“I don't suspect anything,” said Hannasyde calmly. “But it is obvious to me that at the time of his death you were on bad terms with Gregory Matthews; equally obvious that the existence of Mrs Smith had something to do with that. I think Mr Carrington, in the absence of your own solicitor, would advise you to be frank with me.”
Giles said nothing, but Henry Lupton, dropping his head into his hands, groaned, and answered: “Of course I've no desire to obstruct the police. Naturally I—I appreciate your position, Superintendent, but my own is—is extremely equivocal. My wife has no suspicion—I have my daughters to consider, and my whole object is to is to—”
“Please understand, Mr Lupton, that I am not here to investigate public morals,” said Hannasyde coldly. “I can only tell you in all honesty that your relations with Mrs Smith are more likely to become known through a refusal on your part to be frank with me than through a voluntary statement made to me now.”
“Yes,” agreed Lupton unhappily. “I see that, of course. I suppose you'll make inquiries, and it'll get round.” He gave a shudder, and lifted his head. “I have known Mrs Smith for a number of years,” he said, not meeting Hannasyde's gaze. “I needn't go into all that, need I? My work takes me about the country a good deal. I—there has always been plenty of opportunity without creating suspicion. I've been very careful. I don't know how my brother-in-law found out. It's a mystery to me. But he did find out. He asked me to call at his office. I'd no idea—I thought it odd, but he was a strange man, and it didn't cross my mind… anyway, I went, and he taxed me with—with my connection with Mrs Smith.” His face twitched. He clasped his hands tightly on his knee, and said in a constricted voice: “He knew all about it. He even knew when I'd last been with her, and how they thought—the other people in the block, I mean—that I was a commercial traveller. He must have made the most minute inquiries. It was no use denying it. He knew everything - oh, things one wouldn't have thought he could know! He - was very unpleasant about it.” He broke off, and turned with a kind of appeal towards Giles. “You knew him, Carrington. It's no good trying to explain to the Superintendent. No one who was unacquainted with Gregory would understand.”
“I didn't know him well,” Giles answered.
“You must have seen the type of man he was. Power! That's what he liked! He didn't care about my wife, you know. Not enough to make him threaten me with exposure. That wasn't it. It was - a cruel streak in his nature. They're all of them like that, the Matthews, in a way. He wanted to pull the strings and see the puppets dance. Well, I told him he couldn't do that with me. I - I have danced, often, in - in minor things, but this was different. I don't want you to think of it as a mere sordid intrigue, because I swear it's not like that. Mrs Smith - well, she's just the same as a wife to me. I'd marry her if I could, but, you see, it's all so impossible. There are my daughters, for one thing, and my position, and - and my wife, of course. I've even got a grandson. One can't, you know. But that's what I meant when I wrote that.” He pointed to the letter, lying on the desk before Hannasyde.
Hannasyde picked it up. “The phrase, you will have cause to regret it if you drive me to take desperate action - that meant that you were seriously contemplating divorce, Mr Lupton?”
“Yes, I think I meant that. I don't know. I was terribly worried. I couldn't see my way out of the trouble. I wrote that to try and frighten him. I thought he might hesitate to push me too far if he knew I was prepared to stand by Gladys, and let everything else go to the devil. After all he wouldn't want an open scandal in the family, and it wasn't as though my wife suffered in any way through Mrs Smith.”
“I quite understand that,” said Hannasyde. “You asked him for a second interview, but he refused it, didn't he?”
Henry Lupton nodded, and gulped. “Yes, he refused it. That was the last time I spoke to him. On the morning of the day he died, just over the telephone. He rang me up from his office. I never saw him again.”
“At what time did he ring you up, Mr Lupton?”
“Oh, quite early! Not later than eleven.”
“I see. And what did you do then?”
Lupton stared at him. “Nothing. That is, I was at my office, you see. I had my work. I couldn't do anything.”
“You didn't make any attempt to see Mr Matthews—during lunch-time, for instance?”
