Man in the Queue

by Robert Barnard

  The business of Messrs. Gallio & Stein is conducted in a small and rather dark shop in Old Bond Street, and Grant found but one assistant visible. As soon as Grant opened the blue box the man recognized the brooch. It was he that had dealt with the customer about it. No; they did not have them in stock. It had been made to order for a Mr. Sorrell, a young fair man. It had cost thirty guineas, and had been finished—he consulted a book—on the 6th, a Tuesday, and Mr. Sorrell had called and paid for it and taken it away with him on that date. No; the assistant had never seen the man before. He had described what he wanted, and had made no fuss about the price.

  Grant went away thinking deeply, but no nearer a solution. That a man in Sorrell’s position had been willing to pay thirty guineas for an ornament argued infatuation of an extreme type. He had not presented it to the object of his devotion up to the time of his departure. That meant that it could be presented only after he had left Britain. It was packed deep in his trunk. He had no friends in America that any one knew of. But—Margaret Ratcliffe was going out by the same boat. That woman! How she came into things! And her entry, instead of making things clearer, merely made the muddle worse than before. For muddle Grant was now convinced there was.

  It was nearly lunchtime, but he went back to the Yard because he was expecting a message from the post office. It was there waiting for him. On the morning of the 14th (Wednesday) a telegram had been handed in at Brixton High Street post office addressed to Albert Sorrell on board the Queen of Arabia, and reading “Sorry.—JERRY.” It had presumably been delivered, since there had been no word to the contrary, but it was not unlikely that, in the shoal of telegrams attending the departure of a big liner, if it had not been claimed, it might have been mislaid.

  “So that’s that!” said Grant aloud; and Williams, who was in attendance, said, “Yes, sir,” accommodatingly.

  And now what? He wanted to see Mrs. Ratcliffe, but he did not know whether she had returned home. If he rang to inquire, she would be forewarned of his renewed interest in her. He would have to send Simpson again. Mrs. Ratcliffe would have to wait for the moment. He would go and see Mrs. Everett instead. He gave Simpson his instructions, and after lunch went down to Fulham.

  Mrs. Everett opened the door to him, with no sign of fear or embarrassment. From the expression of her eyes, her hostility was too great to permit of her harbouring any other emotion. What line should he take with her? The stern official one would be useless both from the point of impressing her and from the point of extracting information; the dead man had done well to call her Lady Macbeth. And a magnanimous overlooking of the part she had played in Lamont’s escape would also have no effect. Flattery would earn nothing but her scorn. It occurred to him that the only method of dealing with her to any advantage was to tell her the truth.

  “Mrs. Everett,” he said, when she had led him in, “we have a case that will hang Gerald Lamont, but I’m not satisfied myself with the evidence. So far, I haven’t caught Lamont out in a misstatement, and there is just the faintest possibility that his story is true. But no jury will believe it. It is a very thin tale, and, told badly in a court of law, would be beyond belief. But I feel that a little more information will tip the scales one way or another—either prove Lamont’s guilt beyond a doubt or acquit him. So I’ve come to you. If he’s innocent, then the chances are that the extra information will go to prove that, and not his guilt. And so I’ve come to you for the information.”

  She examined him in silence, trying to read his motive through the camouflage of his words.

  “I’ve told you the truth,” he said, “and you can take it or leave it. It isn’t any softness for Gerald Lamont that has brought me here, I assure you. It’s a matter of my own professional pride. If there’s any possibility of a mistake, then I’ve got to worry at the case until I’m sure I’ve got the right man.”

  “What do you want to know?” she said, and it sounded like a capitulation. At least it was a compromise.

  “In the first place, what letters habitually came for Sorrell, and where did they come from?”

  “He got very few letters altogether. He had not many friends on these terms.”

  “Did you ever know letters addressed in a woman’s hand come for him?”

  “Yes; occasionally.”

  “Where were they posted?”

  “In London, I think.”

