The Man in the Queue

"Yes, the best thing they can do when they're like that is to go away for a bit," said the freckled man. "Does she go often?"

"Not so often as I'd like, believe me. She was going to Yorkshire the day after the murder, and then was so upset that she couldn't go. Now she's gone to Eastbourne instead, and long may she stay there, say I. Let's see your stuff," she said to the pedlar.

He jerked his head at the tray. "Have a look for yourself. Anything you fancy you can have cheap. It's a long time since I had a tea like this. Wot say, Bill?"

"Ar," agreed his fellow-itinerant through a large mouthful of cake. "It isn't often people has a heart."

She gloated over the bright-coloured collection awhile. "Well, the missus is missing something," she said. "She's mad on curios and such-like things that hold the dust. Artistic, she is. What's this for?" she said, holding up the dagger. "Murdering people with?"

"An't you ever seen one like that before?" the pedlar said in astonishment. "That's a paper-knife. Same as the wooden ones."

She tried the point absently on a fingertip, and with a queer little shudder of disgust that was quite involuntary she put it down again. In the end she chose a little painted bowl, quite useless but very gay to look upon. The pedlar let her have it for sixpence, and in her gratitude she produced cigarettes of Mr. Ratcliffe's, and while they smoked enlivened them with talk of what was obviously uppermost in her mind the murder.

"We had an inspector of police here, if you'd believe it. Quite nice-looking he was. You'd never say he was a policeman. Not coarse like a bobby. But it wasn't nice, all the same, having him round. Of course he was suspicious, with her carrying on like that and not wanting to see him. I heard Miss Lethbridge say to her, 'Don't be a fool, Meg. The only way to stop him is to see him and convince him. You've got to do it. "

"Well, Eastbourne's a nice place," said the freckled man. "She'll have company there to forget her troubles."

"Ah, she's not one for company much. Always having crazes for some one or other, and then she runs them to death and has some one new. Boys, as often as not. She's queer, she is."

When her talk began to be repetitive instead of informative the freckled man stood up and said, "Well, miss, I ain't had such a tea not in years, and I'm real grateful to you.

"You're welcome," she said. "If you take my advice, you'll give up the writing-pad business. There's nothing in it nowadays. It's old-fashioned. Try stuff like him there — novelty stuff like they sell in the shops at Christmastime."

The freckled man's glance fell sardonically on the dagger among the "Christmas goods."

"You going up the road or down?" he said to the pedlar.

"Up," said the pedlar.

"Well, cheerio, I'll be going. Many thanks again for the tea, miss." And the door closed behind him. Five minutes later the pedlar took his leave.

"If I was you, miss, I wouldn't be so free with my teas," he said. "There's lots of decent chaps on the road, but there's lots of the other kind, too. You can't be too careful when you're alone in the house."

"Are you jealous of the freckly man?" she asked coquettishly and quite unimpressed. "You needn't be. I didn't buy a pad, you know."

"Well, well," said the pedlar, frustrated in his good intentions, and went laggingly down the path to the gate.

By sheer chance he found the freckled man occupying the front outside seat of the bus he boarded.

"Well?" said that worthy cheerily. "Had a good day, mate?"

"Rotten," said the pedlar. "Just rotten. How you been doing?"

"Fair. Isn't it amazing," he said, seeing that the bus-stop behind them was deserted, "what fools these girls are! Why, we could have polished her off and made away with everything in the house, and it never seemed to occur to her."

"I said as much to her when I was going, but she thought I was jealous of you."

"Of me? It should be the other way about. She didn't buy a pad!"

"So she pointed out."

"That was a good stock you had. The boss choose it?"

"Yes."

"Thought so. He's a daisy. What's he nosing out there?"

"Don't know."

"The girl didn't fall for the knife, I noticed."

"No." The pedlar was not communicative.

The freckled one resigned himself.

"Chatty bird!" he remarked, and drawing two cigarettes from the recesses of his person he handed one to his companion. The pedlar cast an idle glance at the maker's name and recognized it as one of Mr. Ratcliffe's. His stern features relaxed into a smile.

"Scrounger!" he said, and held his cigarette to the offered match.

But there was nothing of the freebooter in the reports which Mullins and Simpson presented to Grant an hour later. Simpson said that Mr. and Mrs. Ratcliffe lived on amicable terms, with intervals of very severe squall. Simpson was unable to say whether the squall was started by Mr. Ratcliffe's shortcomings or by Mr. Ratcliffe's resentment of his wife's, since the maid was never present at the begi

Mullins said that at 98 he had had difficulty in making Mrs. Everett interested enough to allow him to open his tray. She had insisted that she wanted nothing. When he did uncover his wares, the first thing her eyes had lighted on was the dagger. She had immediately cast a glance full of suspicion at him and had said, "Go away!" and shut the door in his face.

"What do you think? Did she know it?"

Mullins could not say, but it was the sight of it that had made her shut the door like that. She had been going to put up with him until she saw the knife. The maid at Lemonora Road had never seen it before. That he was sure of.

When he had dismissed Mullins and locked away the knife in its drawer again, Grant sat thinking for a long time. This was an unlucky day. There had been no arrest — though he was inclined to think of that as a mixed blessing — there had been the stu