“No. It wouldn't have been any use. I knew Gregory. I had lunch by myself. I wanted time to think.”
“Where did you lunch, Mr Lupton?”
“At my usual place. It's a quiet little restaurant called the Vine. They know me there. I'm sure they'll be able to bear me out.”
“And after lunch?”
“I went back to the office, of course. As a matter of fact, I left earlier than I generally do. Well, before tea.”
“Where did you go?”
“To Golders Green. I wanted to see Mrs Smith.”
“Ah, yes,” Hannasyde said suavely. “You naturally wished to discuss the matter with her.”
“Well, no. No, actually I didn't speak of it. I meant to, but—but I still hoped there might be some way of getting round it, and—you see, we never spoke of my—my home-life. And I didn't want to upset Gladys. I haven't told her anything about what's happened. Just that we have had a death in the family.”
“Oh!” said Hannasyde. “At what hour did you leave Mrs Smith?”
“I don't really know. I was home in time for dinner. I mean, I went straight home from Golders Green.”
“And after dinner?”
“We had some people in for Bridge. I didn't leave the house again until next day, when we came here.”
“Thank you.” Hannasyde was jotting something down in his notebook. His tone conveyed nothing.
Lupton looked anxiously at him. “I don't know if there's anything more you want to know, or if I can go? My wife will be —”
“No, there is nothing more at present,” said Hannasyde.
Henry Lupton got up. “Then—?”
“By all means,” said Hannasyde.
The little man withdrew, and Giles came away from the window, where he had been standing, and said: “Poor devil! What a mess to have got himself into! You don't like his story?”
“I don't like his alibi.”
“Which one? Oh, Gladys Smith! I should think he probably did go there. Vague idea of seeking comfort. Rather pathetic.”
“Anyway, she'll swear he was with her,” Hannasyde said.
“Probably, but I don't quite see how he could have come here at that hour without being seen by some of the household, if that's what you're driving at.”
“Easily,” said Hannasyde, with a touch of scorn. “There are more ways of getting into this house than by the front-door, Mr Carrington. There's a garden-door, for instance, which opens out of a cloakroom on to a path at the side of the house. Anyone would use that door if he wanted to be unobserved. The backstairs come down just by the cloakroom. He would only have to choose his moment. The family and the servants would all be having tea. He might reasonably bank on the coast's being clear.”
“Yes, but what would have been the use?” asked Giles. “Matthews wasn't at home then. Into what would he have dropped his poison?”
“I'm thinking of that bottle of tonic—so providentially smashed,” said Hannasyde.
Giles wrinkled his brow. “Would he have known where it was kept? And how could he have arranged to smash it?”
“He might have known. Simple enough to smash it when he came round next morning with his wife.”
“Oh!” said Giles doubtfully. “Think it's quite in keeping with his character? Such a weak little man!”
“He was feeling desperate, Mr Carrington. He admitted that himself. I should say this Gladys Smith is about the biggest thing in his life.”
“Divorce seems to me to be a solution more likely to appeal to him than murder,” said Giles.
Hannasyde shook his head decidedly. “I don't agree with you. He wouldn't face up to
that sort of a scandal. Probably fond of his daughters too. If he did the murder it was because he thought he could get clean away with it. He couldn't have got clean away with a divorce—not with that wife. There'd have been the hell of a row.”
“All very well,” objected Giles, “but he couldn't have been sure that by killing Matthews he was protecting himself. Matthews might have told someone else. In fact, he did. That young sweep, Randall, wasn't drawing a bow at a venture. He knew.”
“He knew, yes, but, if you noticed, Lupton was amazed that he knew. He probably believed Matthews had so far kept the secret to himself.” He picked up Lupton's letter, and placed it in his pocket-book. Then he looked thoughtfully at the desk, and pulled open one of the drawers, and frowned. It was the odds-and-ends drawer. “I wish—I wish very much that I knew what Mr Randall Matthews found to interest him amongst this collection,” he said.
“Was he interested? I didn't notice.”
