“You can search me,” said the Sergeant. “The point is, where is his home?”
But this was something that the most rigorous inquiry failed to discover. An advertisement inserted in the papers asking for any information concerning Hyde produced no results, and an attempt to discover documents at his Bank which might give some clue to his identity also failed. He kept no documents at the Bank.
Sergeant Hemingway, who had a genius for making his fellows confide in him, produced in triumph the chatelaine of No. 11 Gadsby Row, a corpulent lady with a slight beard, who remembered having seen Mr Hyde once when she had popped into Mr Brown's to buy a paper. She hadn't happened to look at him particular, for she was passing the time of day with Mr Brown, like anyone might, when in he walked, and without a word to no one went straight through the shop into the back parlour. Well, that had struck her as being a funny thing to do, and she had said to Mr Brown, not thinking: “Who's that?” And she remembered as well as if it had been yesterday him saying: “Oh, that's only Mr Hyde, that is!” It was a bit hard to say what he'd looked like, because he'd had his hat on, and a pair of them dark spectacles, but he was dressed very gentlemanly, that she would say.
It was not very helpful, but it was the best Sergeant Hemingway could do. No one else in the Row seemed ever to have noticed Hyde, and no shop in the vicinity had been patronised by him.
A watch was set on No. 17 Gadsby Row, and an inquiry made into Mr Brown's past history. It did not surprise either Hannasyde or the Sergeant to discover that Mr Brown was known to the police, and had done time for fraud seven years previously, but it did surprise them to find that since the date of his release from prison he seemed to have kept out of trouble. Mr Brown, searchingly interrogated by the sceptical Sergeant, assumed an air of outraged virtue, and said bitterly that he supposed the police had never heard of a man turning over a new leaf, and running straight.
The plain-clothes detectives on the look-out for a middle-aged gentleman in dark spectacles found their task peculiarly dull, and although several middle-aged men visited the shop none of them wore spectacles, and none of them stayed longer than the time it took them to purchase their morning papers, or their packets of cigarettes. The shop was not patronised by men who dressed "very gentlemanly", a circumstance which made Mr Peel, the younger of the two detectives, take a good deal of interest in one of its customers, a young man whose attire was very gentlemanly indeed, and who came strolling down the street one early afternoon, and went into Mr Brown's shop.
Mr Brown, who was serving a navvy with a couple of ounces of shag, took a fleeting glance at the newcomer but paid no further heed to him until his first customer had pocketed his change, and was about to leave the shop. Then he leaned his hands on the counter, and asked what he might have the pleasure of doing for the foppish young gentleman.
Mr Randall Matthews watched the navvy go out, and produced a shilling from his pocket. “Twenty Players, please,” he said.
Mr Brown pushed a packet across the counter, and picked up the shilling.
Randall opened the packet, and drew out one of the cigarettes and lit it. Over the flame of his lighter his eyes sought Mr Brown's. “Hyde in?” he asked softly.
The guarded look descended like a curtain over Mr Brown's face. “No,” he replied. “Nor I don't know when he will be.”
Randall put his lighter away, and drew out an elegant notecase, and in a leisurely fashion extracted a Bank note that rustled agreeably. “That is a pity,” he remarked. “It is important that I should see him.”
“I can't tell you what I don't know,” said Mr Brown, impelled by curiosity to try to see whether the note between Randall's long fingers was for ten pounds or only five.
“Perhaps I ought to tell you that I am not a policeman,” sighed Randall. “Though I believe one of the plainclothes fraternity is wandering about outside.”
“Think I don't know?” said Mr Brown scornfully. “I could tell a busy half a mile off.” It dawned on him that his visitor also appeared to possess this useful faculty, and he added with more respect in his voice: “You'd better clear off out of this. I don't want no more trouble than what I've got already, and I tell you straight Mr Hyde ain't here, nor he hasn't been near the place for ten days.”
“In view of the gentleman outside that hardly surprises me,” said Randall. “But I feel sure you could direct me to him—for a consideration.”
“Well, I couldn't,” said Mr Brown curtly. “What do you want with him?”
Randall's slow smile curled his lips. “Do Hyde's visitors usually confide in you?” he asked.
There was a slight pause. Mr Brown stared frowningly at him, and after a moment said: “Look here, I don't know no more than you do where Mr Hyde is, and what's more I've had enough of him and his games! You clear off out of this before that busy outside starts smelling round after you, that's my advice!”
Randall regarded him thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he said, “if I were to leave a letter for him in your charge it would be delivered? Oh, for a consideration, of course!”
Mr Brown cast a hasty glance towards the door of the shop, and said loudly: “Well, it wouldn't then, because I don't know where to deliver it! What do you want? What's your blooming hurry to get hold of Mr Hyde?”
“Oh, I don't think it's necessary for you to know that,” said Randall. “I just have business with him—ah, somewhat, important business. I wonder if you could use ten pounds?”
“It's no good, I tell you!” said Mr Brown roughly. “He's gone—vanished!”
“Yes. Yes, I had grasped that,” said Randall. “But you might still be able to use ten pounds.”
“How?” demanded Mr Brown involuntarily.
“Oh, quite easily!” said Randall in his nonchalant way. “You can tell me where Hyde keeps his papers.”
Mr Brown shook his head with some vigour. “Not me. Besides I don't know.”
Randall dropped his half-smoked cigarette on the floor, and set his heel on it. “How disappointing!” he remarked. “The information would have been worth quite a lot—in hard cash, you understand. While if you happened to be holding any correspondence addressed to Hyde that too would be worth ten pounds, or even more.”
“I ain't got no correspondence,” muttered Mr Brown.
“You don't think I'd keep any letters here with them busies nosing around, do you? Any letters that came—and I don't say any did, mind you—I burned, and that's Gospel-truth. I tell you, I've had enough of the whole business.” He watched Randall restore the Bank-note to his case. The faint crackle of it caused a regretful, covetous gleam to shine in his eyes. He passed his tongue between his lips, and said angrily: “How do I know you wouldn't set the cops on to it, supposing there was anything I could tell you?”
“You don't,” said Randall amiably. “But as you can't tell me anything that I want to know, that needn't worry you.”
The notecase was shut, and the hand that held it in the act of sliding it back into an inner pocket. Mr Brown cast another glance towards the door, and after a moment's hesitation leaned slightly forward across the counter, and said in a quick undertone: “I could tell you something about his papers, but it won't help you. That's fair warning, ain't it?”
Randall drew out his notecase once more. “Where are they?” he asked.
“They're where no one can't get at them. Nor I don't know exactly myself, and he may have taken them away with him.”
“I'll risk that,” said Randall.
“Well, he kept them in one of them safe-deposits,” said Mr Brown reluctantly.
“Of course!” said Randall softly. “Which one?”
“I can't tell you that. He never said, nor I didn't ask. I said it wouldn't do you no good.”
“Where did he keep the key?”
“On his watch-chain. Never off it, it wasn't. I seen it often. That's all I know, and if it ain't enough you can't say I didn't warn you.”