Randall sipped his sherry. Nothing but a faint interest could be read in his face. He said: “When you speak of a substantial part, what precisely do you mean, Superintendent?”
“I haven't added all the sums together, but at a guess I should say they must amount to something in the region of twelve or thirteen hundred pounds a year.”
Randall inclined his head with an expression of mild surprise. “Quite a respectable income,” he remarked. “May I ask how it was paid into my uncle's account?”
“By cheque,” replied Hannasyde. “And at regular monthly intervals, though not in regular amounts.” He thrust his hand into his inner coat-pocket, and pulled out Gregory Matthews' Pass-book. “Perhaps you'd like to see for yourself.”
“I think I should,” said Randall, setting down his wineglass and taking the book.
Silence reigned while Randall went unhurriedly through the book. Then he gave it back to Hannasyde, and said: “I feel quite unable to throw any of the expected light, Superintendent. What are your views on the matter?”
“I don't know that I have any,” answered Hannasyde. “You must remember that I was not acquainted with your uncle. That is why I come to you. I suppose you knew him as well as anybody, Mr Matthews?”
“I haven't considered the question,” said Randall. “Moreover, I believe I told you at the outset of our agreeable dealings with each other that I was not in my uncle's confidence.”
“You did,” agreed Hannasyde. “But I can't help suspecting that you were over-modest. You were the only member of his family, I believe, to whom he imparted his discovery of Mr Lupton's double life.”
“Do you call that a confidence?” inquired Randall. “I thought it was a smutty story.”
“Well, let us waive the question of confidences, Mr Matthews, and say that there was a bond of sympathy between you,” suggested Hannasyde.
As he spoke he caught a glimpse of Randall's eyes, and experienced a sensation of shock. What the expression in them meant he had no time to decide: it was gone in a flash, but it left him feeling oddly shaken, and with an impression forcibly stamped on his mind that something very unpleasant had suddenly sprung up and as suddenly vanished again.
Then Randall said in his composed drawclass="underline" “No, I don't think there was any bond of sympathy between us. You have possibly been misled by the fact that alone of my family I didn't quarrel with him.”
“Come, Mr Matthews!” said Hannasyde persuasively. “Why can't you be frank with me? Whether there was sympathy between you or not, I think you know more of him than you have told me. On the question of these cheques from John Hyde, for instance: do you ask me to believe that you, the heir to your uncle's property, are ignorant of the source of part of his income?”
“No,” said Randall, “but it is nevertheless true.” He rose and strolled over to the table, and refilled his glass. “The varying amounts, coupled with the regular appearance of the cheques, would lead one to suppose that my uncle was amusing himself with some business venture which he preferred to keep his name out of. It will probably come to light in due course.”
“In fact, you don't set much store by it, Mr Matthews?”
Randall shrugged. “No, I can't say that I do. To tell you the truth, I think you are wasting your time in looking for John Hyde. His significance in the case seems to me to be somewhat obscure.”
“Quite so,” replied Hannasyde. “But when I come across something that calls for an explanation I find it pays to follow it up, however trivial it may appear. I have already made some inquiries into Hyde's identity, both at his Bank and at his only known address.”
“I hope such painstaking industry was suitably rewarded?”
“I think it was,” said Hannasyde imperturbably. “I find that John Hyde describes himself as an agent, and owns a squalid little house in Gadsby Row, in the City, with a newsagent's shop attached. The property is apparently let to a man called Brown, who owns the shop, but one room has been retained by Hyde for his own use.”
“Indeed?” said Randall.
“The fact that a man who is in a position to make large monetary payments each month should have as his only address an office in a shabby back-street strikes me as being sufficiently unusual to call for further investigation. What do you think, Mr Matthews?”
“That you are wasting your time, my dear Superintendent.”
“And when I tell you that John Hyde has not been seen at his office since Tuesday, May 14th?”
Randall had wandered over to where his cigarette-box stood, and his back was momentarily turned to Hannasyde. “Who says that he has not been seen since May 14th?” he asked.
“The man who runs the shop—and I don't think he was lying.”
“It doesn't seem to me a very valuable piece of information,” Randall remarked, coming back to his chair. “He may conceivably be ill, or away.”
“Certainly,” said Hannasyde. “But there is an elusive quality to Mr John Hyde which needs explaining. There is something more than a little odd about a man who has no home address, Mr Matthews.” He got up. “I'm sorry you can't help me.”
“Looking for mares' nests has never been one of my pastimes, Superintendent. May I know whether you have been favoured with a description of your quarry?”
“A very vague one, which might possibly be false.”
“How useful! And what was it?”
“A middle-aged man, with an ordinary face. That's all so far.”
“I should give it up, if I were you,” said Randall.
“You can hardly expect me to follow that advice,” said Hannasyde rather shortly, and took his leave.
But the quest of John Hyde proved to be a singularly thankless task. No one knew him; nor, when Hannasyde and Sergeant Hemingway, armed with a search warrant, visited his office, could any clue to his identity be discovered. The office, a dingy room above the shop, contained nothing but a table, a chair, a typewriter, and a safe.
“If this bird's an agent, what's become of his sample goods?” demanded Sergeant Hemingway.
Mr Brown, still in his shirt-sleeves, looked round the bare apartment with vague disquiet. “I never known him go off like this before, and no word said,” he muttered. “I seen him Tuesday before last, and I'll take my dying oath he ain't been near the place since.”
This oft-reiterated statement was borne out to a certain extent by Foster's Bank. On the 14th May a cheque of Hyde's for had been presented, made out to Bearer. Questioned, the cashier faithfully described Mr Brown, and added that he had been in the habit of cashing cheques made out by Hyde to Bearer. Mr Brown did not deny it. He stated that Mr Hyde had always employed him to cash his cheques for him, and that he had merely collected the money, and handed it over to Hyde. As it further transpired that he had very often paid in moneys for Hyde there seemed to be no reason for doubting this statement, but why he had been so employed or what his connection with Hyde was there was no getting out of him. He persisted in saying that he didn't know, he was sure; and that Mr Hyde never told him nothing. When asked whether Hyde ever had visitors he replied sulkily that Hyde did sometimes see people in the way of business, but who they were or where they came from he couldn't say.
The safe, when opened, disclosed nothing but a half used cheque-book, with every counterfoil blank, and a bundle of share-certificates.
“Well, this is the queerest turn I ever saw in my life!” said the Sergeant. “I've heard of people doing a bunk, but I never knew them leave their cheque-books and a tidy Bank balance behind till now. Looks almost as though this bloke had to clear out in the devil's own hurry, Chief. Something happened after he left this place on the 14th which made him scared stiff to come back.”
“But why did he keep his cheque-book in the safe?” demanded Hannasyde. “We know from the Bank that it was the only one he possessed. Most men would carry it about with them, if they'd only got one. Or they'd keep it in a desk at home—not in an office they visit at irregular intervals!”