The Man in the Queue Read Free

sartorial as he lacked flair in most things. He was a plodder. But that was the worst that could be said about him. And when he started plodding after some one, that some one usually wished he had never been born.
    He regarded his subordinate now with an admiration untinged with any resentment, appreciated his son-of-the-morning atmosphere—he himself had been awake most of the night with sciatica—and came to business.
    "Gowbridge are very sick," he said. "In fact, Gow Street went so far as to insinuate that it was a conspiracy."
    "Oh? Some one been pulling their legs?"
    "No, but last night's affair is the fifth big thing in their district in the last three days, and they're fed up. They want us to take this last affair over."
    "What is that? The theatre-queue business, is it?"
    "Yes, and you are O.C. investigations. So get busy. You can have Williams. I want Barber to go down to Berkshire about that Newbury burglary. The locals down there will want a lot of soft soap because we have been called in, and Barber is better at that than Williams. I think that is all. Better get down to Gow Street right away. Good luck."
    Half an hour later Grant was interviewing the Gowbridge police surgeon. Yes, the surgeon said, the man had been dead when he was brought into hospital. The weapon was a thin, exceedingly sharp stiletto. It had been driven into the man's back on the left side of the backbone with such force that the hilt had pressed his garments to a wad which had kept any blood from flowing. What had escaped had oozed out round the wound without coming to the outer surface at all. In his opinion the man had been stabbed a considerable time—perhaps ten minutes or more—before he had collapsed as the people in front moved away. In a squash like that he would be held up and moved along by the crowd. In fact, it would have been a sheer impossibility to fall if one had wanted to in such a closely packed mob. He thought it highly unlikely that the man was even aware that he had been struck. So much pressing and squeezing and involuntary hurting went on on these occasions that a sudden and not too painful blow would not be noticed.
    "And about the person who stabbed him? Anything peculiar about the stabbing?"
    "No, except that the man was strong and left-handed."
    "Not a woman?"
    "No, it would need more strength than a woman has to drive the blade in as it has been driven. You see, there was no room for a backsweep of the arm. The blow had to be delivered from a position of rest. Oh no, it was a man's work. And a determined man's, too."
    "Can you tell me anything about the dead man himself?" asked Grant, who liked to hear a scientific opinion on any subject.
    "Not much. Well nourished—prosperous, I should say."
    "Intelligent?"
    "Yes, very, I should think."
    "What type?"
    "What type of occupation, do you mean?"
    "No, I can deduce that for myself. What type of—temperament, I suppose you'd call it?"
    "Oh, I See." The surgeon thought for a moment. He looked doubtfully at his interlocutor. "Well, no one can say that for a certainty—you understand that?" And when Grant had acknowledged the qualification: "but I should call him one of the 'lost cause' type." He raised his eyebrows interrogatively at the inspector and, assured of his understanding, added, "He had practical enough qualities in his face, but his hands were a dreamer's. You'll see for yourself."
    Together they viewed the body. It was that of a young man of twenty-nine or thirty, fair-haired, hazel-eyed, slim, and of medium height. The hands, as the doctor had pointed out, were long and slim and not used to manual work. "Probably stood a lot," said the surgeon with a glance at the man's feet. "And walked with his left toe turned in."
    "Do you think his assailant had any knowledge of anatomy?" asked Grant. It was almost incredible that so small a hole had let a man's life out.
    "It wasn't done with the precision of a surgeon, if that's what you mean. As for a knowledge of