The Colt Automatic
At the foot of the stairs, Armadale excused himself.
“Better have some breakfast, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“You've been up all night, and you must be hungry.”
Rather to Wendover's relief, Armadale rejected the implied invitation.
“I'll pick up a sandwich, probably, later on, sir; but I've something
I want to make sure about first, if you don't mind. Will you be ready
again in half an hour or so?”
Sir Clinton glanced at his watch.
“We'll hurry, inspector. After all, it's about time that we took
Billingford out of pawn. The constable may be getting wearied of his
society by this stage.”
Inspector Armadale seemed to have no sympathy in stock so far as
either Billingford or Sapcote was concerned.
“Staveley's body has to be collected, too,” he pointed out. “I've a
good mind to 'phone for some more men. We really can't cover all the
ground as we are.”
“I should, if I were you, inspector. Get them sent over by motor; and
tell them to meet us at Lynden Sands. A sergeant and three constables
will probably be enough.”
“Very good, sir.”
The inspector went off on his errand, much to the relief of Wendover,
whose antagonism to Armadale had in no way cooled. Sir Clinton led the
way to the breakfast-room, and impressed on his waiter the necessity
for haste. As they sat down, Wendover saw inquisitive glances shot at
their table by other guests in distant parts of the room. Evidently
the news of the tragedy on the beach was common property by now.
“I don't think Armadale made much of that business,” Wendover
commented in a voice low enough to be inaudible to their nearest
neighbours. “There's nothing so undignified as a bit of bullying when
it doesn't quite come off.”
Sir Clinton never allowed a criticism of a subordinate to pass
unanswered.
“Armadale did his best, and in nine cases out of ten he'd have got
what he wanted. You're looking at the thing from the sentimental
standpoint, you know. The police have nothing to do with that side of
affairs. Armadale's business is to extract all the information he can
and then use it, no matter where it leads him. If an official had to
stop his investigations merely because a pretty girl breaks down and
cries, we shouldn't be a very efficient force in society.”
“He met his match in young Fleetwood,” Wendover pointed out, with
hardly concealed satisfaction.
Sir Clinton gazed across the table with a curious expression on his
face.
“For a J. P. you seem to be strangely out of sympathy with the minions
of the law. If you ask me, young Fleetwood will have himself to thank
for anything that happens now. Of course, he's gained two or three
days in which he can discuss everything in detail with his wife, and
they can concoct between them just what they propose to tell us
eventually. But I never yet saw a faked-up yarn that would stand the
test of careful investigation and checking. And you may take it that,
after the way Armadale was received, he'll put every word he gets from
them under a microscope before he accepts it as true.”
Wendover nodded a gloomy assent to this view.
“I expect he will,” he agreed. “Perhaps it's a pity that young
Fleetwood took that line.”
“I gave him his chance to make a clean breast of it, if he'd any
reasonable tale to tell,” Sir Clinton pointed out with a trace of
impatience. “All I got was a piece of guttersnipe insolence. Obviously
he thinks he can get the better of us; but when it comes to the pinch,
I think——”
He broke off abruptly. Wendover, glancing round, saw that Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux had come into the room and was moving in the
direction of their table. As she came towards them, he compared her,
half unconsciously, with Cressida Fleetwood. Both of them would have
been conspicuous in any group; but Cressida's looks were a gift of
Nature, whereas Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux was obviously a more
artificial product. Everything about her proclaimed that the utmost
care had been spent upon her appearance; and even the reined-in manner
of her walk suggested a studied movement in contrast to Cressida's
lithe and natural step. Wendover noted that the wave in her red-brown
hair was a permanent one, obviously too well designed to be anything
but artificial.
“Now, why the deuce does one say ‘foreigner’ as soon as one sees her?”
he inquired of himself. “Heaps of English girls wear dresses like
that in the morning, though they may not carry them so well. And
they have their hair waved, too. And her face isn't particularly
Continental-looking; I've seen types like that often enough in this
country. It must be the way she moves, or else the way she looks at
one.”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux gave him a brilliant smile of recognition as
she passed; then, seating herself at the next table, she took up the
menu and studied it with a look of distaste on her features. Quite
evidently the English breakfast was not much to her liking. After some
consideration she gave her order to the waiter by pointing to the
card, as if she mistrusted her pronunciation of some of the words.
Sir Clinton obviously had no desire to discuss police affairs any
further, with a possible eavesdropper at his elbow. He went on with
his breakfast, and, as soon as Wendover had finished, he rose from the
table with a glance at his wrist-watch.
“We'd better pick up the inspector and get off to Lynden Sands. I'll
bring the car round.”
At the hotel door, a few minutes later, Armadale for some reason or
other seemed to be in high spirits; but he gave no indication of the
cause of his cheerfulness.
