Behold, Here's Poison ih-2
Page 26
Hannasyde read it deliberately through, and then laid down the paper. “I think you have a good deal to explain to me, Mr Matthews,” he said sternly. “What am I to understand by this?”
Randall finished his brandy, and set the glass down on the mantelpiece behind him. “Well, there won't be a case, Superintendent,” he answered.
“He murdered your uncle?”
“Incredible, isn't it?” said Randall. “But quite true. Only I think we won't call it murder. My uncle had been blackmailing him for years.”
“Then your uncle was John Hyde?” Hannasyde said swiftly.
“Yes, he was. But you'd already guessed that, I think. I hope you appreciate his choice of pseudonym. He had a pretty sense of humour, hadn't he?”
“How long have you known this?” demanded Hannasyde.
“Known for certain? Since the day I visited your friend Brown. He rather thought he had seen me before. I am not at all unlike my uncle.”
“But you suspected before that?”
“Oh yes, some time before.”
Hannasyde brought his hand down on his knee. “Now I know what it was you saw in that drawer!” he said, annoyance in his voice. “I ought to have thought of that sooner!”
Randall looked down at him with faint amusement. “My dear Superintendent! What drawer?”
“In your uncle's desk. There was a pair of sun-glasses, horn-rimmed. I thought at the time that you had expected to see something which wasn't there.”
Randall gave a little laugh. “Oh no! But my uncle not only never wore sun-glasses, but poured scorn on those who did. I merely thought it a little odd when I saw that pair in his desk. I think, you know, that I had better tell you just what happened.”
Hannasyde nodded, and watched him move towards the deep chair, and sit down on one of its arms.
Randall lit a cigarette, and smoked in silence for a minute, frowning. “Well, to go back to the very beginning, Edward Rumbold had a wife living in Australia. The lady at Holly Lodge isn't aware of this—but as Rumbold was not our friend's real name, I hardly think it will be necessary to tell her that she has been bigamously married for the past ten years, do you?”
“I don't know. Please go on!”
“My uncle, under the name of John Hyde, was, even as far back as that date, carrying on quite a lucrative, though not extensive, business in the blackmailing line. What led him to start it, I can't tell you, nor have I discovered who, or perhaps what, it was that first put him on to Rumbold's track. From indications amongst his papers, I imagine that his methods were painstaking rather than brilliant. He got a lot of information through the usual sources, of course, but this particular information was supplied by a firm of private detectives in Melbourne. The real Mrs Rumbold—but her name is Fletcher—is a Roman Catholic of extreme piety and rigour. Hence the reason Rumbold was not able to get a divorce.” He paused, and flicked the ash from his cigarette on to the floor. “Well, all that isn't very interesting. We'll go on to my charming uncle's part in the affair. He got together the facts—oh, some time before Rumbold went to live next door to him!—and he applied pressure with the usual results. Only he mistook his man. Rumbold paid all right, and went on paying, but he set himself to discover the identity of his blackmailer. He had never set eyes on my uncle, but he watched that newsagent's shop for weeks — till he was sure that the spectacled man who continually visited it, and stayed so long in it, must be Hyde. Then he shadowed Hyde, and in the end he identified him with Gregory Matthews. That was four years ago. I like to think of that grim, patient determination to kill my uncle. I am only sorry that, in the nature of things, my uncle couldn't know that sooner or later he was going to be killed by one of his own victims. He didn't even suspect that Rumbold knew whom he was. Not even when Rumbold went to live at Holly Lodge. He bought that house, knowing that the existing tenants' lease expired in two years' time. When they left the house he and Mrs Rumbold moved into it. You know, I admire him, don't you? He did nothing in a hurry. He just cultivated his next-door neighbours. He became the ideal Friend of the Family. He even played chess with my uncle - and let him win. I hope you appreciate that situation. My uncle, I am convinced, derived intense amusement from it. So did Rumbold. It took him eighteen months to reach the state of intimacy with my family which would allow him to become a persona grata about the house. When he had been at Holly Lodge about two years — long enough for him to be no suspicious newcomer to the district, I hope you realise — he put his four-year-old plan into execution. It isn't a very difficult matter, given a smattering of chemistry, to get nicotine out of tobacco, and it wasn't difficult to find an opportunity to substitute his poisoned tube of toothpaste for the one my uncle was using. He effected the exchange on the day he and his wife called at the Poplars to take leave of my aunts before going for a week or ten days to the sea. Then he went away with Mrs Rumbold, and stayed away until after my uncle's death.” Again he paused, and glanced at Hannasyde. “It is rather staggering, isn't it? Nothing left to chance, nothing done in a hurry. The idea was that no one but himself would ever know that my uncle had been poisoned, but he provided himself with an unshakable alibi in case of accidents. And there were two accidents. First, that damnable aunt of mine demanded a post-mortem. Why she did, what prompted her, God alone knows! And second, my deplorable Aunt Harriet's magpie-instincts caused her to walk off with that tube of poisoned toothpaste. When Rumbold returned to Holly Lodge his first care was to find and dispose of that tube. He and his wife went to condole with my aunts, and he contrived, with my Aunt Harriet's unwitting help, to dirty his hands among the flower-pots in the conservatory. He went upstairs to wash them in my uncle's bathroom, and he found it swept bare. That was the first hint he had that things were going wrong. He was worried, but a casual question put to my Aunt Harriet - actually in my presence - brought forth the information that she had burned such of my uncle's possessions as were of no use to anybody. He not unnaturally assumed that the toothpaste must have been among them. Well, he went on being the perfect Friend of the Family. He was indeed genuinely sorry for the unpleasantness the family was going through, and he did what he could to smooth things, and to keep my somewhat excitable relatives moderately calm. What he did not bargain for was to find Fielding with a motive for having committed the murder. He knew that Guy was bound to be a suspect, but he credited you with sufficient intelligence, Superintendent, to doubt Guy's capability. Which I think you did.”
