Man in the Queue

by Robert Barnard

“What kind of writing?”

  “Biggish, with very round letters.”

  “You have read the description of the dagger that killed Sorrell. Have you ever handled one like it?”

  “I not only never handled one but I never saw one.”

  “Have you any suggestions as to who or what this hypothetical woman might have been?”

  “No.”

  “Do you mean to say that you were this man’s intimate friend for years—actually lived with him for four years—and yet know nothing of his past?”

  “I know quite a lot about his past, but not that. You didn’t know Bert or you wouldn’t expect him to tell me. He wasn’t secretive in ordinary things—only in special things.”

  “Why was he going to America?”

  “I don’t know. I told you I thought he hadn’t been happy lately. He never was exactly bubbling over, but lately—well, it’s been more of an atmosphere than anything you could give a name to.”

  “Was he going alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not with a woman?”

  “Certainly not,” said Lamont sharply, as if Grant had insulted him or his friend.

  “How do you know?”

  Lamont hunted round in his mind, evidently at a loss. He was quite obviously facing the possibility for the first time that his friend had intended to go abroad with some one and had not told him. Grant could see him considering the proposition and rejecting it. “I don’t know how I know, but I do know. He would have told me that.”

  “Then you deny having any knowledge as to how Sorrell met his end?”

  “I do. Don’t you think, if I had any knowledge, I’d tell you all I knew?”

  “I expect you would!” said Grant. “The very vagueness of your suspicions is a bad feature in your line of defence.” He asked the constable to read out what he had written, and Lamont agreed that it coincided with what he had said, and signed each page with a none too steady hand. As he signed the last he said. “I’m feeling rotten. Can I lie down now?” Grant gave him a draught which he had cadged from the doctor, and in fifteen minutes the prisoner was sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion, while his captor stayed awake and thought the statement over.

  It was an extraordinarily plausible one. It fitted and dovetailed beautifully. Except for its fundamental improbability, it was difficult to fault it. The man had had an explanation for everything. Times and places, even motives fitted. His account of his supposed emotions, from the discovery of the loss of the revolver onwards, was a triumph of verisimilitude. Was it possible, even remotely possible, that the man’s statement was true? Was this that thousandth case where circumstantial evidence, complete in every particular, was merely a series of accidents, completely unrelated and lying colossally in consequence? But then, the thinness of the man’s story—that fundamental improbability! After all, he had had nearly a fortnight to carve out his explanation, plane it, polish it, and make it fit in every particular. It would be a poor wit that would not achieve a tolerably acceptable tale with life itself at stake. That there was no one to check the truth or otherwise of the vital points was at once his misfortune and his advantage. It occurred to Grant that the only way to check Lamont’s explanation was to unearth Sorrell’s story, for story, Grant felt, there must be. If he could discover that Sorrell really intended suicide, it would go far to substantiate Lamont’s story of the purloined revolver and the gift of money. And there Grant pulled himself up. Substantiate Lamont’s story? Was there a possibility of such a thing coming to pass? If that were so, his whole case went up in smoke, Lamont was not guilty, and he had arrested the wrong man. But was there within the bounds of possibility a coincidence which would put in one theatre queue two men, both left-handed, both scarred on a finger of that hand, and both acquaintances of the dead man, and therefore his potential murderers? He refused to believe it. It was not the credibility of the man’s tale that had thrown dust in his eyes, but the extraordinary credibility of the manner of telling it. And what was that but plausibility!

  His mind continued to go round and round the thing. In the man’s favour—there he was again!—was the fact that the fingerprints on the revolver and those on the letter containing the money were the same. If the prints he had sent from Carninnish proved to be the same as these, then the man’s story was true to that extent. The tale of Sorrell’s letters from the feminine source could be checked by application to Mrs. Everett. Mrs. Everett evidently believed Lamont innocent, and had gone to considerable lengths in support of her conviction; but then she was prejudiced, and therefore not a competent judge.

