“Well, I have,” said the Sergeant briskly. “The notice of his death wasn't meant for the safe-deposit people, Super. It was meant for us. He wants us to think he's dead, and we wouldn't be very likely to do that if we found he'd walked into that place and taken out his papers with his own hands, would we? He's got brains, this bird, that I will say. When you asked them at the safe-depository to describe John Hyde they didn't say one word about any sun-glasses. Seems as though he only wore them in Gadsby Row. All you got out of those fellows was that Hyde was a middle-aged man, and nothing particular to look at. Now how I look at it is this: in case you hit on the notion of a safe-deposit Hyde wanted to have it on record that it wasn't him who'd taken the stuff out of his safe. But though I wouldn't call those blokes we've been talking to an observant lot, it stands to reason they'd know John Hyde if they saw him. So he provides for that by putting on his spectacles, darkening his skin, and calling himself Hyde's brother. Neat, I call it.”
Hannasyde said nothing for a few minutes, but walked on beside the Sergeant, frowning. “You may be right,” he said at last. “But I can't see my way. Look here, Hemingway! Go and see Brown, and try and scare him into telling you what Randall Matthews wanted that day. I'm going to see Randall himself.”
“I might scare Brown,” said the Sergeant, “but it's my belief that it would take a herd of wild elephants to scare young Randall. What's more, I can't make out what he wants with Hyde anyway. Or his blooming papers, if it comes to that. You can't have it both ways, Chief. Seems to me that's what we're trying to do.”
“If you mean that the case is in a muddle, I know that,” said Hannasyde bitterly.
“It always was in a muddle,” replied the Sergeant. “The trouble is the more we go into it the worse the muddle grows. Proper mess, that's what it is. But what I mean is, if Hyde's the man we're after—for reasons at present unknown—Randall's out of it. If Randall pulled the murder, Hyde's out of it.”
“Somewhere there's a connection between them,” Hannasyde said. “There must be. I don't pretend to know what it is, but I've got to find out.”
The Sergeant scratched his nose. “Well, I'm bound to say I don't see it,” he confessed. “Friend Randall's motive for doing his uncle in is as plain as a pikestaff. We don't know what Hyde's motive may have been, but how it can have had anything to do with helping Randall to a nice little fortune has me beat. It don't make any kind of sense, Super.”
“I know, I know, but I've got to follow up the clues I've got. Randall didn't want me to pursue investigations into Hyde. He talked about mares' nests, and tried to make me believe he was not interested in Hyde. But he was sufficiently interested to pay a call on Brown, and to stay for nearly an hour in his shop.”
“Yes,” admitted the Sergeant. “And I wouldn't wonder but what he knows one or two members of the Cavalry Club.”
“Nothing more likely,” said Hannasyde. “I've got to try and rattle him.”