Now there had been no cloakroom ticket found in Sorrell's possession.
"Did you see the ticket?"
"No; he only offered to give it to me.
"Next morning I was late because I wasn't used to doing for myself, and I had to make my own breakfast and tidy up, but I didn't hurry because I had no job. I was hoping to get a clerk's place when the 'flat' started. It was nearly twelve when I went out, and I wasn't thinking of anything but Bert. I was so fed up with the way we'd parted and the fool I'd made of myself that I went to a post office and sent a wire to Bert addressed to the Queen of Arabia, saying, 'Sorry. - JERRY. "
"What post office did you send the telegram from?"
"The one on Brixton High Street."
"All right; go on."
"I bought a paper and went back to my rooms, and then I saw about the queue murder. It didn't give any description of the man except that he was young and fair, and I didn't connect him with Bert. When I thought of Bert, I always thought of him aboard ship by this time d'you see? If the man had been shot, I'd have been alarmed at once. But stuck with a knife was different."
At this stage Grant looked with increduous astonishment at Lamont. Was the man by any remotest possibility telling the truth? If not, he was the most cold-blooded wretch Grant had ever had the unhappy lot to meet. But the man appeared unconscious of Grant's scrutiny; he seemed wholly absorbed in his story. If this was acting, it was the best Grant had ever seen; and he deemed himself a connoisseur.
"On Thursday morning when I was clearing up, I remembered Bert's parcel, and opened it. And inside was all Bert's cash. I was flabbergasted, and somehow I was scared again. If anything had happened to Bert, I'd have heard about it — I mean, I thought I would have — but I didn't like it. There was no note with it. He had said when he handed it over, 'This is for you, and made me promise not to open it till the time he said. I didn't know what to do about it because I still thought of Bert as being on the way to New York. I went out and got a paper. They had all big headlines about the queue murder, and this time there was a full description of the man and his clothes and the contents of his pockets. That was in black type, and I knew at once it was Bert. got on a bus, feeling sick all over, but meaning to go to Scotland Yard right away and tell them all I knew about it. On the bus I read the rest of the thing. It said that the murder had been done by some one left-handed, and wanted to know who had left the queue. Then I remembered that we had had an argument that any one might have overheard, and that I had all Bert's money without a single thing to show how I got it. I got off the bus in an awful sweat, and walked about thinking what was to be done. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed that I couldn't go to Scotland Yard with a tale like that. I was torn between that and letting Bert lie there while the — skunk that killed him went free. I was about crazy that day. I thought that, if I didn't go, perhaps they'd get on to the track of the right man. And then I'd wonder if I was using that as an excuse for not going — funking, you know. My thoughts went round and round like that, and I couldn't come to any decision. On Friday they said the inquest was to be that day, and that no one had claimed to know Bert. There was one time during that day that I very nearly went to the police station, and then, just when the thought of Bert had got my courage up, I remembered what a thin yarn I had about myself. So instead I sent some of Bert's money to bury him. I'd have liked to say who he was, but I knew that would bring them all about me in a minute. And then next morning I saw they had my description. They were looking for me. I'd have gone then of my own accord. Only, in the description it said that the man had a scar on the inside of his finger or thumb. That tore it. I got that scar" — he extended his hand — "as I told you — carrying my trunk up the stairs to my room. The buckle caught me as I was letting it down. But that tore it all right. Who would believe me now? I waited till it was late afternoon, and then I went to Mrs. Everett. She was the only real friend I had, and she knew me. I told her every last thing about it. She believed me because she knew me, you see, but even she saw that no one who didn't know me would believe me. She called me a fool, or as good as, for not going straight away to tell what I knew. She would have. She ruled us both. Bert used to call her Lady Macbeth, because she was Scotch and used to screw us up to doing things when we were wavering about them. She said all I could do now Was to lie low. If they didn't find me, there was always the chance of their getting on to the right man, and afterwards she would give me the money to go abroad. I couldn't use Bert's, somehow. When I left her I went all the way into town because I couldn't bear the thought of going back to my rooms with nothing to do but listen for feet on the stairs. I thought I would be safest in a movie show, and I meant to go up to the Haymarket. And then I looked back in the Strand and saw you behind me. You know that bit. I went back to my rooms at once, and didn't stir out of them till Mrs. Everett came on Monday and told me you'd been to her. She came to King's Cross with me and gave me the introduction to the people at Caminnish. You know the rest. After I'd been a day in Carninnish I began to think I had a chance, until I saw you come into the room for tea."
He lapsed into silence. Grant noticed that his hands were trembling.
"What made you think that the money you say Sorrell left with you was all he had?"
"Because it was the amount he had in his own private account at the bank. It was I who drew it for him more than a week before he was due to sail. He drew it all but a pound."
"Were you in the habit of drawing money for him?"
"No; hardly ever. But that week he was terribly busy settling affairs at the office and clearing up generally."
"Why did he draw it so soon if he did not need it to pay his fare, as he evidently didn't?"
"I don't know, unless he was afraid he wouldn't have enough in the business ac-count to pay off all the accounts. But he had. He didn't leave a ha'penny owing."
"Was business good?"
"Yes; not bad. As good as it ever is in the winter. We do very little National Hunt betting — did, I mean. During the 'flat' it was good enough."
"At the end of the winter would be a lean season with Sorrell, then?"
"Yes."
"And you handed the money to Sorrell — when?"
"Directly I got back from the bank."
"You say you quarrelled with Sorrell about the revolver. Can you prove the revolver was yours?"
"No; how can I? No one knew about it because it was locked up — no one but Bert, I mean. It was loaded, just the way it was when the Armistice came. It wasn't a thing to leave about."
"And what do you suggest that Sorrell wanted it for?"
"I don't know. I haven't the remotest idea. I did think of suicide. It looked like that. But then there was no reason for it."
"When you said to me at Carninnish that in your opinion a woman had killed Sorrell, what did you mean?"
"Well, you see, I knew all Bert's men friends, and he didn't have any girl ones — I mean girls that are more than acquaintances. But I always thought there might have been a woman before I knew him. He was very quiet about the things he cared about, and he wouldn't have told me in any case. I have seen him sometimes get letters in a woman's handwriting, but he never re-marked about them, and Bert wasn't the kind you teased about that sort of thing."
"Has a letter of that sort arrived for him lately — within the past six months, say?"
Lamont thought for a while and said yes, he thought so.
"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 sup-posed 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 dis-cover 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 Sorrel? 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 with 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.
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