The Attack on the Australian
Next morning, before going to the links, Sir Clinton went to the shore
and superintended the start of the excavating work there; but when
once the actual digging had begun, he seemed to lose interest in the
matter. It was not until late in the afternoon that he paid his second
visit, accompanied by Wendover. Even then he contented himself with
the most casual inspection, and soon turned back towards the hotel.
“What _are_ you after with all this spade-work?” Wendover demanded as
they sauntered up the road.
Sir Clinton turned and made a gesture towards the little crowd of
inquisitive visitors and natives who had congregated around the
diggers.
“I've heard rumours, squire, that the Lynden Sands public thinks the
police aren't busy enough in the sleuth-hound business. Unofficial
opinion seems divided as to whether we're pure duds or merely lazy.
They want to see something actually being done to clear up these
mysteries. Well, they've got something to talk about now, you see.
That's always gain. So long as they can stand and gape at the digging
down there, they won't worry us too much in the things we really have
to do.”
“But seriously, Clinton, what do you expect to find?”
Sir Clinton turned a bland smile on his companion.
“Oh, shells, as I told you before, squire. Shells, almost certainly.
And perhaps the brass bottle that the genie threw into the sea after
he'd escaped from it—the _Arabian Nights_ tale, you remember. Once one
starts digging in real earnest one never can tell what one may not
find.”
Wendover made a gesture of impatience.
“I suppose you're looking for something.”
“I've told you exactly what I expect to find, squire. And it's no good
your going off to pump these diggers, or even the inspector, for they
don't know what they're looking for themselves. The general public can
ask questions till it's tired, but it won't learn much on the beach.
That'll tend to keep its excitement at fever-heat and prevent it
looking any farther for points of interest.”
As they neared the hotel they overtook Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux,
who was walking leisurely up the road. Sir Clinton slowed down
to her pace, and opened a brisk conversation as he came abreast
of her. Wendover, feeling rather out of it, inspected Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux covertly with some disfavour.
“Now, what the devil does Clinton see in that vamp?” he asked himself
as they moved on together. “He's not the usual idiot, by a long chalk.
She'll get no change out of him. But what does he expect to get out of
her? It's not like him. Of course, she's a bit out of things here; but
she doesn't look the sort that would mind that much, somehow. And he's
evidently laying himself out to get her good graces. It's a bit rum.”
He could not deny that the personal attractions of Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux were much above the average; and, despite
himself, he felt a tinge of uneasiness in his mind. After all, even
the cleverest men get caught occasionally; and it was plain enough
that Sir Clinton was doing his best to make friends with the
Frenchwoman.
They had just entered the hotel grounds when Wendover saw approaching
them down the drive the figure of Cargill. The Australian seemed to
have something to say to them, for he quickened his pace when he
caught sight of Sir Clinton.
“I've come across something else that might be of importance,” he
said, addressing the chief constable without a glance at the others.
“It's a——”
He broke off abruptly, with a glance at Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux. It
seemed almost as though he had not seen before that she was there, or
as if he had just recognised her.
“I'll let you see it later on,” he explained rather confusedly. “I'll
have to hunt it out. I find I've left it in the pocket of another
jacket.”
Sir Clinton successfully repressed any signs of a curiosity which he
might have felt.
“Oh, any time you like,” he suggested, without betraying much interest
in the matter.
By an almost imperceptible manœuvre he broke the group up into two
pairs, and moved on towards the hotel entrance with Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux, leaving Wendover and the Australian to follow if
they chose. It was almost dinner-time as they entered the building;
and Wendover took the opportunity of shaking off Cargill, who seemed
inclined to cling to him more than he wished.
Rather to Wendover's surprise, Sir Clinton showed no inclination,
after dinner, to plunge into further investigations.
“We mustn't be greedy, squire,” he argued. “We must leave the
inspector a fair share of the case, you know. If amateurs like
ourselves bustle around too much, the professional would have no
practice in his art at all.”
“If you ask me,” Wendover retorted, “the professional's spending all
his time barking furiously at the foot of the wrong tree.”
“You think so? Well, if the cats up the tree insist on making a noise
like a murderer, you can't blame him, can you?”
“I don't like his damned flat-footed way of going about his job,”
Wendover protested angrily. “One always supposed that people were
treated as innocent until they were convicted; but your inspector
interviewed that girl as if he were measuring her for a rope.”
“He's built up a wonderfully convincing case, squire; don't forget
that.”
“But you admitted yourself that there's a flaw in it, Clinton. By the
way, what _is_ the flaw?”
