manservant, instead of addressing them through the smallest possible opening of the front door, reluctantly held it wide for the Superintendent to pass through.
The two men were ushered into a small hall which was decorated in shades of grey, and left there while Benson went to inform his master of their arrival.
The Sergeant looked round rather dubiously, and scratched his chin with the brim of his bowler hat. 'What you might call Arty,' he remarked. 'Ever thought that decor is highly significant, Super? Take that divan.'
'What about it?' asked Hannasyde, glancing a little scornfully at the piece in question, which was wide, and low, and covered with pearl-grey velvet.
'Not sure,' replied the Sergeant. 'If it had upwards of a dozen cushions with gold tassels chucked on it carelesslike I should have known what to think. But it hasn't. All the same, Super, we can write this bird down as having expensive tastes. Would you call the pictures oriental?'
'Chinese prints,' replied Hannasyde briefly.
'I wouldn't wonder,' agreed the Sergeant. 'It all fits in with what I was thinking.'
The looking-glass door at one side of the hall opened at this moment, and Randall Matthews strolled towards them, holding Hannasyde's card between his finger and thumb.
'More decor,' muttered the Sergeant.
It could hardly have been by design, but Randall was dressed in a suit of pearl-grey flannel that harmonised beautifully with the background. He raised his eyes from the card, and said: 'Ah, good afternoon, Superintendent! I might almost say, Welcome to my humble abode. Won't you come in?' He made a gesture towards the room he had come from. 'Both of you, of course. You must introduce me to your friend.'
'Sergeant Hemingway,' said Hannasyde, his calm eyes slightly frowning.
'How do you do, Sergeant?' said Randall affably. 'Ah, Benson, take the Sergeant's hat.'
The Sergeant, equal to this as to any other occasion and growing more bird-like with interest every moment, handed his hat to the servant, and followed Hannasyde into a room that looked out on to the street, and seemed, with the exception of its bookshelves, to be entirely composed of Spanish leather.
Randall picked up a box containing Russian cigarettes, and offered it to his visitors. It was declined, so he selected one for himself, and lit it, and waved his hand in the direction of two chairs. 'But won't you sit down? And before we go any further, do tell me how my poor uncle was poisoned!'
Hannasyde raised his brows. 'Did you then think that he had been poisoned, Mr Matthews? I understand that you described Mrs Lupton's suspicion as a canard.'
'I'm sure that must be correct,' agreed Randall. 'It is very much the sort of thing I should unhesitatingly say of my dear Aunt Gertrude's pronouncements. But I have so much intuition, my dear Superintendent. Your genial presence convicts me of error. I am not at all ashamed to acknowledge my mistakes. I make very few.'
'You are to be congratulated,' commented Hannasyde dryly. 'Your uncle was poisoned.'
'Yes, Superintendent, yes. You would not otherwise be here. Is it permitted that I should know how?'
'He died from nicotine poisoning,' replied Hannasyde.
'What a shame!' said Randall. 'It sounds very common—almost vulgar. I think I will throw away the rest of my cigarette.'
'I don't propose to take up your time —'
'My valuable time,' interpolated Randall gently.
'—any longer than I need, Mr Matthews, but as I find that you are not only the heir to your uncle's property but also the head of the family, I thought it only right to call on you. It will be necessary for the police to go through the deceased's papers.'
'Ah, you want my uncle's solicitor,' said Randall. 'I am sure you will like him.'
'I don't think I have his name,' Hannasyde said. 'Perhaps you would be good enough —'
'Certainly,' said Randall. 'His name is Carrington.' Hannasyde looked up quickly from his notebook.
'Carrington?'
'Giles Carrington. I think
The two men were ushered into a small hall which was decorated in shades of grey, and left there while Benson went to inform his master of their arrival.
The Sergeant looked round rather dubiously, and scratched his chin with the brim of his bowler hat. 'What you might call Arty,' he remarked. 'Ever thought that decor is highly significant, Super? Take that divan.'
'What about it?' asked Hannasyde, glancing a little scornfully at the piece in question, which was wide, and low, and covered with pearl-grey velvet.
'Not sure,' replied the Sergeant. 'If it had upwards of a dozen cushions with gold tassels chucked on it carelesslike I should have known what to think. But it hasn't. All the same, Super, we can write this bird down as having expensive tastes. Would you call the pictures oriental?'
'Chinese prints,' replied Hannasyde briefly.
'I wouldn't wonder,' agreed the Sergeant. 'It all fits in with what I was thinking.'
The looking-glass door at one side of the hall opened at this moment, and Randall Matthews strolled towards them, holding Hannasyde's card between his finger and thumb.
'More decor,' muttered the Sergeant.
It could hardly have been by design, but Randall was dressed in a suit of pearl-grey flannel that harmonised beautifully with the background. He raised his eyes from the card, and said: 'Ah, good afternoon, Superintendent! I might almost say, Welcome to my humble abode. Won't you come in?' He made a gesture towards the room he had come from. 'Both of you, of course. You must introduce me to your friend.'
'Sergeant Hemingway,' said Hannasyde, his calm eyes slightly frowning.
'How do you do, Sergeant?' said Randall affably. 'Ah, Benson, take the Sergeant's hat.'
The Sergeant, equal to this as to any other occasion and growing more bird-like with interest every moment, handed his hat to the servant, and followed Hannasyde into a room that looked out on to the street, and seemed, with the exception of its bookshelves, to be entirely composed of Spanish leather.
Randall picked up a box containing Russian cigarettes, and offered it to his visitors. It was declined, so he selected one for himself, and lit it, and waved his hand in the direction of two chairs. 'But won't you sit down? And before we go any further, do tell me how my poor uncle was poisoned!'
Hannasyde raised his brows. 'Did you then think that he had been poisoned, Mr Matthews? I understand that you described Mrs Lupton's suspicion as a canard.'
'I'm sure that must be correct,' agreed Randall. 'It is very much the sort of thing I should unhesitatingly say of my dear Aunt Gertrude's pronouncements. But I have so much intuition, my dear Superintendent. Your genial presence convicts me of error. I am not at all ashamed to acknowledge my mistakes. I make very few.'
'You are to be congratulated,' commented Hannasyde dryly. 'Your uncle was poisoned.'
'Yes, Superintendent, yes. You would not otherwise be here. Is it permitted that I should know how?'
'He died from nicotine poisoning,' replied Hannasyde.
'What a shame!' said Randall. 'It sounds very common—almost vulgar. I think I will throw away the rest of my cigarette.'
'I don't propose to take up your time —'
'My valuable time,' interpolated Randall gently.
'—any longer than I need, Mr Matthews, but as I find that you are not only the heir to your uncle's property but also the head of the family, I thought it only right to call on you. It will be necessary for the police to go through the deceased's papers.'
'Ah, you want my uncle's solicitor,' said Randall. 'I am sure you will like him.'
'I don't think I have his name,' Hannasyde said. 'Perhaps you would be good enough —'
'Certainly,' said Randall. 'His name is Carrington.' Hannasyde looked up quickly from his notebook.
'Carrington?'
'Giles Carrington. I think
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