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 a 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.
Chapter 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