But Sir Clinton did not rise to the bait.
“Think it over, squire. If that doesn't do the trick, then think
again. And if that fails, shake the bottle and try a third dose. It's
one of these obvious points which I'd hate to lay before you, because
you'd be covered with confusion at once if I explained it. But
remember one thing. Even if the inspector's case breaks down in one
detail, still, the facts need a lot more explanation than the
Fleetwoods have condescended to offer up to the present. That's
obvious. And now, what about picking up a couple of men and making up
a table of bridge?”
Wendover's play that evening was not up to its usual standard. At the
back of his mind throughout there was the picture of Cressida and her
husband upstairs, weighed down by the burden of the unformulated
charge against them and preparing as best they could against the
renewal of the inquisition which could not be long delayed. He could
picture to himself the almost incessant examination and re-examination
of the evidence which they must be making; the attempts to slur over
points which would tell heavily against them; the dread of the coming
ordeal at the hands of Armadale; and the terror of some masked battery
which might suddenly sweep their whole defence away. He grew more and
more determined to put a spoke in the inspector's wheel if it were at
all possible.
Late in the evening he was aroused to fresh fears by the entry of a
page-boy.
“Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine! Number——”
“Here, boy!” Sir Clinton signalled to the page. “What is it?”
“You Sir Clinton Driffield, sir? Message from Mr. Cargill, sir. He
wants you to go up and see him. His number's 103, sir.”
Sir Clinton was obviously annoyed.
“Tell him I'm here if he wishes to see me. Say I'm playing bridge.”
The boy seemed to enjoy springing a sensation on them.
“Beg y'r pardon, sir, but he can't come. He's upstairs in bed. He's
been shot. Mrs. Fleetwood brought him back in her car, sir, a few
minutes ago; and they had to carry him up to his room. The doctor's
been sent for.”
Sir Clinton laid down his cards, and made a brief apology to the
others for interrupting the game.
“You'd better come along with me, squire. We have to break up the
table, in any case.”
Followed by Wendover, he ascended to the Australian's room. They found
Cargill lying on his bed with some rough bandages round his ankle, and
evidently in considerable pain.
“Sorry to hear you've had an accident,” Sir Clinton said
sympathetically, as he bent down and inspected the dressings. “That
seems good enough to serve until the doctor comes. Who put it on for
you?”
“Mrs. Fleetwood,” Cargill answered. “She seemed to know a bit about
first aid work.”
Sir Clinton, rather to Wendover's surprise, asked no leading question,
but awaited Cargill's explanation. The Australian did not keep them in
suspense.
“I sent a message down for you because you're the Lord High
Muck-a-muck in the police hereabouts; and the sooner the police get
hold of the beggar who tried to do me in, the better I'll be pleased.
It's no advertisement for a new hotel to have one of its guests half
murdered within a week of his arrival.”
“True. Suppose you explain what happened.”
Cargill seemed to see that he had hardly approached the matter in a
tactful manner.
“I'm a bit sore at present, and perhaps I sounded peevish. But it's
enough to make one lose one's rag a bit, I think. Here's what
happened. This evening, after dinner, I strolled across the bay to pay
a visit to my friend Fordingbridge at Flatt's cottage. We sat there
for a while, playing cards; and then I thought I might as well be
getting home again. So I said good-bye to them——”
“Who was there?” Sir Clinton interjected.
“Fordingbridge and Billingford,” Cargill replied. “I said good-bye to
them, and set off for home——”
“Did anyone see you off the premises?” the chief constable interrupted
once more.
Cargill shook his head.
“I'm an old pal of Fordingbridge's, so he didn't trouble to come to
the door with me. I put on my hat and coat and gave the cottage door a
slam after me, to let them hear I was gone. Then I walked down that
muddy path of theirs.”
“You didn't notice if anyone followed you?”
Cargill reflected for a moment.
“I didn't notice particularly, of course; but I can't think that
anyone did. I mean I can't remember anything that suggests that to my
memory, you understand?”
Sir Clinton nodded to him to continue his story.
“When I got down to the road, I turned off in this direction. Now,
that's the point where I do remember someone behind me. I heard steps.
After a yard or two, I looked round—you know how one does that,
without having any particular reason. But it was a heavily clouded
night, and the moon didn't light things up much. All I could see was a
figure tramping along the road behind me—about a couple of dozen yards
behind, I should think.”
“No idea who it was, I suppose?” Sir Clinton questioned.
