Inspector Alan Grant of Scotland Yard MEGAPACK®. Josephine Tey
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of Londoners and habitual queue-goers. It was still possible that some one else had got away without being remembered. And if that were so, what chance was there now of his being captured? What possible clue had they?
The brooch, said his other self, the brooch!
On Friday, Lamont was again brought up at Gowbridge Police Court, and his counsel protested, as Grant had foreseen, about the statement that had been taken from Lamont. Grant had expected him to protest as a matter of form, but it was evident that he was protesting from conviction. He had become aware of the use the Crown might make of Lamont’s admission that he had resented Sorrell’s departure. The magistrate said that he could see no evidence of coercion on the part of the police. The prisoner had been evidently not only willing but anxious to make a statement. But Lamont’s counsel pointed out that his client had been in no mental or physical condition to make such an important statement. He was barely recovered from a bad concussion. He was not in a fit state to . . .
And so the wordy, futile argument went on, and the two people whom it most concerned—Grant and Lamont—sat bored and weary, waiting till the spate of words should cease and they could depart, the one to his cell and the other to his work and his ever-present problem. Miss Dinmont was in the now crowded court again, and this time there was no doubt of her graciousness to Grant. Her interview with her aunt seemed to have had the strange effect of softening her in every way, and Grant, remembering Mrs. Everett, marvelled. It was only on the way back to the Yard that it occurred to him that her aunt’s belief in Lamont had bred in her a hope that had nothing to do with reason or logic, and that it was the hope that had given her that queer unusual charm that was almost radiance. And Grant swore. She might hope that after all Lamont was not guilty, but what would that avail her if he were convicted?
That pearl brooch! What was it saying? Who had had access to the queue? He flung himself into his room and glared out of the window. He would give up the service. He wasn’t fit for it. He kept seeing difficulties where others saw none. It was pure proof of incompetence. How Barker must be laughing at him! Well, let him. Barker had about as much imagination as a paving-stone. But then he, Grant, had too much of it for the police force. He would resign. There would be at least two people who would be grateful to him—the two men who hankered most after his job. As for this case, he would think no more of it.
And even as he made the resolution he turned from the window to take the brooch from its drawer yet once again, but was interrupted by the entrance of Barker.
“Well,” said his chief, “I hear they’re making a fuss about the statement.”
“Yes.”
“What good do they think that’s going to do them?”
“Don’t know. Principle, I suppose. And they see a few admissions that we could make use of, I think.”
“Oh, well, let them wriggle,” Barker said. “They can’t wriggle out of the evidence. Statement or no statement, we’ve got them on toast. Still worrying over the business?”
“No; I’ve given it up. After this I’m going to believe what I see and know, and not what I feel.”
“Splendid!” said Barker. “You keep a rein on your imagination, Grant, and you’ll be a great man some day. Once in five years is often enough to have a flair. If you limit it to that, it’s likely to be an asset.” And he grinned good-naturedly at his subordinate.
A constable appeared in the doorway, and said to Grant, “A lady to see you, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“She wouldn’t give her name, but she said it was very important.”
“All right. Show her in.”
Barker made a movement as if to go, but subsided again, and there was silence while the two men waited for the new arrival. Barker was lounging slightly in front of Grant’s desk, and Grant was behind it, his left hand caressing the handle of the drawer that sheltered the brooch. Then the door opened, and the constable ushered in the visitor with an official repetition of his announcement, “A lady to see you, sir.”
It was the fat woman from the queue.
“Good afternoon, Mrs.—Wallis.” Grant recalled her name with an effort; he had not seen her since the inquest. “What can I do for you?”
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she said, in her rampant Cockney. “I came because I think this business has gone far enough. I killed Bert Sorrell, and I’m not going to let any one suffer for it if I can ’elp it.”
“You—” said Grant, and stopped, staring at her fat shining face, beady eyes, tight black satin coat, and black satin toque.
Barker glanced at his subordinate and, seeing him utterly at a loss—really, Grant must have a holiday—he took command of the situation. “Sit down, Mrs.—Wallis,” he said kindly. “You’ve been thinking too much about this affair, haven’t you?” He brought forward a chair and settled her into it rather as though she had come to consult him about heartburn. “It isn’t good to brood over nasty things like murders. What makes you think you killed Sorrell?”
“I don’t think,” she said rather tartly. “I didn’t make any doubt about it, did I? A very good job it was.”
“Well, well,” said Barker indulgently, “let us say How do we know you did it?”
“How do you know?” she repeated. “What do you mean? You didn’t know till now, but now I’ve told you and you know.”
“But, you know, just because you say you’ve done it is no reason that we should believe you have,” Barker said.
“Not believe me!” she said, her voice rising. “Do people usually come and confess to murdering people when they didn’t?”
“Oh, quite often,” said Barker.
She sat in surprised silence, her bright, expressionless dark eyes darting swiftly from one face to the other. Barker raised a comical eyebrow at the still silent Grant, but Grant hardly noticed him. He came from behind the desk as if loosed suddenly from a spell that had held him motionless, and came up to the woman.
“Mrs. Wallis,” he said, “will you take off your gloves a moment?”
“Come now, that’s a bit more sensible,” she said, as she drew off her black cotton gloves. “I know what you’re looking for, but it’s nearly gone now.”
She held out her left hand, gloveless, to him. On the side of her first finger, healed but still visible in the rough skin of her hard-worked hand, was the mark of a jagged scar. Grant expelled a long breath, and Barker came over and bent to examine the woman’s hand.
“But, Mrs. Wallis,” he said, “why should you want to kill Sorrell?”
“Never you mind,” she said. “I killed ’im, and that’s enough.”
“I’m afraid it isn’t,” Barker said. “The fact that you have a small scar on your finger is no proof at all that you had anything to do with Sorrell’s death.”
“But I tell you I killed ’im!” she said. “Why won’t you believe me? I killed ’im with the little knife my ’usband brought home from Spain.”
“So you say, but we have no proof that what you say is true.”
She stared hostilely at them both. “You’d think you weren’t police at all to listen to you,” she remarked. “If it weren’t for that young man you’ve got, I’d walk home right now. I never knew such fools. What more do you want when I’ve confessed?”
“Oh, quite a lot more,” Barker said, as Grant was still silent. “For instance, how could you have killed Sorrell when you were in front of him in the queue?”
“I wasn’t in front of ’im. I was standing behind ’im all the time till the queue began to move up tight. Then I stuck the knife in ’im, and after a little