“I have,” said Giles, sinking into a chair. “And a still busier night. What I want to know is, did your men find anything that had any possible bearing on the case when they searched Roger Vereker's flat yesterday?”
Hannasyde shook his head. “No, nothing. Was that what you wanted me for this morning?”
“Partly that, and partly to let you know what I'd been doing.” He moved rather restlessly in his chair, frowning. “I want to see that night-porter, by the way. I wish I'd been present when the flat was searched.”
Hannasyde regarded him with some slight show of amusement. “My dear Mr Carrington, there was nothing there other than what we saw.”
“Kenneth's pipe? Oh, that's not it! Kenneth had nothing to do with either murder. I wanted you to come and piece out the first murder with me today, but when I couldn't get hold of you I thought I'd better do it myself rather than hang about perhaps for hours.”
Hannasyde stared at him in astonishment for a moment, and then drew out his chair from behind the desk, and sat down in it. “Forgive me, Mr Carrington, but have you been drinking, or are you just having a little joke with me?” he inquired.
A rather weary smile touched Giles's lips. “To be frank with you, I've been drinking,” he answered. “Not quite lately, but last night, from seven o'clock onwards. I had to be so tactful, you see - pursuing what might have turned out to be a wild and scandalous goose-chase.”
“Mr Carrington, what have you got hold off...” demanded Hannasyde.
“Arnold Vereker's murderer, I hope.”
“Arnold Vereker's murderer?” exclaimed Hannasyde. “Roper's too. But if there was no clue of any kind in the flat—”