A few minutes' run along the coast brought them to Lynden Sands
village, and the inspector directed Sir Clinton to Sapcote's house.
The constable was evidently on the look-out, for as they were about to
knock at the door he appeared and invited them into a room where
Billingford was sitting. At the first glance, Wendover was prejudiced
against the man. Billingford had the air of someone trying to carry
off an awkward situation by a forced jauntiness; and, in the
circumstances, this jarred on Wendover. But, on reflection, he had to
admit to himself that Billingford's position was an awkward one, and
that an easy demeanour was hardly to be expected under these
conditions.
“Now, Mr. Billingford,” the inspector began at once, “I've one or two
questions to ask you. First of all, why didn't you tell the constable
immediately that Staveley was a friend of yours? You must have
recognised him whenever you saw the body on the rock.”
Billingford's surprise was either genuine or else must have been very
well simulated.
“Staveley, is it?” he exclaimed. “I didn't know it was Staveley! There
was a cloud over the moon when I got to the body, and I couldn't see
the face. It was quite dark then for a while—so dark that on the way
there I splashed through a regular baby river on the beach. My
trousers are all wet still round the boot-tops. Staveley, is it? Well,
well!”
Wendover could make nothing of the man. For all he could see,
Billingford might be genuinely surprised to hear of Staveley's death.
But, if he were, his emotion at the loss of a friend could hardly be
called excessive.
The inspector put his next question.
“Did you know if Staveley had gone out to meet anyone last night?”
Billingford's eyes contracted momentarily at this question. Wendover
got the impression of a man on his guard, and thinking hard while he
talked.
“Meeting anyone? Staveley? No, I can't say I remember his saying
anything about it to me. He went out some time round about ten
o'clock. But I thought he'd just gone for a turn in the fresh air.
We'd been smoking a lot, and the room was a bit stuffy.”
The inspector jotted something in his note-book before asking his next
question.
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Billingford?”
Billingford's face assumed a bland expression.
“Me? Oh, I'm a commission agent.”
“Do you mean a commercial traveller?” Armadale demanded.
A faint smile crossed Sir Clinton's face.
“I think Mr. Billingford means that he lives by his wits, inspector.
Am I correct?” he asked, turning to Billingford.
“Well, in a way, yes,” was the unashamed reply. “But commission agent
sounds rather better if it gets into the papers.”
“A very proper tribute to respectability,” Sir Clinton commented
drily.
“What did you know about Staveley?” the inspector went on.
“Staveley? Nothing much. Used to meet him now and again. The two of us
did business together at times.”
“Was he a commission agent too?” the inspector inquired ironically.
“Well, sometimes he said he was that, and other times he put himself
down as a labourer.”
“On the police charge-sheet, you mean?” Sir Clinton asked.
Billingford grinned openly.
“Never saw the inside of a gaol in my life,” he boasted. “Nor did
Staveley either, that I know about.”
“I've no doubt my colleagues did their best,” Sir Clinton said
amiably.
The inspector came back to his earlier question.
“Is that all you can tell us about him?”
“Who? Staveley? Well, sometimes we worked together. But it's not
likely I'd tell you much about that, is it?”
“What was he doing down here?”
“Staying with me for a day or two. I was getting a bit jaded with
rush-work in the City, so I came down here for a rest. And Staveley,
he said he'd join me and we'd work out a new scheme for benefiting
some members of the public.”
The inspector nodded.
“Some easy-money business, I suppose. Now come to last night, and be
careful what you say. Tell me exactly what you can remember. Begin
about dinner-time.”
Billingford reflected for a moment or two before answering.
“After dinner, things were a bit dull, so the three of us started to
play poker to pass the time.”
“Three of you?” Armadale interrupted. “Who was the third man?”
“Oh, he's an Australian by the twang. Derek Fordingbridge, he calls
himself. Staveley brought him down. There was something about his
having an estate round about here, and wanting to take a look at it.”
“You hadn't met him before?”
“Me? Oh, only once or twice. I thought he was just another labourer in
the vineyard, if you take me.”
“A competitor of yours in the commission agent business? What was he
doing in that line if he had an estate?”
“Search me!” Billingford answered guardedly. “I'm not one for asking
too many questions about people's affairs. ‘Do unto others as you'd be
done by’ is my motto.”
Armadale evidently realised that he would get nothing by persisting on
this line.
“You played poker, then. Anything further happen?”
Billingford seemed to be considering carefully before he ventured
further. At last he made up his mind.
“About half-past nine, I think, someone came to the door. Staveley got
up and went to see who it was. I heard him say: ‘Oh, it's you, is it?’
or words to that effect—as if he'd been taken by surprise. Then I
heard a woman's voice say something. I didn't catch the words. And
when Staveley replied, he dropped his voice. They talked for a bit,
and then he shut the door.”