  Supposing, then, that the man’s tale was a concocted one, what combination of circumstances would explain his murdering Sorrell? Was it possible that he had resented his friend’s departure without offering to help him, so much that he could commit murder for it? But he had Sorrell’s money in his possession. If he had obtained that money before Sorrell died, he would have no reason for killing him. And if he had not, then the money would have been found in Sorrell’s possession. Or suppose he had obtained the money by stealing his friend’s pocketbook during that afternoon, he would still have no urge to murder, and there would have been every reason to keep away from the queue. The more Grant thought of it, the more impossible it became to invent a really good theory as to why Lamont should have murdered Sorrell. Most of all in his favour was that he should have come to so public a place as a theatre queue to expostulate with his friend about something. It was not a usual preliminary to intended murder. But perhaps the murder had not been intended. Lamont did not give the impression of a man who would intend murder for very long at a time. Had the quarrel been not over the revolver at all but about something more bitter? Was there a woman in the case after all, for instance? For no reason Grant had a momentary recollection of Lamont’s face when the Dinmont girl had gone out of the room as if he was not there, and the tones of his voice when he was telling of Sorrell’s suspected romance, and he dismissed that theory.

  But about business? Lamont had evidently felt his comparative poverty very keenly, and had resented his friend’s lack of sympathy. Was his “fed up” a euphemism for a smouldering resentment that had blazed into hatred? But—after having had two hundred and twenty-three pounds—no, of course, he didn’t know about that until afterwards. That might have been true, that tale of the packet, and he had taken it for granted that it contained the expected watch. After all, one does not expect to be handed two hundred and twenty-three pounds by a departing friend whose whole fortune it is. That was possible to the point of probability. He had said goodbye, and afterwards—but what did he argue about? If he had come back to stab Sorrell, he would not have called attention to himself. And what had Sorrell intended to do? If Lamont’s story were true, then the only explanation of Sorrell’s conduct was intended suicide. The more Grant thought, the more certain he became that only light on Sorrell’s history would elucidate the problem and prove Lamont’s guilt or—incredible!—innocence. His first business when he was back in town would be to do what he had neglected in his hurry to get Lamont—find Sorrell’s luggage and go through it. And if that yielded nothing, he would see Mrs. Everett again. He would like to meet Mrs. Everett once more!

  He took a last look at the calmly sleeping Lamont, and said a last word to the stolidly wakeful constable, and composed himself to sleep, worried, but filled with resolution. This business was not going to be left where it was.

  15 THE BROOCH

  AFTER A HOT BATH, during which he had twiddled his toes in the wavering steam and tried to mesmerize himself into that habitually comfortable frame of mind of a detective officer who has got his man, Grant repaired to the Yard and went to interview his chief. When he came into the great man’s presence Barker was complimentary.

  “Congratulations, Grant!” he said. “That was very smart work altogether.” And he asked for details of the capture which Grant had not, of course, included in his official report, and Grant provided him wit
h a vivid sketch of the three days at Carninnish. The superintendent was highly amused.

  “Well done!” he said. “Rather you than me. Careering across bogs was never a sport of mine. It seems you were the right man in the right place this time, Grant.”

  “Yes,” said Grant unenthusiastically.

  “You don’t let your emotions run away with you, do you?” said Barker, grinning at his unsmiling face.

  “Well, it’s been luck, mostly, and I made one bad break.”

  “What was that?”

  “I found out that Sorrell had really intended to go to America—at least, that he had booked a berth—and I forgot that his belongings would be lying at a terminus waiting to be examined.”

  “That doesn’t sound a very vital mistake to me. You knew who the man was and who his friends were. What more could you find out that would help you to Lamont?”

  “Nothing about Lamont. It was because I was so hard on Lamont’s trail that I forgot about the luggage. But I want to know more about Sorrell. To tell you the truth,” he added in a sudden burst, “I’m not very happy about this case.”