“Not the foggiest. I thought it might be one of the hotel people, so I
slowed down a trifle for the sake of company. No one except some of
the hotel crowd would be walking in this direction at that time of
night. The next thing I heard was the sound of steps coming up behind
me, and then there was the crack of a pistol, and down I went in the
road with a bullet in my leg.”
“Whereabouts were you at the time?”
“About fifty yards along the road from the path to Flatt's cottage, I
should say. But you'll find the place all right in daylight. I bled a
good deal, and it'll be all over the road where I fell.”
“And then?”
“Well, I was considerably surprised,” said Cargill drily.
“Very natural in the circumstances,” Sir Clinton admitted, giving
Cargill humour for humour. “What did you think had happened?”
“I didn't know,” the victim continued. “You see, I'm a total stranger
here. Fordingbridge is the only person in the place who's met me
before. No one that I know of could have a grudge against me. That's
what surprises me in the business.”
He paused, evidently still pondering over the mystery.
“It beats me still,” he continued, when his reflection had produced no
solution. “But at that moment I hadn't much time to think over it. The
next thing I heard was the sound of steps coming closer; and that gave
me a start, I can tell you. It looked too much like the fellow coming
to finish his job at close quarters. He must have been a damn bad
shot—or it may have been the dark that troubled him. But I'd no
longing to have him put a pistol-muzzle to my ear, I can tell you. I
just let out a yell.”
He winced, for in the excitement of his narrative he had unconsciously
shifted his wounded ankle.
“That seems to have been the saving of me; for of course I couldn't
stand, much less get away from the beggar. I suppose the racket I
raised scared him. You see, they heard me at Flatt's cottage, and
there might easily have been other people on the road as well. So he
seems to have turned and run at that. I kept on yelling for all I was
worth; it seemed the most sensible thing to do. Just then, I heard the
sound of a big motor-horn down the road at the corner where the path
to the cottage comes in; and almost at once a couple of blazing
head-lights came up.”
“Mrs. Fleetwood's car, I suppose?”
“I believe that's her name. Pretty girl with dark hair? That's the
one. She pulled up her car when she saw me all a-sprawl over the road;
and she was down from the driving-seat in a jiffy, asking me what it
was all about. I explained things, more or less. She made no fuss;
kept her head well; and turned on an electric horn full rip. You see,
I explained to her I didn't want to be left in the road there all
alone. She'd proposed to go off in her car and get assistance, but I
wasn't keen on the idea.”
Sir Clinton's face showed his approval of this caution.
“In a minute or two,” Cargill continued, “Fordingbridge and
Billingford came up. They'd been roused by my yells and the electric
horn. I don't know what the girl thought when she saw Fordingbridge in
the light of the motor's lamps—it must have given her a start to see a
face like that at close quarters in the night. But she's a plucky
girl; and she never turned a hair. Billingford proposed taking me down
to the doctor in the car, but she insisted on bringing me back here.
More comfortable, she said. And between the lot of them they got me
bundled on board her car, and she drove me home.”
“You left the other two there, then?”
“Yes. She didn't invite them on board. Then, when we got here, she
fixed me up temporarily”—he nodded towards the bandages—“and then she
went off in her car again to hunt up a doctor.”
Sir Clinton seemed to find nothing further to ask. Wendover stepped
into the breach.
“Would you recognise this gunman if you saw him again?”
Cargill shook his head.
“In that light you couldn't have told whether it was a man or a woman,
much less recognise 'em.”
Before Wendover could say anything more, the door opened and Dr.
Rafford came in, followed by Inspector Armadale.
“H'm!” said Sir Clinton. “I don't think we need trouble you any more
just now, Mr. Cargill. By the time the doctor's fixed you up you'll
not want to be bothered with an inquisition, I suspect. I'll drop in
to-morrow and see how you're getting on. Good night. I hope it's not a
bad business.”
He turned to Armadale.
“You needn't worry Mr. Cargill, inspector. I've got the whole story,
and can tell you what you need.”
Wendover and Armadale followed him from the room, leaving the doctor
to do his work undisturbed. Sir Clinton led the way to his own room,
where he gave the inspector the gist of what they had learned.
“And now, inspector,” he concluded, “perhaps you'll tell us how you
managed to pop up so opportunely. How did you come to hear of this
affair?”