“And after that? Did you find out who the woman was?”
“Not I. Some local piece, I expect. Staveley was always a good hand at
getting hold of them. He'd a sort of way with him, and could get round
them in no time. Made kind of hobby of it. Overdid it, to my mind.”
“What happened after that?”
“Nothing much that I remember. We played some more poker, and then
Staveley began grousing about the stuffiness of the place. Mostly his
own fault, too. Those cigars of his were pretty heavy. So he went out
for some fresh air.”
“When was that?”
“Ten o'clock. I told you before. Perhaps 10.15. I can't be sure to a
minute.”
“And then?”
“I felt a bit wakeful. I lose a lot of sleep some nights. So I thought
I'd go for a turn along the shore and see if that would cure it.”
“When did you leave the house?”
“A little before eleven, I think. I didn't notice. It was after
Fordingbridge had gone to bed, anyhow.”
The inspector absent-mindedly tapped his note-book with his pencil for
a moment or two. Then he glanced at Sir Clinton.
“That's all I want to ask you just now,” he said. “You'll be needed at
the inquest, of course. I suppose you're staying on for a while at
Lynden Sands?”
“Oh, yes,” Billingford replied carelessly. “If you want me at any
time, I'll be handy. Always pleased to play ‘Animal, Vegetable, or
Mineral?’ with you any time you like, inspector.”
“I daresay you've had plenty of practice,” Armadale growled. “Well,
you can go now. Hold on, though! You can show us the way up to Flatt's
cottage. I'll need to see this friend of yours, Fordingbridge.”
“Meaning to check up my story?” Billingford suggested, unabashed.
“I've met this sort of sceptical spirit before. Somehow it always
seems to develop in people who've worn a constable's helmet in their
youth. Compression of the credulity lobe of the brain, or something
like that, perhaps.”
Armadale made no reply, but led the way out of the house. Before they
had gone more than a few yards, a police-sergeant came forward and
accosted the inspector. After a few words, Armadale turned to Sir
Clinton.
“Now we've got the constables, sir, I think we'd better get the body
ashore and notify Dr. Rafford that we'll need a P. M. done. If you
don't mind going round by the beach, I can put the sergeant here in
charge; and then we can go on to Flatt's.”
The chief constable made no objection; and the inspector paid no
attention to Billingford's humorous protest against a further waste of
his time. The whole party made their way down to the shore, where they
found most of the idlers of the village assembled, awaiting the
putting in of the boat.
Armadale signalled to the two fishermen; and very soon they rowed
their craft to the little pier. The police kept the crowd back while
the body was being landed. Then the inspector gave the sergeant some
instructions; and under the guidance of Sapcote the squad set off into
the village with the body.
Suddenly Billingford seemed to recognise the rowing-boat.
“Snaffled my boat, have you, inspector? Well, I like the nerve of
that! If I'd borrowed your handkerchief without asking you, there'd
have been a bit of a stir in official circles. But when you take and
steal my boat, everybody seems to think it's just the sort of thing
you _would_ do. Well, brother, we'll say no more about it. _I_ never
care to rub things in. Live and let live's my motto.”
Armadale refused to be drawn.
“We'll clean up the boat and return it in the afternoon,” he said
shortly. “Now come along. I haven't time to waste.”
A short walk took them to Flatt's cottage, which stood near the point
of the promontory between the village and the bay in which Staveley's
body had been found. The road up to it was hardly better than a rough
track, and pools of water stood here and there which evidently dated
farther back than the rain of the previous night. The cottage itself
was neatly kept, and seemed fairly roomy.
“Call your friend,” Armadale ordered, as they reached the door.
Billingford complied without protest, and almost at once they heard
steps approaching. As the door opened, Wendover received a shock. The
man who stood before them was almost faceless; and his eyes looked out
from amid a mass of old scars which gave him the appearance of
something inhuman. The hand which held the door open lacked the first
two fingers. Wendover had never seen such a wreck. When he took his
eyes from the distorted visage, it was almost a surprise to find that
the rest of the form was intact.
The new-comer stared at them for a moment. His attitude showed the
surprise which his face could not express.
“What made you bring this gang here, Billingford?” he demanded.
“Visitors are barred, you know that quite well.”
He made a suggestive gesture towards his twisted face.
Armadale stepped forward.
“You're Mr. Fordingbridge, aren't you?” he asked.
The apparition nodded, and fixed its eyes on him without saying
anything.
“I'm Inspector Armadale. I suppose you know that your friend Staveley
was murdered last night?”
Derek Fordingbridge shook his head.
“I heard there had been a murder. I believe they borrowed the boat
from here to use in bringing the body in. But I didn't know it was
Staveley. Who did it?”
“Weren't you surprised that he didn't come home last night?” the
inspector demanded.