“Yes, from the first,” Hannasyde said curtly. “Not the type to use a rare poison. But go on, please.”
“Fielding,” Randall said. “Well, Fielding looked like becoming a complication. Rumbold didn't want anyone to suffer the consequences of his crime. If the worst came to the worst, he was prepared to clear up the mess. But he kept his head, and waited. Things looked like blowing over. That was thanks to me, but he didn't know that. Then an entirely unforeseen disaster occurred in the death of my Aunt Harriet. Rumbold was not only horrified on his own account; he was profoundly upset on hers. When he heard what sort of a case my clever Aunt Zoë had built up against herself, he realised that he might have to intervene to save her from arrest at any moment. When I came down, and dropped some of my more airy remarks on the subject of Hyde he guessed that I should probably save him the trouble of telling you the truth. By that time it looked to me as though I should have to. Partly owing to fright and partly to innate hypocrisy, my Aunt Zoë was queering her own pitch by telling you improbable lies, while Guy, from what I was able to gather, had thought it the moment to make a grand gesture with the noble intention of saving his mother from the scaffold, and the quite opposite effect of making you suspect her rather more strongly than before. But the worst was that you had discovered the medium through which the poison was administered. Once you had that you weren't likely to let up on the case. It was entirely obvious to me that I was, with the destruction of my alibi, the hottest candidate for arrest. Well, Superintendent, Rumbold had my approval, but I c
an't say that I felt the least inclination to perish without a cry either to protect him or the family honour. Obviously, I should have to cry extremely loudly, whether you arrested me, or my Aunt Zoë, or my irrelevant cousin, Guy. Well, I have a rooted objection to loud noises. That is why Rumbold has committed suicide — in a fit of temporary insanity, shall we say? — and why you are here, listening to me without prejudice.”
Hannasyde got up. “Mr Matthews, do you realise the part you've played in this?” he demanded.
“None better,” said Randall. “I rather think I must be an accessory after the fact.”
“Do you imagine that I can possibly hush this up?”
“Well, what do you propose to do about it?” Randall inquired amiably. “Are you going to get the Public Prosecutor to bring a case against a dead man?”
“Have you any proof of what you've told me?”
“There will be Rumbold's written statement, and I have preserved for your perusal the evidence culled from my Uncle Hyde's papers. In my character of executor I burned everything but the documents that dealt with Rumbold's case. I think your department will keep it as quiet as possible, Superintendent. Cases of the murder of blackmailers are rather ticklish, aren't they? So few people have any sympathy with the victim. You can, of course, bring a case against me for suppressing evidence, but under the circumstances, I'm inclined to think that might be a bit ticklish, too. You would merely stir up a great deal of mud for nothing. May I offer you a whiskey-and-soda?”
“Yes, you may!” said Hannasyde, with something of a snap.
Randall gave his soft laugh, and went over to a table against the wall where the whiskey decanter stood, and mixed two drinks. He came back with them, and gave one to Hannasyde. “Well, Superintendent?” he said.
Hannasyde sat down again. “You had better tell me the rest of it. If I choose to bring it up against you at a prosecution, it will only be my word against yours,” he added sarcastically.
“I shouldn't dream of contradicting you,” said Randall in his most dulcet voice.
“When did you see Rumbold?”
“Today, when I left Grinley Heath.”
“Where? Not at his home?”
