Behold Here's Poison (28 page)

'He seems to have said it to the girl all right,' the Sergeant pointed out, once more falling into step beside him.

'That's a very different matter.'

'It is, is it?' said the Sergeant. 'I'm bound to say I don't see it myself, not immediately.'

'Ah, Skipper, that's where psychology comes in!' said Hannasyde maliciously. 'Randall Matthews wasn't pleased with Miss Stella for blurting that out.'

The Sergeant eyed him sideways, and with a good deal of expression, but all he said was: 'Well, bearing his antics in mind, and assuming that he didn't put that murder over, what is his little game, Super?'

'I suspect,' said Hannasyde, 'to prevent us from ever finding out the truth.'

'Chief,' said the Sergeant severely, 'you've got something up your sleeve!'

'I think I've got an inkling of the truth,' admitted Hannasyde. 'Which is why I'd rather interview Randall Matthews where I can be sure of getting him quite alone. That young man has got to be made to talk.'

But when they arrived at Randall's flat they found only Benson, who informed them, not without satisfaction, that his master was out, and not expected back until the evening.

The Sergeant, bristling with suspicion, said: 'You don't say! Taken the Merc with him, by any chance?'

'If,' said Benson, with awful dignity, 'you refer to the Mercedes-Benz, no, Sergeant! The car is in the garage.'

'Mr Matthews has been here, then, within the past hour?' interposed Hannasyde.

'Certainly he has,' replied Benson. He added grudgingly: 'What's more, Mr Matthews left a message in case you should call.'

'Well?'

'He will not be at home all day, but if you care to come round at nine o'clock this evening he will be happy to see you,' said Benson.

'Tell him when he comes in that I shall call at that time, then,' said Hannasyde, and moved away towards the stairs.

'And what,' demanded the Sergeant, 'is my lord up to now, if I may ask?'

'You may ask,' said Hannasyde, 'but I'm damned if I can tell you. Unless, for some reason or other, he wants to ward me off for a few hours.'

'We'll look clever if the next we hear of him is on the Continent somewhere,' remarked the Sergeant.

'What's gone wrong with your psychology?' asked Hannasyde solicitously.

'There's nothing gone wrong with it,' said the Sergeant. 'But if you weren't my superior, Chief—I say, if you weren't—I should be asking you what had happened to make you lose your grip all of a sudden. The way things are, of course, I can't ask you.'

'Don't worry!' said Hannasyde. 'I haven't lost it yet. You can put a man on to watch that flat, if it will make you feel happier. Tell him to report to the Yard anything that happens—particularly Randall's return.'

'Well, that's better than doing nothing,' said the Sergeant. 'Do you expect to get any good out of it?'

'No, but it's as well to be on the safe side,' answered Hannasyde.

It was not until eight o'clock in the evening that the detective watching the flat got into touch with Sergeant Hemingway at Scotland Yard. He rang up then with the news that Randall had come home five minutes before.

The Sergeant relayed this information, and waited for instructions.

Just on eight o'clock,' said Hannasyde, glancing at his wrist-watch. 'He's come home to dinner, I should say. Tell Jepson to keep a sharp look-out, and if Matthews goes out again to tail him.'

But Randall did not go out again, and when Hannasyde arrived at his flat at nine o'clock he was ushered immediately into the library, and found Randall there, lounging in the depths of a large armchair, with a coffee-tray on a low table beside him.

He was looking tired, and not in the least amiable. There was a crease between his black brows, and a grimness about his mouth which Hannasyde had never seen before. He dragged himself out of the chair when the Superintendent came in, and greeted him for once without the faint, sardonic smile which Hannasyde found so irritating.

'Come in, Superintendent,' he said. 'Where is your satellite?'

'I'm alone,' replied Hannasyde.

Randall looked him over. 'How fortunate! I wanted you alone,' he said.

'I thought perhaps you might,' said Hannasyde.

Randall continued to regard him for a moment, and then bent over the table and picked up the coffee-pot. 'Did you?' he said. 'Do you know, I begin to think rather well of your intelligence, Superintendent.'

'I have always thought well of yours, Mr Matthews, though I may not have approved the uses it has been put to,' retorted Hannasyde.

At that the smile did flicker for an instant in Randall's eyes. 'Tut, tut, Superintendent.' He handed a fragile cup and saucer to Hannasyde. 'Brandy, or Benedictine?'

'Thank you; brandy, please.'

'A red-letter day,' remarked Randall, pouring the brandy gently into two big glasses. 'Superintendent Hannasyde for the first time accepts refreshment under my roof.'

Hannasyde took the glass, and said: 'Yes. But I believe it is also a red-letter day in that you are going—at last—to tell me what, up till now, you have been so busily concealing.'

'Cigars at your elbow,' murmured Randall. 'It is a thoroughly nauseating affair, Superintendent, and I may mention in passing that my thoughts of my deceased Aunt Harriet are not loving ones.' He sipped his brandy. 'Do you want me to remember that you are a member of the C.I.D., or would you like me to tell you the unvarnished truth?'

'The unvarnished truth, please.'

'Yes, I daresay,' Randall drawled. 'But it will have to be without prejudice, Superintendent.'

Hannasyde hesitated. 'I can't promise anything, but I'm out to solve a murder-case, not to bring a charge against you for getting hold of Hyde's papers by using a false name and a pair of sun-glasses.'

'It would be rather paltry, wouldn't it?' agreed Randall.

'Worse than that. I rather think you may have been within your rights when you took possession of those papers.'

Randall looked pensively down at him. 'Now, when did you tumble to that, Superintendent?' he asked.

'When your cousin told me that you were going to give away all your uncle's money, Mr Matthews.'

'Ah!' said Randall. 'That was certainly a mistake on my part.' He walked across the room to his desk, and picked up the evening paper that lay there, and came slowly back with it. 'I think that's the most important part of my story—as far as you are concerned,' he said, and handed the paper to Hannasyde. 'The second paragraph,' he said.

Hannasyde shot one quick look at him, and then lowered his gaze to the column just below the fold in the newspaper.

Accident on the Piccadilly Tube was the heading. Underneath was a brief statement that shortly after three o'clock in the afternoon a middle-aged man threw himself in front of an express train at Hyde Park Corner Station. It was understood that the man was a Mr Edward Rumbold, of Holly Lodge, Grinley Heath, well-known in City circles as the head of a firm of wool-exporters.

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 can'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.'