Something which might have been a smile passed over the shattered
face.
“No. He had a knack of staying out all night often enough. It wasn't
uncommon. Was there a woman in the case?”
“I think we'll get on faster if you let me do the questioning,” said
the inspector bluntly. “I'm sorry I haven't any time to spare just
now. Can you tell me anything about Staveley?”
“He was a sort of relation of mine. He married my cousin Cressida
during the war.”
Armadale's face lighted up as he heard this.
“Then how do you account for her being the wife of Mr. Stanley
Fleetwood?” he asked abruptly.
Derek Fordingbridge shook his head indifferently.
“Accidental bigamy, I suppose. Staveley didn't turn up after the war,
so I expect she wrote him down as dead. She'd hardly grieve over him,
from what I know of his habits.”
“Ah,” the inspector said thoughtfully. “That's interesting. Had she
come across him by any chance since he came down here?”
“I couldn't say. I'm hardly in touch with the rest of my family at
present.”
The inspector, recalling the fact that this was the claimant to the
Foxhills estate, did not think it necessary to pursue the matter
further. He turned back to the more immediate question.
“Can you tell me anything about Staveley's movements last night?”
“Nothing much. We played poker after dinner. Someone interrupted us—a
friend of Staveley's. Then we played some more. Then I went to bed
early. That's all.”
“What about this friend of Staveley's? Was it a man or a woman?”
“A woman, I believe; but I didn't see. Staveley went to the door
himself. That would be between nine and ten o'clock.”
“When did Staveley go out?”
“I can't say. After ten o'clock, at any rate, for I went to bed, then.
I'd a headache.”
“When did you hear about the murder?”
“Before I got out of bed. I was told that two men wanted to borrow the
boat.”
The inspector paused before continuing his inquiry. When he spoke
again, it was on a different point.
“I shall need to go through his luggage, of course. Can I see it?”
Derek Fordingbridge led the way into the cottage.
“It's in there,” he said, indicating one of the rooms. “He'd only a
suit-case with him.”
The inspector knelt down and turned out the suitcase's contents with
some care.
“Nothing here of any use,” he said disappointedly when he had
finished. “One or two odds and ends. No papers.”
He rummaged in the drawers of the room-furniture with the same lack of
success. As he rose to his feet, Sir Clinton turned to Fordingbridge.
“I'd like to see the fourth man of the party,” he said thoughtfully.
“Perhaps you wouldn't mind getting hold of him for me if he's here.”
Wendover and Armadale showed some surprise; but Fordingbridge seemed
to see nothing in it.
“That's rather sharp of you. It's just as well we aren't up against
_you_. You mean the man who told me about the boat being wanted? Sorry
I can't get him for you. He was a handy-man we brought down with us.
Billingford had a row with him last night and fired him, so he took
himself off this morning.”
“What was his name?”
Billingford's look of innocence was intentionally overdone.
“His name? Well, I called him Jack.”
“Jack what?”
“Just Jack. Or at times: ‘Here! You!’ He answered to either.”
Inspector Armadale's temper began to show signs of fraying.
“You must know something more about him. Hadn't he a character when
you employed him?”
“Oh, yes. A pretty bad one. He used to drink my whiskey.”
“Don't be funny,” snapped Armadale. “Didn't you get any references
from an earlier employer?”
Billingford's eyes twinkled.
“Me? No. I've a charitable nature. Where would any of us be if we had
our characters pawed over? Forgive and forget's my motto. It's easy
enough to work on till someone does you in the eye.”
“So you say you know nothing about him?”
“I don't quite like the way you put it, inspector. It seems almost
rude. But I don't know where he is now, and I'll kiss the Book on that
for you if you want it.”
Armadale's expression showed clearly that he thought little would be
gained by accepting Billingford's offer. He warned Derek Fordingbridge
that his evidence might be needed at the inquest; then, with a cold
nod to Billingford, he led the way out of the cottage. Sir Clinton
maintained silence until they were beyond earshot of the door, then,
as though addressing the world at large, he said pensively:
“I wonder why they brought such a large card-index down with them from
town.”
Armadale was taken aback.
“Card-index, sir? Where was it?”
“I noticed it in their sitting-room as we passed the open door. It's
one of these small cabinet affairs.”
The inspector had no suggestion to offer; and Sir Clinton did not seem
to be anxious to pursue the matter. A few yards farther on he halted,
and pointed to something at the edge of one of the puddles.
“Doesn't that footprint seem a bit familiar, inspector? Just measure
it, will you?”
Armadale's eyes widened as he looked.
“Why, it's that 3½ shoe!” he exclaimed, stooping over the mark.
