“Yes, they're his brokers,” said Giles, fitting a key into the top drawer of the desk. “Here you are.”
“Just a moment.” Hannasyde was turning the leaves of the diary backwards. “Practically no engagements recorded. Share prices jotted down each day. Seems to have had a catholic taste in investments… Monday 13th May: Lupton, 12.0 p.m.” He lowered the book. “Lupton? That's the brother-in-law. I wonder what he wanted to see him about?”
“Was Lupton the desiccated little man with the overpowering wife?” asked Giles.
“That's the fellow. Now why did Matthews make an appointment with him here when they lived in the same place? Might be useful to know that.”
Giles regarded him in some amusement. “You have a fearful and a wonderful mind, Hannasyde. I can think of a dozen reasons.”
“Oh, so can I, but you never know. Do you happen to know anything about a lady called Gladys Smith, living at 531 Fairleigh Court, Golders Green?”
“Never heard of her,” answered Giles, picking up some papers from the drawer he had opened. “Has she got anything to do with the case, or are you going to tell me an anecdote?”
“Her name and address are written here on the 9th May, that's all. No time mentioned, so it may not necessarily have been an appointment.”
“You seem to be catching at straws,” remarked Giles, glancing cursorily through the papers in his hand.
Hannasyde made a note of Mrs Smith's address. “Not much else to catch at. Sometimes important, too—straws. What have you got there? Anything?”