  Barker’s jaw dropped just a little. “What’s wrong?” he said. “It’s the clearest case the Yard has had for some time.”

  “Yes; on the surface. But, if you dig a bit, there seems to be more than meets the eye.”

  “What do you mean? That there was more than one in it?”

  “No; I mean that there’s just the barest possibility that we’ve got the wrong one.”

  For a little there was silence. “Grant,” said Barker at last, “I never knew you to lose your nerve before. You need a holiday. I don’t think scooting across moors can be good for you. Perhaps the jogging movement is addling to the brain. You certainly have lost your critical faculty.”

  Grant could find nothing to say except “Well, here’s the statement he gave us last night,” and he handed it over. While Barker was reading it, he crossed to the window, gazed at the patch of green and the river in the sun, and wondered if he were making a complete fool of himself to be worrying when he had a good case. Well, fool or no fool, he would go along to Waterloo as soon as his chief had finished with him, and see what he could pick up there.

  When Barker dropped the statement with a little flop on to the table, Grant turned eagerly to see what effect it had had on him. “Well,” said that worthy, “it leaves me with a strong desire to meet Mr. Lamont.”

  “Why?” asked Grant.

  “Because I’d like to see in person the man who tried sob-stuff on Inspector Grant and got away with it. The unimpressionable Grant!”

  “That’s how it strikes you, is it?” Grant said gloomily. “You don’t believe a word of it?”

  “Not a word,” said Barker cheerfully. “It’s about the thinnest story I’ve known put up for some time. But then I should think the man was hard put to it to find any way out of the evidence at all. He did his damnedest—I will say that for him.”

  “Well, look at it from the other way, and can you think of a reasonable explanation for Lamont’s killing Sorrell?”

  “Tut, tut, Grant, you’ve been at the Yard for I don’t know how many years, and you’re looking at this late stage for reasonable murders. You need a holiday, man. Lamont probably killed Sorrell because the way he ate had got on his nerves. Besides, it isn’t any of our business to fit psychology to people or to provide motives or anything of that sort. So don’t worry your head. Fit them with good watertight evidence and provide them with a cell, and that’s all we have to bother about.”

  There was a short silence, and Grant gathered up his papers preparatory to taking his leave and getting along to Waterloo.

  “Look here,” said Barker out of the silence, “all joshing apart—do you believe the man didn’t do it?”

  “I don’t see how he could not have,” Grant said. “There’s the evidence. I can’t say why I’m uneasy about the thing, but that doesn’t alter the fact that I am.”

  “Is this an example of the famous flair?” said Barker, with a return to his former manner.

  But Grant would not be other than serious this morning. “No; I think it’s just that I have seen Lamont and talked to him when he was telling his story, and you haven’t.”

  “That’s what I said to begin with,” Barker reminded him. “Lamont has tried a sob-story on you and put it over. . . . Put it out of your head, Grant, until you get even a tittle of evidence to substantiate it. Flair is all very well, and I don’t deny that you have been uncanny once or twice, but it has always been more or less in accordance with the evidence before, and in this case it most emphatically isn’t.”

  “That’s the very thing that makes me worry most. Why should I not be pleased with the case as it stands? What is it that makes me not pleased? There is something, but I’m blowed if I can see what it is. I keep feeling that something is wrong somewhere. I want something that will either tighten up the evidence against Lamont or loosen it.”

  “Well, well,” said Barker good-humouredly, “go ahead. You’ve done so well so far that you can afford to play yourself for a few days more. The evidence is good enough for the police court—or any other kind of court, for that of it.”

