied, quite unmoved. “Shall we talk of something else for a change? I find these eternal and barren discussions on uncle's death begin to pall on one after a time.”
“Mr Rumbold thinks it will fizzle out for want of evidence.”
“Mr Rumbold is probably right. Does he continue to sustain my afflicted aunts in their more anguished moments?”
“He does manage to soothe them,” admitted Stella, with a smile. “All the same, you needn't sneer at him, Randall: he's been most frightfully decent to us all.”
“I regard him with profound respect,” said Randall.
“I suppose that means you don't.”
“Why you should suppose anything of the sort is quite beyond my comprehension,” said Randall wearily.
“Well, whenever you say something nice about anybody it generally means the reverse,” said Stella.
“Ah, that is only when I am talking about my relations, or other persons of sub-normal intelligence,” said Randall. “I always respect brain when I meet it.”
“Thanks very much!” said Stella warmly. “I suppose you would class me as a sort of moron?”
“Oh no, not quite,” said Randall. “I have several times known you actually to think before you spoke. Occasionally you even show signs of a certain quickness of intellect. I admit that during your adolescence I had no hope of you at all, but you've improved a lot, my precious.”
“I am glad,” said. Stella. “Of course, you've taken such an interest in my progress, haven't you? I expect, if I only knew it, all your visits to the Poplars this last year have been really to see me.”
“Well, I imagine you don't suppose I came to see your mother, do you?”
Stella blinked at him. “You came to see uncle!”
“Good God!” said Randall. He took her arm above the elbow, and propelled her towards the door. “Not one of your intellectual days, my love. Let us go in to lunch.”