  “What was the writing like?”

  “Very round and regular and rather large.”

  “Do you know who the woman was?”

  “No.”

  “How long had the letters been coming for him?”

  “Oh, for years! I don’t remember how long.”

  “And in all these years you never found out who his correspondent was?”

  “No.”

  “Did no woman ever come to see him here?”

  “No.”

  “How often did the letters come?”

  “Oh, not often! About once in six weeks, perhaps, or a little oftener.”

  “Lamont has said that Sorrell was secretive. Is that so?”

  “No, not secretive. But he was jealous. I mean jealous of the things he liked. When he cared very much about a thing he would—hug it to himself, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did the arrival of the letters make any difference to him—make him pleased or otherwise?”

  “No; he didn’t show any feeling that way. He was very quiet, you know.”

  “Tell me,” said Grant, and produced the velvet case, “have you ever seen that before?” He snapped it open to her gaze.

  “M. R.,” she said slowly, just as Grant had done. “No; I never saw it before. What has that got to do with Bertie?”

  “That was found in the pocket of a coat in Sorrell’s trunk.”

  She put her worn hand out for it, looked at it with curiosity, and gave it back to him.

  “Can you suggest any reason why Sorrell should commit suicide?”

  “No, I can’t. But I can tell you that about a week before he left to go—left here—a small parcel came by post for him. It was waiting for him when he came home one evening. He came home that night before Jerry—Mr. Lamont.”

  “Do you mean as small a parcel as this?”

  “Not quite, but as big as that would be with wrapping round it.”

  But the man in Gallio & Stein’s had said that Sorrell had taken the brooch away with him. “Can you remember what day that was?”

  “I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think it was the Thursday before he left.”

  On Tuesday, Sorrell had taken the little parcel from the jeweller, and on Thursday evening the little parcel had been delivered at Sorrell’s rooms. The inference was obvious. The woman had refused his offering.

  “What was the writing on the parcel like?”

  “It was addressed only on the label, and the address was printed.”

  “Did Sorrell show any emotion on opening it?”

  “I wasn’t there when he opened it.”

  “Then afterwards?”

  “No; I don’t think so. He was very quiet. But then he was always quiet.”

  “I see. When did Lamont come and tell you what had happened?”

  “On Saturday.”

  “You knew before then that the man in the queue was Sorrell?”

  “No; the description of the man wasn’t published in full until Thursday, and I naturally thought that Bert had sailed on Wednesday. I knew that Jerry would have been with him up to the last minute, so I didn’t worry. It was only when I saw the description of the man the police wanted that I put the two descriptions together and began to wonder. That was on Saturday.”

  “And what did you think then?”

  “I thought, as I think now, that there was a very bad mistake somewhere.”

  “Will you tell me what Lamont told you? He has made a statement to us already.”

  She hesitated a moment and then said, “Well, I can’t see that things can be worse than they are,”
and told him the story Lamont had told her. To the smallest detail it coincided with what he had told Grant and the constable in the train coming south.

  “And you didn’t find anything fishy in such a story?”

  “I don’t know that I would have believed the story from a stranger”—she was extraordinarily like her niece at that moment, the inspector thought—“but, you see, I know Jerry Lamont.”

  “But you knew Sorrell very much longer, and didn’t know the things that mattered in his life.”

  “Yes, but that was Bertie. Length of time has nothing to do with it. I heard about everything that happened to Jerry, girls included.”

  “Well, thank you for telling me all you did,” Grant said as he stood up. “If nothing you have said helps Lamont very much, at least it doesn’t incriminate him any further. Did you ever have any reason to think that Sorrell wasn’t going to America at all?”

  “Do you mean that he was going somewhere else?”

  “No; I mean that, if he contemplated suicide, his going to America might have been an elaborate blind.”

  “I certainly don’t think that. I’m sure he intended to go to America.”