“No, certainly not. At his office. He was quite prepared for my visit. We went out to lunch together, and over lunch he told me what I have told you, and I described to him my part in the affair, and gave him my word that I would do what lay in my power to keep the truth from Mrs Rumbold.”
There was not a trace of expression in Randall's voice, but Hannasyde cast one shrewd glance at him, and said in a softer tone: “Not a very pleasant lunch, Mr Matthews.”
Randall said dryly: “That, Superintendent, is putting it mildly.”
Hannasyde nodded. “I can guess how you must feel about it.”
“Let's leave it at that, shall we?” suggested Randall, with an edge to his voice.
Hannasyde sipped his drink for a while in silence. Presently he said: “And that's why you so carefully stayed away from here all day? To give Rumbold time to do away with himself?”
“You will have a great deal of difficulty in proving that, my dear Superintendent.”
Hannasyde smiled somewhat wryly, but all he said was: “Did you expect to find some of the Hyde-papers in your uncle's desk that day you went down to the Poplars with Mr Carrington and me?”
“No, it hadn't dawned on me then. I expected to find what we did find—letters relating to my Uncle Henry's affair. Luckily, not as bad as they might have been.”
Hannasyde could not forbear a grin. “You behaved atrociously over that, Mr Matthews.”
“At least I not only got rid of my dear Aunt Gertrude for you, but quite effectually stopped her smelling any rat.”
“Well, yes,” admitted Hannasyde. “Still—! Was it the sun-glasses that gave it to you?”
“Not immediately. I don't think I can tell you when I first began to suspect. It was the quite freely-expressed opinion of my late father that my uncle was a bad hat, so that I started with an advantage over you in that I was prejudiced against him. Then, too, I had been privileged to observe his handling of my Uncle Henry, and of Dr Fielding. Probably that modified form of blackmail may have put the idea into my head. It—ah, burst into flower when you came to see me one day, and asked me what the name of Hyde conveyed to me. I rather think that I may have been a trifle flippant with you, Superintendent.”
“Very,” said Hannasyde emphatically. “You suggested first Parks, and then Stevenson.”
“And no sooner was the word out of my mouth,” said Randall, “than the idea of a dual personality flashed into my head. Not altogether unnaturally. You told me where Hyde lived, and I paid a call on his friend Brown, which I told you all about.”
“Oh, not quite all, Mr Matthews!”
Randall smiled. “Well, let us say all that it was desirable you should know. When he was induced to divulge where Hyde had kept the key of his safe, I had no doubt that Hyde was none other than my uncle. A pleasing discovery, I can assure you.”
“That was why you looked as though you were ripe for murder when I suggested there had been a bond of sympathy between you?” said Hannasyde.
“Did I? I was certainly not flattered.”
“When did you get the key of that safe?”
“On the day of my uncle's funeral. His watch-chain, with the trinkets that hung on it, were in the drawer of his dressing-table.”
“After which,” said Hannasyde heavily, “you got me to remove the detective who was watching you, so that you could visit that safe-deposit.”
Randall's eyes gleamed. “My dear Superintendent, how can you say so? All I did was to complain of his boots.”
“Well, let that go,” said Hannasyde. “You put that notice in the paper so that you could get at Hyde's papers.”
“And I have wanted so much to ask you how you got on with the General?” murmured Randall.
“Never mind that now. You took everything out of the safe, and burned it?”
“Everything except the papers relating to Rumbold. Those I kept in case of accidents.”
“And you were going to hush the whole thing up? Let Rumbold get away with it?”
“You must remember that I am not a policeman, Superintendent. I am merely concerned with my family's good name.”
“However much I personally may sympathise with that point of view, it was wrong, Mr Matthews!”
“Well, that isn't going to worry me,” said Randall tranquilly.
“Where is that statement you said you had for me?” asked Hannasyde.
Randall looked at him with amused comprehension. “My dear Superintendent! Oh, but this isn't worthy of you! Did you really think I was going to hand it you, all guileless and trusting?”
“Where is it?” repeated Hannasyde.
Randall finished what was left of his drink. “It's in the post, of course, and will reach you at Scotland Yard tomorrow morning.”
Hannasyde smiled reluctantly. “You think of everything, don't you?”
“Well, not quite,” said Randall modestly.
Hannasyde set down his glass, and rose. “I think I'll go and sleep on it,” he said. “You don't seem to have left me much else to do—except clear up the mess.”
“You wrong me, Superintendent: there's very little mess. Much less than you would have made.”
“Yes,” admitted Hannasyde. “From your point of view that's true enough. I take it your name doesn't figure in Rumbold's statement?”
“Oh no!” said Randall with a sleepy smile. “I don't come into the case at all, my dear Superintendent.”
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