“Mrs. Fleetwood brought me up in her car, sir. It seems she drove to
the doctor's first of all, and, as he wanted a minute or two to
collect bandages and so forth, she brought her car round to the place
where I'm staying and asked for me. I was a bit taken aback when I saw
her—couldn't make out what it was all about at the first glance. She
got me on board and was off to the doctor's before you could say:
‘Snap!’ we picked him up and she drove us both up here. On the way she
told me her side of the business.”
“And that was?”
“By her way of it, she'd wanted to make sure of catching the first
post in the morning—an important letter, she said. She'd taken her car
and driven in to Lynden Sands post office to post it, for fear of the
hotel post not catching the first collection. Then she was driving
back again when she heard someone calling, just as she came to the
corner at Flatt's cottage. She turned on her horn and came round the
corner; and almost at once she saw, in the beam of her head-lights,
Cargill lying on the road. So she stopped and got down. In a minute or
so, up came the gang from Flatt's cottage; and between the lot of them
they got Cargill into the car and she brought him home.”
“Did she see anyone on the road except Cargill?”
“I asked her that, sir. She says she saw no one there. No one was on
the road between Cargill and the corner.”
“Slipped off the road, evidently. There are a lot of rocks by the
roadside thereabouts, and a man could hide himself quick enough among
them, if he were put to it,” Sir Clinton pointed out.
The inspector seemed to find the suggestion unsatisfying.
“There's just one point you've overlooked, I think, sir,” he
criticised. “Remember what Cargill told you. With the light as it was,
he couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman who shot him.”
Wendover flamed up at the inspector's insinuation.
“Look here, inspector,” he said angrily, “you seem to be suffering
from an _idée fixe_ about Mrs. Fleetwood. First of all you insist that
she murdered Staveley. Now you want to make out that she shot Cargill;
and you know perfectly well the thing's absurd. You haven't got a
shred of evidence to make your ideas hang together in this last
affair—not a shred.”
“I'm not talking about evidence just now, Mr. Wendover. There's been
no time to collect any as yet. I'm just taking a look at
possibilities; and this is quite within the bounds of possibility, as
you'll see. Suppose Mrs. Fleetwood came out of Lynden Sands village
and drove up the road towards Flatt's cottage. She could see the door
of it as she came up the hill to the corner. You'll not deny that, I
suppose?”
“No,” Wendover admitted contemptuously. “That's quite possible.”
“Then suppose, further,” the inspector went on, “that just before she
reached the corner the door of Flatt's cottage opened and a man came
out. In the light from the open door he'd be fairly plain to anyone in
her position—but not too plain.”
“What's that got to do with it?” Wendover demanded brusquely. “Haven't
you Cargill's own evidence that he knows nobody hereabouts except
Derek Fordingbridge? Why should Mrs. Fleetwood want to shoot a total
stranger? You're not suggesting that she's a homicidal maniac, are
you?”
“No,” Armadale retorted, “I'm suggesting that she mistook Cargill's
figure for somebody else—somebody whom she'd a good reason for putting
out of the way. She'd only get a glimpse of him as he opened and shut
the cottage door. A mistake's quite on the cards. Is that impossible,
so far?”
“No, but I shouldn't say that it mattered a rap, if you ask me.”
“That's as it may be,” the inspector returned, obviously nettled by
Wendover's cavalier manner. “What happens after that? She shuts off
her lights; gets down off the car; follows Cargill along the road,
still mistaking him for someone else. She steals up behind him and
tries to shoot him, but makes a muddle of it owing to the bad light.
Then Cargill shouts for help, and she recognises that she's made a
mistake. Off she goes, back to her car; switches on her lights and
sounds her horn; and then pretends to have been coming up the hill in
the normal way and to have arrived there by pure accident at that
time. Is that impossible?”
“Quite!” said Wendover bluntly.
“Come now, squire,” Sir Clinton interposed, as the tempers of his two
companions were obviously near the danger-point. “You can't say
anything's impossible except a two-sided triangle and a few other
things of that sort. What it really amounts to is that you and the
inspector differ pleasantly as to the exact degree of probability one
can attach to his hypothesis. He thinks it probable; you don't agree.
It's a mere matter of the personal equation. Don't drag in the
Absolute; it's out of fashion in these days.”
Wendover recovered his temper under the implied rebuke; but the
inspector merely glowered. Quite evidently he was more wedded to his
hypothesis than he cared to admit in plain words.
“There isn't much chance of our getting the bullet,” he admitted. “It
went clean through Cargill's leg, it appears. But if we do get it, and
if it turns out to be from a pistol that a girl could carry without
attracting attention, then perhaps Mr. Wendover will reconsider his
views.”