“Ah, I see!” smiled Giles. “You want the corpse discovered in situ, with the incriminating letter in the wastepaper basket, the glass (with traces of poison) on the table, and everything under lock and key until you arrive.”
Hannasyde gave a reluctant laugh. “Well, you'll admit it would be a lot easier to handle. By the way, you've got the dead man's keys, haven't you?”
“Yes, but I only took charge of them on Friday. Randall gave them to me, pending the result of the investigation.”
Hannasyde stared at him. “Thinks of everything, doesn't he? Very proper behaviour on the part of Mr Randall Matthews. And the rest of the family hates him.” He tapped his fingers on Giles' desk for a moment. “Get the Department to look into Mr Randall Matthews. Are you busy, Mr Carrington?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go with me to Gregory's office.”
Giles glanced at his watch. “All right, but I must be back at five. I've got an appointment.”
A taxi bore both men to a big block of flats in the City. During his lifetime Gregory Matthews had rented a single room on the fourth floor where he had apparently transacted his business. It was a small apartment, containing a desk, and a couple of leather chairs, a table with a typewriter on it, a large waste-paper basket, a filing-cabinet, and a safe. It was very tidy, and smelled stuffy from having been shut up.
“No torn-up letters here, Hannasyde,” Giles remarked. “One of those nice modern buildings where the charwoman lets herself in with a pass-key, and cleans the place each morning before you arrive.” He sat down at the desk, and began to inspect the keys on the ring he was holding. “What would you like first? Desk, safe, or cabinet?”
Hannasyde had picked up a diary from the table, and was looking through it. “I don't mind. Desk,” he said absently. “Parker and Snell—they sound as though they might be his brokers. Apparently he had an appointment with them on the 14th May. Doesn't tell us much.”