“It’s Roger, obviously; and stone dead. Nothing more to do here. Let’s try the other centre next. Skene, you needn’t come. Keep your eye on this fellow till we come back.”
He led Howard through the alleys once more and in a short time they entered the second centre of the Maze.
“This is Neville Shandon, true enough,” the secretary reported. The identification had taken longer, since the body lay on its face. “Mustn’t disturb anything, Torrance. The police may be able to make something out of it if we leave things alone.”
He rose from his knees and mechanically dusted his trousers as he spoke. Howard was struck by the extraordinary matter-of-fact way in which Stenness had treated the whole affair. One might have expected some sign of emotion, surprise at the very least; but Stenness had gone through the whole business without showing the slightest disturbance. But as Howard reflected on the matter, he was forced to admit that, after all, it was much what one might have anticipated. Stenness, he remembered, had always been chary of showing any emotion whatever. Probably this was just a case of carrying the normal to an extreme where it became noticeable. Stenness, doubtless, took a pride in that mask of coolness.
The secretary stooped for a moment over Neville Shandon’s body and examined the left hand which lay clenched on the grass.
“There’s a piece of paper there. It looks as if it had been wrenched out of his hand and a scrap left in his grip. Let’s see what one can make of it without touching it.”
He knelt down and scrutinised the fragment painfully.
“Some of his notes on the Hackleton case, perhaps. I can read ‘Hackl . . .’ on it plain enough.”
Howard did not trouble to look at the paper at close range.
“What do you make of it?” he demanded, as the secretary rose to his feet again.