The Man in the Queue by Josephine Tey Page A

said? You'd want a blessing on an undertaking as big as that. Well, Grant thought, he would choose a more potent saint as 0.C. affairs than the ineffectual holy one on the handle. His thoughts went to Ray Marcable. This morning's press had been full of her projected departure for America, the popular papers expressing themselves in lamentation and the more high-brow in bitterness and indignation that British managers should allow the best musical comedy star of a generation to leave the country. Should he go to her, Grant wondered, before she left and ask her bluntly why she had looked surprised at the description of the dagger? There had been nothing to connect her even remotely with the crime. He knew her history—the little semi-detached villa in a dreary suburb that she had called home, and the council school she had attended, her real name, which was Rosie Markham. He had even met Mr. and Mrs. Markham over the affair of the suitcase. It was exceedingly unlikely that she could throw any light on the Queue Murder. And it was still more unlikely that she would if she could. She had had her chance to be frank with him over that tea in her dressing-room, and she had quite deliberately kept him outside any knowledge she might have had. That knowledge, of course, might be entirely innocent. Her surprise might have been due to recognition of the dagger's description, and yet have nothing to do with the murder. The dagger was far from unique, and many people must have seen and handled similar weapons. No, either way he was not likely to get much satisfaction from another interview with Miss Marcable. She would have to depart for the United States uninterrogated.
    With a sigh for its unproductiveness he locked the dagger away in its drawer again and set off for home. He came out on to the Embankment to find that it was a fine night with a light, frosty mist in the air, and he decided that he would walk home. The midnight streets of London—always so much more beautiful than the choppy crowded ones of the daytime fascinated him. At noon London made you a present of an entertainment, rich and varied and amusing. But at midnight she made you a present of herself; at midnight you could hear her breathe.
    When at length he turned into the road where he lived he had come to the stage of walking automatically, and a starry mist possessed his brain. For a little while Grant had "shut his eyes." But he was not asleep, actually or metaphorically, and the eyes of his brain opened with a start at the dim figure that was waiting on the opposite corner just outside the lamplight. Who was hanging about at this hour?
    He debated rapidly whether or not to cross and walk down the other side of the street, and so come within criticizing distance of the figure. But it was rather late to change his direction. He held on, ignoring the loiterer. Only when he was turning in at his own gate he looked back. The figure was still there, almost indistinguishable in the gloom.
    It was after twelve when he let himself in with his latchkey, but Mrs. Field was waiting up for him. "I thought you'd like to know that there has been a gentleman here asking for you. He wouldn't wait and he wouldn't leave a message."
    "How long ago was that?"
    More than an hour, Mrs. Field said. She didn't see him rightly. He had stood well out beyond the step. But he was young.
    "No name?"
    No, he refused to give a name.
    "All right," said Grant. "You go to bed. If he comes back, I'll let him in."
    She hesitated in the doorway. "You won't do anything rash, will you?" she said solicitously. "I don't like the thought of you bin here all alone with some one who might be an anarchist for all we know."
    "Don't you worry, Mrs. Field. You won't be blown up tonight."
    "It isn't blowing up I'm afraid of," she said. "It's the thought of you lyin' here perhaps bleeding to death and no one knowing. Think how I'd feel when I came in in the morning and found you like that."
    Grant laughed. "Well,