“I'm nearly sure he was. But whether it was in something which he saw, or in something which he expected to see, and didn't, I don't know. Setting aside his duties as executor—which I don't fancy would worry him much—why did he want to be here when we went through his uncle's papers? What did he think we should find?”
“Perhaps the very thing we did find. That letter of Lupton's.”
Hannasyde considered this for a moment. “It might have been that. It's quite probable, if old Matthews had taken him into his confidence. But what is there in this drawer?”
“You may be right in thinking it is something which is not in the drawer.”
“I may. There is just one thing that strikes me as unusual: there's practically no old correspondence, either here or at Matthews' office.”
“Some men habitually tear up letters as soon as they've answered them,” said Giles. “Are you suggesting that someone's been at work amongst Matthews papers?”
“I'm suggesting nothing,” replied Hannasyde. “But it does seem to me that if Matthews destroyed all his letters himself, it must have amounted to a mania with him.”
“The fell hand of Randall,” said Giles, with an amused look.
Hannasyde smiled reluctantly. “I know you think I've got him on the brain. I ought to tell you that I can't find that he came anywhere near this place between May 12th and May 15th.” He added ruefully: “You're quite right: I am suspicious of him, and I'm suspicious of his alibis. They're so good that they might have been created on purpose. But I tell you frankly, Mr Carrington, I don't see how he can possibly have committed this murder.”
“You sound regretful,” said Giles, laughing.
“No, not that. Just plain worried. Groping about in a fog, and all the time I've got an uneasy feeling I'm on the wrong track. If I could only discover the medium through which the poison was administered! It may have been the whiskey-and-soda Guy Matthews poured out for his uncle; Matthews may have bathed his scratched hand with poisoned lotion—but all the lotion I found in this house was a brand-new bottle of Pond's Extract with the paper sealing the cork down still intact. It may have been the tonic—and the bottle was smashed. I've racked my brains to think of something else—something that might have been doctored at any time, perhaps days before Matthews' death. Well, I thought of aspirin tablets, but he didn't use drugs. Hemingway put all the servants through a hair-sieve, so to speak, but he couldn't discover that Matthews had eaten or drunk anything the rest of the family hadn't, barring that whiskey, and the tonic.” He broke off, and rose. “Well, it's no use sitting and talking to you about it, Mr Carrington. I've got to get on with the job, and I've no doubt you're itching to get back to town.”
“I don't know about itching, exactly, but I certainly ought to go,” said Giles, glancing at his watch. “I'm glad I don't leave Lupton in the role of Chief Suspect,” he added with a twinkle. “I'm sorry for the poor wretch.”
“Oh, he's a suspect all right,” Hannasyde answered. “I shall have to check up closely on him. But it's too clever, Mr Carrington. If Lupton did it, it must have been on the spur of the moment, and because he was desperate. Well, I may be wrong, but it doesn't look like that to me. It's been carefully planned, this murder, down to the very poison that was used. The ordinary man doesn't hit on a thing like nicotine on the spur of the moment.”
“I see. You think research is indicated.”
“I do. Research, and a cool, clever brain,” said Hannasyde, putting his pocket-book away, and moving across the thick carpet to the door. He opened it, and nearly collided with Miss Matthews. “I beg your pardon!”
She was holding a bowl of flowers between her hands, and said in her hurried way: “Oh, what a start you gave me, Superintendent! Just going to replenish my flowers. I always do it in the cloakroom, because it makes such a mess.”
She ended on one of her breathless, inane laughs, and sped on through the baize-door at the end of the passage. The two men's eyes met. “She was listening,” said Giles softly.
“Yes,” replied Hannasyde non-commitally. “She has a reputation for being extremely inquisitive.”
Chapter Seven
Randall, leaving the study in the wake of his aunt, did not follow her to the library, where he could ear her voice raised in denunciation of himself, but strolled instead to the foot of the stairs, and after a brief glance round the empty hall went up, not hurriedly, but soft-footed. There was no one on the upper landing. The first door led into Gregory Matthews' bedroom, and was not locked. Randall turned the handle, and went in, and quietly closed the door behind him.