“I noticed it as we were coming up, but it didn't seem to be the best
time for examining it,” Sir Clinton explained. “Now, inspector, that's
a permanent kind of puddle. The chances are that this mark was made
before last night's rain. It's on the very edge of the water now, not
the place where a girl would step if she could help it. The puddle's
filled up a bit since she made it.”
“So she was Staveley's visitor last night?”
“It looks like it,” Sir Clinton agreed. “Now measure it carefully,
inspector.”
Armadale produced his tape-measure and took various dimensions of the
mark. When he had risen to his feet again, Sir Clinton looked back at
the cottage. Billingford and his companion were on the doorstep,
eagerly gazing towards the police party.
“Give it a good scrub with your foot now, inspector, if you've quite
finished with it. We may as well give Mr. Billingford something to
guess about. He's a genial rascal, and I'd like him to have some
amusement.”
The inspector grinned broadly as he rubbed his boot vigorously over
the soft mud, effacing the print completely.
“I'd like to see his face when he comes down to look at it,” he said
derisively, as he completed the work of destruction. “We couldn't have
got much of a cast of it, anyhow.”
When they reached Sir Clinton's car, Armadale took leave of them.
“There's one or two things I've got to look into,” he explained, “and
I'll get some food between whiles. I'll come along to the hotel in
about an hour or so, if you don't mind waiting there for me, sir. I
think I'll have something worth showing you by then.”
He threw a triumphant glance at Wendover, and went off up the street.
Sir Clinton made no comment on his subordinate's remark, but started
the car and drove towards the hotel. Wendover saw that nothing was to
be got out of the chief constable, and naturally at the lunch-table
the whole subject was tabooed.
Armadale did not keep them waiting long. They had hardly left the
lunch-table before he presented himself; and Wendover noted with
dismay the jubilant air with which the inspector came forward to meet
them. He carried a small bag in his hand.
“I'd rather be sure that nobody overhears us, sir,” he said as he came
up to them. “And I've some things to show you that I don't want talked
about in public yet.”
He tapped the bag as he spoke.
“Come up to my room, then, inspector. We'll be free from interruption
there.”
They took the lift up; and, when they entered the room, the inspector
turned the key in the door behind them as an extra precaution.
“I've got the whole case cut and dried now, sir,” he explained with
natural exultation in his voice. “It was just as I said this
morning—as easy as falling off a log. It simply put itself together of
its own accord.”
“Well, let's hear it, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested as soon as he
could edge a word into the current of the inspector's pæan.
“I'll give you it step by step,” the inspector said eagerly, “and then
you'll see how convincing it is. Now, first of all, we know that the
dead man, Staveley, married this Fleetwood woman during the war.”
Wendover flinched a little as he identified “this Fleetwood woman” as
Cressida. This was evidently a foretaste of the inspector's quality.
“From what we've heard, one way and another, Staveley was nothing to
boast about,” Armadale went on. “He was a bad egg, evidently; and
especially in the way that would rasp a wife.”
“That's sound,” Sir Clinton agreed. “We needn't dwell on it.”
“He disappears; and she thinks he's dead,” the inspector pursued.
“She's probably mighty glad to see the end of him. After a bit, she
falls in with young Fleetwood and she marries him. That's bigamy, as
it turns out; but she doesn't know it then.”
“One can admit all that without straining things much,” Sir Clinton
agreed. “Go on, inspector.”
“The next thing is that Staveley turns up again. I don't suppose he
appeared in public. That wouldn't be his game. These Fordingbridges
have money; and, from what we've heard, Staveley wasn't scrupulous
about transferring other people's money to his own pocket.”
“Nothing that could be shaken, so far,” Sir Clinton encouraged him.
“Go ahead.”
“Very well,” the inspector went on. “He writes her a letter evidently
trying to put the screw on her, and asking for an appointment on the
quiet. She must have been taken a bit aback. She'd been living with
young Fleetwood for the best part of a year. It's quite on the cards
that she's——”
He broke off, glanced at Wendover's stormy countenance, and evidently
amended his original phrase:
“That perhaps young Fleetwood and she weren't the only people who
might be hit by the business when it came out.”
“So that's your notion of the motive, is it?” Sir Clinton commented.
“Well, it's ingenious, I admit. I didn't quite see how you were going
to work up a case on the strength of a mere accidental bigamy, for
nobody would think much about that. But one can't tell how it might
look from the point of view of a mother, of course. Anything's
possible, then. Go ahead.”
“She writes him a letter making an appointment at an out-of-the-way
place—Neptune's Seat—at a time when it's sure to be quiet—11 p.m. That
was the note we found on the body. Secrecy's written all over it, as
any jury would see.”
He paused for a moment, as though he were not quite sure how to put
his next piece of the case.
“She takes an automatic pistol with her; probably her husband had one.
I'm not prepared to say that she meant definitely to murder Staveley
then and there. Perhaps she only took the pistol as a precaution.
