Parting from Inspector Davis at the Police Station, Hannasyde and his subordinate travelled back to London on the Underground Railway. Randall Matthews rented a flat in a road off St James's Street, but was not in at one o'clock, when the Superintendent called. His manservant, eyeing the police with disfavour, declined to hazard any opinion of the probable time of his master's return, but Hannasyde and his Sergeant, coming back at three o'clock, found a Mercedes car parked outside the house, and rightly conjectured that its owner was Mr Randall Matthews.
This time the 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.