The room, which was large, and gloomy with mahogany, had the unfriendly look that uninhabited apartments wear. The bed was draped by a dust-sheet; the windows were shut; and the dressing-table, the chest of drawers, and even the mantelpiece were swept bare of all personal belongings.
Randall glanced about him, and presently moved towards the wardrobe, a huge, triple-doored piece that took up nearly the whole of one wall. Gregory Matthews' clothes were neatly arranged in it, but they did not seem to concern Randall, for after a brief survey he closed the doors again, and went across to the dressing-table. There was nothing in either of its drawers, except a watch and chain, and a box containing cuff-links and studs, and the chest at the opposite side of the room contained only piles of underclothing.
Randall shrugged, and walked over to the door which communicated with his uncle's bathroom. Here the same barrenness met his gaze; not so much as a razor strop had been left to remind him of his uncle's erstwhile presence. He went at once to where a small medicine chest hung, but it was quite empty. He slowly shut it, and turned away towards the door leading out on to the landing. He opened it, and stepped out of the room just as Stella came running lightly up the stairs.
She checked at sight of him, and stared, a frown slowly gathering on her brow. Randall met the stare with his faint, bland smile, and closed the bathroom door behind him. “Good-morning, my precious,” he said.
She remained with her hand still resting on the big wooden knob at the head of the banisters. “What were you doing in there?” she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.
“Just looking over the scene of the crime,” he answered. He held out his open cigarette-case. “Will you smoke, my love?”
“No, thanks. What were you looking for?”
He raised his brows. “Did I say I was looking for something?”
“I know you were.”
“Well, whatever it was I was disappointed,” said Randall. “Someone has been busy.”
“Aunt Harriet turned everything out the day uncle died,” Stella said shortly.
Randall lit a cigarette, and said in a meditative tone: “I often wonder whether Aunt Harriet is the fool she appears to be, or not”
“Good heavens, you don't think she did it to destroy evidence, do you?” exclaimed Stella, unable to believe in such forethought.
“I am quite unable to make up my mind on that point,” Randall replied. “Cast your little feather-weight of a brain ba
ckward, my sweet. What did our dear Aunt Harriet take out of uncle's medicine-chest?”
“Oh, I don't know! All sorts of things. Corn-plaster, and iodine, and Eno's Fruit Salts.”
“And uncle's tonic, of course,” said Randall, watching the blue smoke rise up from the end of his cigarette.
“No, that was broken. New bottle, too.”
He raised his eyes rather quickly. “Broken,” he repeated. “Was it indeed? Well, well! and who broke it, my little one?”
“No one. Uncle must have left it on the shelf over the washbasin, and the wind blew it over.”
“Any questions asked about it?” inquired Randall.
“Do you mean by the police? Yes, I think so. Not to me.”
Randall sighed. “I wonder who regrets Aunt Gertrude's officiousness most,” he said. “The Matthews family, or Superintendent Hannasyde?”
“I don't know, but talking of Aunt Gertrude, what on earth have you been saying to her? She says she's never been so insulted in her life.”
“I shouldn't think she has,” said Randall.
“What did you say?” persisted Stella.
“Merely that if I were married to her I should keep several mistresses,” Randall replied.
She could not help giving a gurgle of laughter, but she said: “Well, really, I do think that's about the limit! It's about the rudest thing you could say.”
“I couldn't think of anything ruder at the time,” acknowledged Randall. “It got rid of her most successfully.”
“You can't go about being filthily rude to people just to get rid of them!”
“I can and do,” he replied imperturbably.
“You do, yes,” Stella said hotly. “You're the most poisonous-tongued person I know!”
“So you have often informed me,” bowed Randall. He regarded her with a curious smile. “You can't bear me, can you, little Stella? What have I done?”
“Nothing. You don't,” Stella said contemptuously. “You just say spiteful things, and drift about like a lounge lizard. I used to hate you when we first came to live with uncle.”
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