Probably her barrister will try to pretend that she took it for
self-defence purposes, Staveley being what he was. I don't think that.
Why? Because she took her husband along with her; and he could have
looked after Staveley for her.”
Wendover was about to interpose, but the inspector silenced him.
“I'll give you the evidence immediately, sir. Let me put the case
first of all. She puts on her golfing-shoes, because she's going on to
the sand. She takes down her golf-blazer and puts it on over her
evening dress. Then she goes out by the side-door and meets the car
that her husband has brought round from the garage for her. That must
have been close on eleven o'clock. Nobody would miss her in a big
place like the hotel.”
With unconscious art, the inspector paused again for a moment.
Wendover, glancing at Sir Clinton's face in the hope of reading his
thoughts, was completely baffled. The inspector resumed, still keeping
to the historical present in his narrative.
“They reach the point of the road nearest to Neptune's Seat. Perhaps
they turn the car then, perhaps later. In any case, she gets out and
walks down towards the rock. Fleetwood, meanwhile, slips in behind the
groyne and keeps in the lee of it as he moves parallel with her. That
accounts for the kind of prints we saw this morning.
“She gets to the rock and meets Staveley. They talk for a while. Then
she loses her temper and shoots him. Then the fat's in the fire. The
Fleetwoods go back to their car and drive off to the hotel again. They
don't take the car to the garage straightway. She gets out, goes round
by the entrance leading to place where the guests keep their golfing
togs. She takes off her golfing-shoes, strips off her blazer and hangs
it up, and slips into the hotel, without being spotted.”
Wendover had listened to this confident recital with an
ever-increasing uneasiness. He comforted himself, however, with the
hope that the inspector would find it difficult to bring adequate
proof of his various points; but he could not deny that Armadale's
reconstruction manifested a higher gift of imagination than he had
been expecting. It all sounded so grimly probable.
“Meanwhile,” the inspector resumed, “young Fleetwood leaves the car
standing and goes into the hotel. What he was after I can't
fathom—perhaps to establish some sort of alibi. In any case, he comes
hurrying down the stairs at 11.35 p.m., catches his foot, takes a
header, and lands at the bottom with a compound fracture of his right
leg. That's the end of him for the night. They ring up Rafford, who
patches him up and puts him to bed.”
Armadale halted again, and threw a superior smile towards Wendover.
“That's my case stated. I think there's enough in it to apply for a
warrant against the woman as principal and young Fleetwood as
accessory.”
Wendover took up the implied challenge eagerly, now that he knew the
worst. This was the part for which he had cast himself, and he was
anxious to play it well.
“There's a flaw at the root of your whole case, inspector,” he
asserted. “You make out that it was fear of exposure that acted as the
motive. Well, by this murder exposure became inevitable—and under its
worst form, too. How do you get round that difficulty?”
Armadale's air of superiority increased, if anything, as he heard the
objection advanced.
“I'm afraid, Mr. Wendover, that you haven't had much experience of
_real_ murder cases. In books, of course, it may be different,” he
added, with an evident sneer. “Your real murderer may be stupid and
unable to forsee the chain of events that the murder's going to
produce. Or else you may have an excitable clever type that's carried
away by strong feelings on the spur of the moment, so that all the
cleverness goes for nothing and the murderer does the work in a frame
of mind that doesn't give much heed to the possible consequences.”
“And, of course, the murderers who are neither stupid nor excitable
are the ones who never get caught, eh?” Sir Clinton interjected in an
amused tone. “That accounts for us police being at fault now and
again.”
Wendover considered Armadale's thesis with care.
“Then, as Mrs. Fleetwood isn't stupid,” he said frigidly, “you're
assuming that she lost her head under some strong provocation?”
“It's quite likely,” Armadale insisted. “No jury would turn down that
idea simply because we can't state what the precise provocation was.
They wouldn't expect a verbatim report of the conversation on the
rock, you know.”
Wendover could hardly deny this in his own mind; and his heart sank as
he heard the inspector's confident declaration. He tried a fresh point
of attack.
“You said you'd definite evidence to support this notion of yours,
didn't you? Well, how do you propose to prove that Mrs. Fleetwood was
there at all last night?”
Armadale's smile had a tinge of triumph in it. He bent over his bag
and drew from it one of the wax casts, which he laid on the table. A
second dip brought to light a pair of girl's golfing-shoes. He
selected the proper one and placed it, sole upward, alongside the
cast. Wendover, with a sinking heart, compared corresponding parts of
the two objects. Even the most carping critic could not deny the
identity.
“These are the woman Fleetwood's golfing-shoes, sir,” the inspector
announced a trifle grimly. “I found them in the lady golfers'
dressing-room. I can bring a witness or two who'll swear to them, if
need be.”