  Grant thanked her again, and went back to the Yard. From Simpson he learned that Mrs. Ratcliffe and her sister were still at Eastbourne, and there was no word of their return.

  “Does Mr. Ratcliffe go up and down to Eastbourne, then?”

  No; Mr. Ratcliffe had been down only once since they were there, and then he didn’t stay the night.

  “Did you find out what the quarrel was about?”

  No; the maid apparently had not known. From the secret amusement that radiated from Simpson’s freckled face Grant deduced that the interview with the Ratcliffe maid had been more amusing than informative, and he dismissed him dolefully. He would have to go down to Eastbourne and see Mrs. Ratcliffe—accidentally; but tomorrow he would have to attend the Lamont case at the police court. It would be a purely formal occasion, but he would have to be there. There was no time to go down to Eastbourne tonight, and get back, with any hope of obtaining the casual kind of meeting with Mrs. Ratcliffe that he contemplated. But, if the case was over quickly tomorrow, he would go straight down there. He wished duty did not call him to the court. That was routine, and the visit to Mrs. Ratcliffe was not—it was a hunt, a sporting chance, a gamble. He wanted so badly to see what Margaret Ratcliffe’s face would look like when he showed her the monogrammed brooch.

  16 MiSS DiNMONT ASSiSTS

  GOWBRIDGE POLICE COURT is at no time a cheerful building. It has the mouldering atmosphere of a mausoleum combined with the disinfected and artificial cheerfulness of a hospital, the barrenness of a schoolroom, the stuffiness of a tube, and the ugliness of a meeting-house. Grant knew it well, and he never entered it without an unconscious groan, not for the sorrows that hung about it like invisible webs, but for his own sorrow in having to pass a morning in such surroundings. It was on occasions such as a morning in Gowbridge Police Court that he was wont to refer to his profession as a dog’s life. And today he was in a bad mood. He found himself looking with a jaundiced eye on the rank and file of the force as represented by those on duty in the court, on the hearty and self-sufficient magistrate, on the loafers on the public benches. Conscious of his nauseated mental condition, he hunted round as usual for the reason with a view of banishing it and, after a little cogitation, ran it to earth. He was unhappy about giving his evidence! At the bottom of his heart he wanted to say, “Wait a bit! There’s something here that I don’t understand. Just wait till I find out a little more.” But, being a police inspector with perfectly good evidence and the countenance of his superiors, he could not do that. He could not qualify what he had to say with any remarks of that sort. He glanced across the court to where the lawyer who had Lamont’s case was sitting. Lamont would want some bigger guns than that when he came up for his trial at the Old Bailey or he wouldn’t have a dog’s chance. But big guns cost money, and lawyers are professional men, not philanthropists.

  Two cases were summarily dealt with, and then Lamont was brought into court. He looked ill, but was perfectly collected. He even acknowledged the inspector’s presence with a slight smile. His arrival created a stir in the public part of the court. There had been no press warning that the case would be dealt with there today, and all those present were either curious idlers or friends of principals in other cases. Grant had looked for Mrs. Everett, but she was not there. Lamont’s sole friend in court seemed to be the paid one who had charge of his interests. Nevertheless, Grant looked again now for a sign of personal interest on any face. He had found before now that useful information can be obtained from the expressions of presumed strangers in the body of a court. But a careful scrutiny revealed nothing; nothing but curiosity was apparent on any countenance in the audience. But as he left the box, after giving his evidence, he saw a newcomer at the back of the court, and the newcomer was Miss Dinmont. Now Miss Dinmont’s holiday did not finish for a week yet, and she had said at that fateful manse tea that since she had holidays only once a year she spent them all at home; and as he sat down Inspector Grant was marvelling at the girl who would not soften towards a man she believed to be guilty of a terrible thing, but who would cut short her holiday and travel five hundred miles to hear the evidence for herself. Lamont had his back to her, and it was unlikely, unless he deliberately looked round the room as he went out, that he would be aware of her presence. She caught the inspector’s eye upon her, and bowed to him, unperturbed. In her neat, dark tailor-made and small hat she looked the complete, self-possessed, charming woman of the world. She might have been a writer looking for copy, for all the emotion she showed. Even when Lamont was remanded and led out of court, her good-looking face was not stirred. They were very alike, aunt and niece, Grant thought; that was probably why they did not like each other. He went up to her as she was leaving and greeted her.

