Chapter Eighteen
Giles Carrington had just finished his breakfast next morning when the telephone rang, and his man came in after a short pause to say that Superintendent Hannasyde would like to speak to him.
Giles laid down his napkin, rose in a leisurely way to his feet and strolled out into the hall of his flat, and picked up the telephone receiver. “Hullo!” he said. “Carrington speaking. What can I do for you? Very bright and early, aren't you?”
The Superintendent's voice sounded unwontedly sharp. “I'm speaking from Scotland Yard. Roger Vereker is dead.”
The lazy smile was wiped from Giles Carrington's face. He said incredulously: “What? Say that again!”
“Roger — Vereker — is — dead,” enunciated the Superintendent with great clarity.
“Good God! But how — where?”
“In his flat. I've only just had the news.”
“But - you don't mean murdered, do you?”
“I don't know. The Divisional Inspector seems to think it's suicide. I'm going round immediately.”