Suddenly Wendover detected a possible flaw in the inspector's case;
but, instead of unmasking his battery immediately, he made up his mind
to lead Armadale astray, and, if possible, to put him off his guard.
He let his full disappointment show clearly in his face, as if the
evidence of the shoes had shaken his beliefs. Dropping the matter
without further discussion, he took up a fresh line.
“And the golf-blazer? What about it? That left no tracks on the
sands.”
Armadale's smile of triumph became even more marked. He turned once
more to his bag, slipped his hands into his rubber gloves, and then,
with every precaution, lifted a dusty-looking Colt automatic into
view.
“This is a .38 calibre pistol,” he pointed out. “Same calibre as the
cartridge-case we picked up on the rock, and probably the same as the
bullet'll be when we get it from the body. I've examined the barrel;
there's been a shot fired from it quite recently. I've looked into the
magazine; it lacks one cartridge of a full load.”
He paused dramatically before his final point.
“And I found this pistol in the pocket of the woman Fleetwood's
golf-blazer which was hanging on her peg in the lady golfers'
dressing-room.”
After another pause, meant to let the fact sink home in Wendover's
mind, Armadale added:
“You'll admit, sir, that a toy of this sort is hardly the kind of
thing an ordinary lady carries about with her.”
Wendover thought he saw his way now, and he prepared to spring his
mine.
“Let's be quite clear about this, inspector. I take it that you went
into that ladies' dressing-room, hunted around for Mrs. Fleetwood's
coat-peg, and found the blazer hanging on it and the shoes lying on
the floor below.”
“Exactly, sir. Mrs. Fleetwood's card was there, marking the peg. I'd
no difficulty.”
Wendover made no attempt to repress the smile which curved his lips.
“Just so, inspector. Anyone else could have found the things just as
easily. They were lying there, open to anyone; not even a key to turn
in order to pick them up. And after dark that dressing-room is left
very much to itself. No one goes there except by accident.”
In his turn he paused before launching his attack. Then he added:
“In fact, some other woman might have gone there instead of Mrs.
Fleetwood; worn her shoes and her blazer; and misled you completely.
Anyone could take the blazer from its peg and the shoes from the
floor, inspector. Your evidence is all right up to a point, I admit;
but it doesn't incriminate the owner of the articles, since they were
accessible to anybody at that time of night.”
Wendover had expected to see a downfall of the Inspector's pride; but
instead, Armadale's face showed clearly that the shot had missed its
mark. With a slight gesture, the inspector drew Wendover's eyes to the
pistol.
“There are some fingerprints on this—quite clear ones, sir. I've
dusted them, and they're perfectly good as a means of identification.”
“But you don't suppose Mrs. Fleetwood will let you take her
fingerprints if they're going to tell against her, do you?”
Armadale's face showed the pleasure which he felt in having
forestalled criticism. He gingerly replaced the pistol in some
receptacle in his bag, and then drew out, with all precaution, a
table-knife which Wendover recognised as the pattern used in the
hotel.
“This is the knife that the woman Fleetwood used to-day at lunch. The
waiter who served her was told to keep it for me—he brought it on the
plate without handling it. When I dusted it some of her fingerprints
came up, of course. They're identical with those on the pistol. Any
reply to that, sir?”
Wendover felt the ground cut away from under his feet. He could think
of nothing to urge against the inspector's results. But, even then,
Armadale seemed to have something in reserve. He put the knife back in
his bag, searched the contents again, and produced a pair of pumps,
which he placed on the table.
“I got the chambermaid to lift these while she was tidying up
Fleetwood's room this morning. Put your finger on the soles: they're
still quite damp. Naturally; for you know how water oozes from sand if
you stand long on the one spot. What's more, if you look at the place
between the soles and the uppers—at the join—you'll see some grains of
sand sticking. That's good enough for me. Fleetwood was the man behind
the groyne. Now you won't persuade me that Fleetwood was off last
night helping anyone except his wife—any woman, I mean—in that affair
at the rock.”
Wendover scrutinised the pumps minutely and had to admit that the
inspector's statements were correct. Armadale watched him scornfully
and then concluded his exposition.
“There's the evidence you asked for, sir. Fleetwood was there. His
pumps are enough to prove that. I haven't checked them with the cast
yet, for there's enough already; but I'll do it later on. His wife was
there—golf-shoes, blazer, pistol, fingerprints, they all prove it up
to the hilt, when you take in the empty cartridge-case we found on the
rock. Then there's the car left standing out all night. Probably he
meant to bring it in and broke his leg before he could come back to do
the work. That's enough to satisfy any jury, sir. There's nothing to
do now except apply for a warrant and arrest the two of them.”
Sir Clinton had listened to the inspector's recapitulation of the
evidence with only a tepid interest; but the last sentence seemed to
wake him up.