  “Are you doing anything, Miss Dinmont? Come and have lunch with me, will you?”

  “I thought inspectors lived on tablets of condensed beef extract, or something like that, during the day. Do they really have time to sit down to a meal?”

  “Not only that, but they have a very good one. Come and see!” And she smiled and came.

  He took her to Laurent’s, and over the meal she was quite frank about her change of plans. “I couldn’t stay in Carninnish after what happened,” she said. “And I had an itch to hear the court proceedings, so I just came. I have never been in a court of law in my life before. It isn’t an impressive spectacle.”

  “Not a police court, perhaps,” he admitted; “but wait till you see a big trial.”

  “I hope I never shall—but it seems that I’m going to. You have a beautiful case, haven’t you?”

  “That is the word my chief uses about it.”

  “And don’t you agree?” she asked quickly.

  “Oh, yes, certainly.” To admit to Mrs. Everett that he was not satisfied was one thing, but he was not going to blazon it abroad. And this independent girl was certainly “abroad.”

  Presently she mentioned Lamont directly. “He looks bad,” she said judicially, using “bad” in her professional sense. “Will they look after him in prison?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Grant; “they take very good care of them.”

  “Is there any chance of their badgering him? Because I warn you he won’t stand any badgering as he is now. Either he’ll be seriously ill or he’ll say that he did it.”

  “Then you don’t believe he did?”

  “I think it’s unlikely, but I’m quite aware that the fact that I think so doesn’t make it so. I just want him to get a fair deal.”

  Grant remarked on her matter-of-fact acceptance of his word at Carninnish as to the man’s guilt.

  “Well,” she said, “you knew much more about it than I did. I never saw him till three days previously. I liked him—but that didn’t make him guilty or innocent. Besides, I’d rather be a brute than a fool.”
>
  Grant considered this unfeminine pronouncement in silence, and she repeated her question.

  “Oh, no,” Grant said; “this isn’t America. And in any case, he has made his statement, as you heard, and he is not likely to change his mind or make another.”

  “Has he any friends?”

  “Only your aunt, Mrs. Everett.”

  “And who will pay for his defence?”

  Grant explained.

  “Then he can’t have any of the good ones. That doesn’t seem to me particularly fair—for the law to keep famous lawyers to do their prosecuting and not famous lawyers to defend poor criminals.”

  Grant grinned. “Oh, he’ll have a fair deal, don’t you worry. It is the police who are harried round in a murder case.”

  “Did you never, in all your experience, know a case where the law made a mistake?”

  “Yes, several,” Grant admitted cheerfully. “But they were all cases of mistaken identity. And that’s not in question here.”

  “No: but there must be cases where the evidence is nothing but a lot of things that have nothing to do with each other put together until they look like something. Like a patchwork bedcover.”

  She was getting too “hot” to be comfortable in her search after enlightenment, and Grant reassured her and unostentatiously changed the subject—and presently fell silent; a sudden idea had occurred to him. If he went down to Eastbourne alone, Mrs. Ratcliffe, however casual his appearance, might be suspicious of his bona fides. But if he appeared with a woman companion he would be accepted at once as off duty, and any suspicion his presence might arouse would be lulled until he could get Mrs. Ratcliffe completely off her guard. And the whole success of the expedition depended on that—that she should be unprepared for any demonstration on his part.

  “Look here,” he said, “are you doing anything this afternoon?”

  “No; why?”

  “Have you done your good deed for the day?”

  “No, I think I’ve been entirely selfish today.”