“I think I should—if I knew of no one who could have had any motive for the murder.”
Randall smiled, and answered rather mockingly: “Ah, I think you must be referring to—er—family dissensions. Which of my relatives would you like me to incriminate by some damaging statement? I have hardly any preference.”
“I don't want you to incriminate anyone, thank you, Mr Matthews, but if you know anything relevant to the case I should like to hear it.”
Randall stretched out his hand and took a cigarette from the box beside him, and began to tap it on his thumb-nail. “But I don't think I do know anything relevant,” he said sadly.
“In that case we won't take up any more of your time,” said Hannasyde, and got up.
Randall touched a bell on his desk, and upon Benson's appearance instructed him, in his languid way, to show the visitors out.
As he walked down the stairs beside the Superintendent, Sergeant Hemingway said: “A little too smooth-spoken, Chief. Just a little too smooth.” Hannasyde grunted.
“Alibi and all,” pursued the Sergeant. “Very pat. Gave it out as though he was darned pleased about it. Pick-a-hole-in-that-if-you-can. Question is, can we?”
“I shouldn't think so. You can check up on it—as a matter of form. I'm going to see Mr Carrington.”
“What you might call the bright spot in a bad day,” remarked the Sergeant. “Funny thing, running slap into him right on top of my mentioning the Vereker Case. I wonder if Miss Vereker—oh, she's Mrs Carrington now, isn't she? I wonder if she still breeds bull-terriers?”