“It's your case, Inspector,” he said seriously, “but if I were in your
shoes I don't think I'd be in a hurry with that warrant. It may not be
advisable to arrest either of the Fleetwoods—yet.”
Armadale was plainly puzzled; but it was equally evident that he
believed Sir Clinton to have sound reasons for his amendment.
“You think not, sir?” he asked, a shade apprehensively.
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“I think it would be a mistake to act immediately, inspector. But, of
course, I'll take the responsibility off your shoulders. I'll put it
in writing for you now if you wish it.”
Armadale in turn shook his head.
“No need for that, sir. You never let any of us down. But what's your
objection?”
Sir Clinton seemed undecided for a moment.
“For one thing, inspector,” he said at last, “there's a flaw in that
case of yours. You may be right in essentials; but you've left a loose
end. And that brings me to another thing. There are far too many loose
ends in the business, so far as it's gone. Before we do anything
irrevocable in the way of bringing definite charges, we must get these
loose ends fixed up.”
“You mean, sir?”
“I mean we'll have to eliminate other possibilities. Billingford is
one. I hope to throw some light on that point to-night, inspector,
about midnight. And that reminds me, you might get the light ready to
throw—a couple of good flash-lamps will be enough, I think. Bring them
along here about 11.30 p.m. and ask for me. Then there's the dame with
the neat shoe. She's a loose end in the tangle. . . .”
“I've been looking into that, sir.”
Sir Clinton's approval was obviously genuine.
“Really, inspector, you've done remarkably well in the short time
you've had. That's good work indeed. And what are the results?”
The inspector's face showed they had not been altogether satisfactory.
“Well, sir, that footprint wasn't made by any of the hotel visitors.
I've gone into it fully. Only three ladies here wear 3½'s: Miss
Hamilton, Mrs. Rivel, and Miss Staunton. The footprint in the mud up
at the cottage was made between nine and ten o'clock last night.
Between those hours, Miss Hamilton was dancing—I've even a note of her
partner's name. She's the best dancer, it seems; and a lot of people
were watching her for the pleasure of it. So she's cleared. Mrs. Rivel
was playing bridge from immediately after dinner until half-past
eleven; so it couldn't be her. And Miss Staunton twisted her ankle on
the links yesterday and had Dr. Rafford up to look at it. She's
hobbling about with a stick, sir; and as there was no sign of a limp
on the tracks, that clears her.”
Sir Clinton considered the evidence without vocal comment. The
inspector, anxious to prove his zeal, continued:
“Just to make sure, I went over all the small-sized shoes. About half
a dozen ladies wear 4's: Miss Auston, Mrs. Wickham, Mrs. Fleetwood,
Miss Fairford, that foreign lady with the double-barrelled name, Miss
Leighton, and Miss Stanmore—the younger Miss Stanmore, I mean. But as
it's a 3½ shoe by the measurements I took, they're all out of it. I'm
making some quiet inquiries in the village, sir. It looks as if it
might have been some local girl, from what we heard about Staveley's
habits. I'll report as soon as anything turns up.”
Sir Clinton had listened patiently to the inspector's recital, but his
next speech seemed to suggest that his attention had been wandering.
“I think you'd better get some more constables over, inspector. Let
'em come in plain clothes and don't advertise them. And you can turn
Sapcote on to watch that crowd at Flatt's cottage. I've just developed
an interest in the fourth man—‘who would answer to “Hi!” or to any
loud cry,’ as it says in _The Hunting of the Snark_. It's the merest
try-on; but I shouldn't be surprised to learn that he's back again at
the cottage. And, by the way, the two fishermen must have seen him
when they went to borrow the boat. You might get a description of him
from them.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And there's a final point, inspector. I don't want to overburden you,
but what about the Peter Hay case? Anything further?”
Armadale's face showed that he thought he was being over-driven.
“Well, sir,” he protested, “I really haven't had much time.”
“I wasn't blaming you, inspector. It was a mere inquiry—not a
criticism.”
Armadale's face cleared.
“I've been to the sweet-shop, sir. Peter Hay hadn't bought pear-drops
there for a long while. In fact, they haven't any in stock just now.”
“That's interesting, isn't it?”
“Yes, sir. And Dr. Rafford says that undoubtedly the body contains
amyl nitrite. He seemed a bit taken aback when I put it to him. I
don't think he'd spotted it off his own bat. But when I suggested it,
he did some tests and found the stuff.”
Sir Clinton rose to his feet as though to indicate that business was
over. Armadale busied himself with the repacking of his bag. When he
had finished, he moved over towards the door and began to unlock it.
Before he got it open, Sir Clinton added a final remark.
“Don't you think it's a bit curious, inspector, that the Fordingbridge
family should be mixed up, directly or indirectly, in these two
affairs? Think it over, will you?”