  So Grant betook himself through the sunny, busy morning to Waterloo, trailing a little cloud of discontent behind him as he went. As he stepped from the warm pavement into the cool vault of the best but saddest of all London stations—the very name of it reeks of endings and partings—gloom sat on his face like a portent. Having obtained the necessary authority to open any luggage that Sorrell might have left, he repaired to the left-luggage room, where a highly interested official said, “Yes, sir, I know them. Left about a fortnight ago, they were,” and led him to the luggage in question. It consisted of two well-worn trunks, and it occurred to Grant that neither was labelled with the Rotterdam-Manhattan company’s labels as they should have been if Sorrell had intended going aboard at Southampton. Nor were they addressed at all. On ordinary labels on each was written in Sorrell’s writing, “A. Sorrell,” but nothing else. With his own keys and a slight quickening of heart he opened them. Below the top garment in the first were Sorrell’s passport and tickets for the voyage. Why had he left them there? Why not have taken them with him in a pocket-book? But alongside them were the labels supplied by the company for the labelling of passengers’ luggage. Perhaps for some reason Sorrell had meant to open the trunk again before going down on the boat-train, and had postponed labelling it till then. And had left his tickets and passport there as being safer than a pocketbook in a queue.

  Grant continued his examination. There was no further indication that Sorrell had not intended to go abroad as he said. The clothes were packed with a care and neatness that surely argued a further use for them. There was method, too, in the manner of their disposition. The articles which would presumably be needed first were there to hand, and the less necessary ones farther down. It was difficult, looking at the packing, to believe that Sorrell had not intended to take out the articles himself at some future time. And there was no information, no letters, no photographs. That last struck Grant as the only remarkable thing about the luggage—that a man who was going abroad should have no souvenirs of any sort with him. And then he came on them, packed at the bottom between two shoes—a little bundle of snapshots. Hastily he untied the piece of string that held them together, and looked them through. At least half of them were photographs of Gerald Lamont, either alone or with Sorrell, and the rest were old army groups. The only women in the collection were Mrs. Everett and some VAD’s who seemed to be incidental to the army groups. Grant almost groaned aloud in his disappointment—he had untied that string with such mighty if vague hopes—but when he had tied up the bundle again he put it in his pocket. VAD’s might be incidental in a group, but individually they were women and, as such, not to be despised.

  And that was all! That was all he was going to get from the luggage he had been banking so heavily on. Troubled and disapp
ointed, he began to put the things back as he had found them. As he lifted a coat to fold it, something fell from a pocket and rolled along the floor of the left-luggage room. It was a small blue velvet case such as jewellers use for their wares. No terrier is quicker on a rat than Grant was on that small slowly revolving box, and no girl’s heart beat at the opening of a velvet case as Grant’s heart beat at the opening of that one. A press with his thumb and the lid flew up. On the deep blue lining lay a brooch such as women wear in their hats. It was made from small pearls in the form of a monogram, and was very simple and rather beautiful. “M. R.,” said Grant aloud. Margaret Ratcliffe.

  His brain had said it before his thoughts had time to gather round it. He stared at the trinket for a little, took it up from its velvet bed, turned it in his hand, and put it back again. Was this his clue, after all? And did these common-enough initials point to the woman who kept stumbling into this case so persistently? It was she that had stood behind Sorrell when he was killed; it was she that had booked a berth on the same day on the same ship to the same destination as Sorrell; and now the only thing of value found among his belongings was a brooch with her initials. He examined it again. It did not look the kind of thing that is sold by the dozen, and the name on the box was not that of a firm usually patronized by impecunious young bookmakers. It was that of a Bond Street firm of good reputation, with wares corresponding in price. He thought that, on the whole, his best step would be to go and see Messrs. Gallio & Stein. He locked up the trunks, put the brooch in his pocket with the snapshots, and departed from Waterloo. As he mounted the stairs of a bus he remembered that Lamont had said that the notes he had been given by Sorrell had been wrapped in white paper such as jewellers use. One more good mark for Lamont. But if Sorrell were going abroad in the company of, or because of, Margaret Ratcliffe, why should he hand over such a sum to Lamont? Mrs. Ratcliffe had money of her own, Simpson had reported, but no man started out to live on the woman he was eloping with, even if he was sorry to leave his friend in comparative poverty.