It was the handle of a dagger.
Almost before the cry of "Police!" had gone up, the constable had come from his job of pacification at the other end of the queue. At the first of the woman's shrieks he had turned. No one shrieked like that except when faced by sudden death. Now he stood looking for a moment at the picture, bent over the man, turned his head gently to the light, released it, and said to the man at the guichet:
"Phone for the ambulance and the police."
He turned his rather shocked gaze on the queue.
"Any one here know the gentleman?"
But no one claimed acquaintance with the still thing on the floor.
Behind the man there had been a prosperous suburban couple. The woman was moaning continuously and without expression, "Oh, let's go home, Jimmy! Oh, let's go home!" On the opposite side of the guichet stood the fat woman, arrested by this sudden horror, grasping her ticket in her black cotton gloves but making no effort to secure a seat now that the way lay open to her. Down the waiting line behind, the news went like fire in stubble — a man had been murdered! and the crowd in the sloping vestibule began to mill suddenly in hopeless confusion as some tried to get away from the thing that had spoiled all thought of entertainment, and some tried to push forward to see, and some indignant ones fought to keep the place they had stood so many hours for.
"Oh, let's go home, Jimmy! Oh, let's go home!"
Jimmy spoke for the first time. "I don't think we can, old girl, until the police decide whether they want us or not."
The constable heard him and said, "You're quite right there. You can't go. You first six will stay where you are — and you, missus," he added to the fat woman. "The rest come on." And he waved them on as he would wave the traffic past a broken-down car.