That pearl brooch! What was it saying? Who had had access to the queue? He flung himself into his room and glared out of the window. He would give up the service. He wasn't fit for it. He kept seeing difficulties where others saw none. It was pure proof of incompetence. How Barker must be laughing at him! Well, let him. Barker had about as much imagination as a paving-stone. But then he, Grant, had too much of it for the police force. He would resign. There would be at least two people who would be grateful to him — the two men who hankered most after his job. As for this case, he would think no more of it.
And even as he made the resolution he turned from the window to take the brooch from its drawer yet once again, but was interrupted by the entrance of Barker.
"Well," said his chief, "I hear they're making a fuss about the statement."
"Yes."
"What good do they think that's going to do them?"
"Don't know. Principle, I suppose. And they see a few admissions that we could make use of, I think."
"Oh, well, let them wriggle," Barker said. "They can't wriggle out of the evidence. Statement or no statement, we've got them on toast. Still worrying over the business?"
"No; I've given it up. After this I'm going to believe what I see and know, and not what I feel."
"Splendid!" said Barker. "You keep a rein on your imagination, Grant, and you'll be a great man some day. Once in five years is often enough to have a flair. If you limit it to that, it's likely to be an asset." And he grinned good-naturedly at his subordinate.
A constable appeared in the doorway, and said to Grant, "A lady to see you, sir."
"Who is it?"
"She wouldn't give her name, but she said it was very important."
"All right. Show her in."
Barker made a movement as if to go, but subsided again, and there was silence while the two men waited for the new arrival. Barker was lounging slightly in front of Grant's desk, and Grant was behind it, his left hand caressing the handle of the drawer that sheltered the brooch. Then the door opened, and the constable ushered in the visitor with an official repetition of his announcement, "A lady to see you, sir."
It was the fat woman from the queue.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. - Wallis." Grant recalled her name with an effort; he had not seen her since the inquest. "What can I do for you?"
"Good afternoon, Inspector," she said, in her rampant Cockney. "I came because I think this business has gone far enough. I killed Bert Sorrell, and I'm not going to let any one suffer for it if I can 'elp it."
"You — " said Grant, and stopped, staring at her fat shining face, beady eyes, tight black satin coat, and black satin toque.
Barker glanced at his subordinate and, seeing him utterly at a loss — really, Grant must have a holiday — he took command of the situation. "Sit down, Mrs. - Wallis," he said kindly. "You've been thinking too much about this affair, haven't you?" He brought forward a chair and settled her into it rather as though she had come to consult him about heartburn. "It isn't good to brood over nasty things like murders. What makes you think you killed Sorrell?"
"I don't think," she said rather tartly. "I didn't make any doubt about it, did I? A very good job it was."
"Well, well," said Barker indulgently, "let us say how do we know you did it?"
"How do you know?" she repeated. "What do you mean? You didn't know till now, but now I've told you and you know."
"But, you know, just because you say you've done it is no reason that we should believe you have," Barker said.
"Not believe me!" she said, her voice rising. "Do people usually come and con-fess to murdering people when they didn't?"
"Oh, quite often," said Barker.
She sat in surprised silence, her bright, expressionless dark eyes darting swiftly from one face to the other. Barker raised a comical eyebrow at the still silent Grant, but Grant hardly noticed him. He came from behind the desk as if loosed suddenly from a spell that had held him motionless, and came up to the woman.
"Mrs. Wallis," he said, "will you take off your gloves a moment?"
"Come now, that's a bit more sensible," she said, as she drew off her black cotton gloves. "I know what you're looking for, but it's nearly gone now."
She held out her left hand, gloveless, to him. On the side of her first finger, healed but still visible in the rough skin of her hard-worked hand, was the mark of a jagged scar. Grant expelled a long breath, and Barker came over and bent to examine the woman's hand.
"But, Mrs. Wallis," he said, "why should you want to kill Sorrell?"
"Never you mind," she said. "I killed 'im, and that's enough."
"I'm afraid it isn't," Barker said. "The fact that you have a small scar on your finger is no proof at all that you had anything to do with Sorrell's death."
"But I tell you I killed 'im!" she said. "Why won't you believe me? I killed 'im with the little knife my 'usband brought home from Spain."
"So you say, but we have no proof that what you say is true."
She stared hostilely at them both. "You'd think you weren't police at all to listen to you," she remarked. "If it weren't for that young man you've got, I'd walk home right now. I never knew such fools. What more do you want when I've confessed?"
"Oh, quite a lot more," Barker said, as Grant was still silent. "For instance, how could you have killed Sorrell when you were in front of him in the queue?"
"I wasn't in front of 'im. I was standing behind 'im all the time till the queue began to move up tight. Then I stuck the knife in and after a little I shoved in front, keepin' close to 'im all the time so he shouldn't fall."
This time Barker dropped his complaisant manner and looked at her keenly. "And what was Sorrell to you that you should stick a knife in him?" he asked.
"Bert Sorrell wasn't anything to me, but he 'ad to be killed and I killed 'im, see? That's all."
"Did you know Sorrell?"
"Yes."
"How long have you known him?"
Something in that question made her hesitate. "Some time," she said.
"Had he wronged you somehow?"
But her tight mouth shut still more tightly. Barker looked at her rather helplessly, and then Grant could see him turning on the other tack.
"Well, I'm very sorry, Mrs. Wallis," he said, as if the interview were ended, "but we can't put any belief in your story. It has all the appearance of a cock-and-bull yarn. You've been thinking too much about the affair. People do that, you know, quite often, and then they begin to imagine that they did the thing themselves. The best thing you can do is to go home and think no more about it."
As Barker had expected, that got her. A faint alarm appeared on her red face. Then her shrewd black eyes went to Grant and examined him. "I don't know who you may be," she said to Barker, "but Inspector Grant believes me all right."
"This is Superintendent Barker," Grant said, "and my chief. You'll have to tell the superintendent a lot more than that, Mrs. Wallis, before he can believe you."
She recognized the rebuff, and before she had recovered Barker said again, "Why did you kill Sorrell? Unless you give us an adequate reason, I'm afraid we can't believe you. There's nothing at all to connect you with the murder except that little scar. I expect it's that little scar that has set you thinking about all this, isn't it, now?"