“Well, sir, there’s a retired engineer, and a young chap, just married, in the Rimington firm, and a naval officer, and several young doctors with consulting-rooms in Harley Street, and one of the Maynards, the Devonshire family. That’s all with any rooms on the well. I’ve seen ’em all, and, if you ask me, they’re right out of it; they’re not the sort, not one of them.” “I dare say,” said Reggie. “They don’t sound as if they would fit. None of them heard anything?” “No, sir; that’s queer, to be sure.” “It happened the night of the blizzard. You wouldn’t have noticed a bomb. Well, who was Rand?” “That’s what no one knows, sir. He’d only been here a few weeks. They’re service flats, you know, and furnished. He gave a banker’s reference. Bank says he has no money reason to be missing. Quiet, stable account. Income from investments. Balance three hundred odd. But the bank don’t know anything about him. He’s had an account for years. He used to live off Jermyn Street, apartment-house. The landlady died last year.” “And the landlady died last year,” Reggie repeated. “He’s elusive, is Mr. Rand. Same like our corpse. But is Rand missing, Bell? He’s not been seen for a few days. There’s not much in that. He never used his flat regularly.” “And, so far as we know, deceased isn’t Rand.” “Well, I don’t know quite as far as that,” said Reggie. “Good Lord, the porter who found him didn’t recognize the body.” “Remember his face.” “My God, don’t talk about his face.” “Sorry, sorry. Well, I dare say the porter was upset too.” “Yes, but the porter said Rand was biggish, and the body’s on the small side. The porter said he had a lot of hair, and the body’s absolutely bald.” “My dear chap, give a man a straight back and a bit of manner and lots of fellows think he’s biggish--while he’s alive. And a man that’s absolutely bald is just the man to wear a wig.” “I thought we were to go by facts,” Bell said gloomily. “And so we are, Bell. Just a-going to begin, Mr. Snodgrass, sir. No rash haste.” “Have you got something up your sleeve?” “Not one little trump. Oh, my dear Bell, how can you? Did I ever? My simple open heart is broken.” “You’re damned cheerful, aren’t you?” “My dear man, I never made you swear before. My dear Bell! Sorry. Let’s get on. Let’s get on. I want to call on the elusive Rand.” There was nothing individual about the rooms of Mr. Rand. He had been content with the furniture supplied by the owners of the place, which was of the usual wholesale dullness. Reggie turned to the manager of the flats. “I suppose there’s nothing in the place Mr. Rand owns? Not even the pictures?” “The pictures were supplied by the contractors for the furniture, sir. So----” “The Lord have mercy on their souls,” said Reggie. “So there is nothing of the tenant’s personal property except his clothes.”