The Man in the Queue

He had a good place, about a third of the way down, so I think he had had a boy to keep his place for him. He must have meant all the time to go back on his last night. He was sentimental, Bert. I asked him if he had taken my revolver, and he admitted it. I don’t know why I grew so scared then all of a sudden. Looking back, it doesn’t seem to be anything to be scared about⁠—your pal having taken your revolver. But I was, and I lost my head and said, ‘Well, I want it back right now.’ And he said, ‘Why?’ And I said, ‘Because it’s my property and I want it.’ He said, ‘You’re a mean skunk, Jerry. Can’t I borrow anything of yours even when I’m going half round the world and you’re going to stay in little safe old London?’ But I stuck to having it back. Then he said, ‘Well, you’ll have a sweet time unpacking my things for it, but I’ll give you the key and the ticket.’ It was only then that it occurred to me that I had taken it for granted that he had the revolver on him. I began to feel small and to feel I’d made a fool of myself. I always did things first and thought afterwards, and Bert always thought for ages about a thing, and then would do exactly as he had intended to. We were opposites in lots of ways. So I told him to keep his ticket and the revolver too, and went away.”

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 incredulous 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. I 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 someone left-handed, and wanted to know who had left the queue. Then I remembered that we had had an argument that anyone 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.