Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's Evidence
“I shan't be able to give you a game this morning, squire,” Sir
Clinton explained at breakfast next day. “I've got another
engagement.”
He glanced towards Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's empty seat at the
adjoining table, and suppressed a grin as he saw the expression on
Wendover's face.
“Need you advertise yourself quite so much in that quarter, Clinton?”
Wendover demanded, rather put out by the turn of events.
Sir Clinton's features displayed an exaggerated expression of coyness,
as though he were a boy half inviting chaff on the subject of a
feminine conquest.
“I find her interesting, squire. And good-looking. And charming. And,
shall we say, fascinating? It's a very rare combination, you'll admit;
and hence I'd be sorry not to profit by it when it's thrust upon me.”
Wendover was somewhat relieved by the impish expression in Sir
Clinton's eye.
“I've never known you to hanker after semi-society ladies before,
Clinton. Is it just a freak? Or are you falling into senile decay?
She's fairly obvious, you know, especially against this background.”
Sir Clinton failed to suppress his grin.
“Wrong both times, squire, making twice in all. It's not a freak. It's
not senile decay. It's business. Sounds sordid, doesn't it, after your
spangled imaginings? ‘Chief Constable Sacrifices All for Love,’ and
that sort of thing. It's almost a pity to disappoint you.”
Wendover's relief was obvious.
“Don't singe your wings, that's all. She's a dangerous toy, by the
look of her, Clinton. I shouldn't play with her too long, if I were
you. What she's doing down here at all is a mystery to me.”
“That's precisely what I intend to find out, squire. Hence my
devotion. There were more brutal ways of finding out; but I don't
share the inspector's views about how to elicit evidence. You see,
she's studied in the best school of fascination, and she knows a woman
can always get into a man's good graces by leading him on to talk
about his work. So she's secured a number of horrific details about
the dreadful powers of the police in this land of freedom from me. I
think she'll part with the information I want when I ask for it.”
Wendover shook his head disapprovingly.
“Seems a bit underhand, that,” he commented.
“The finer graces do get shoved aside in a murder case,” Sir Clinton
admitted. “One regrets it; but there it is. You can't wear a collar
and tie when you're going to be hanged, you know.”
“Get on with your breakfast, you gruesome devil,” Wendover directed,
half in jest and half in earnest. “I expect the next thing will be
your luring all your suspects on to the hotel weighing-machine, so as
to have the right length of the drop calculated beforehand. Constant
association with that brute Armadale has corrupted you completely.”
Sir Clinton stirred his coffee thoughtfully for a moment or two before
speaking again.
“I've got a job for you to do, squire,” he announced at last in a
serious tone. “About eleven o'clock I have an appointment with Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux. We're going for a walk along the bay. Now, I
want you to drive into Lynden Sands, pick up Armadale, and get back
again so as to meet us somewhere about the old wreck. It was a spring
tide yesterday, and the tide's just turning about this time in the
morning; so we'll have to keep quite near the road in our walk across
the sands. You can hail us from the road easily enough.”
Wendover nodded an acceptance of the task.
“The inspector can bring along a tape-measure in his pocket, and, if
he likes, he can drag the blow-lamp and wax with him also, though I
doubt if we'll need them.” At the mention of the tape-measure,
Wendover pricked up his ears.
“You don't imagine that she was on the beach that night, do you,
Clinton? Armadale found out that her shoes were No. 4—half a size, at
least, too big for the prints we haven't identified yet. Besides,
she's quite a good height—as tall as Mrs. Fleetwood; and, you
remember, the steps were much shorter than Mrs. Fleetwood's. The
person who made these prints must have been much smaller than the
Laurent-Desrousseaux woman. Have you found some more prints that you
didn't tell us about?”
“All in good time, squire,” Sir Clinton answered. “Take things as they
come.”
He sipped his coffee as though to show that he did not propose to be
drawn. But Wendover was not to be put off.
“You couldn't have got a No. 4 shoe into these prints.”
“No.”
“And, from what I've seen of her feet, her shoes are a perfect fit.”
“I've noticed you admiring them—quite justifiably, squire.”
“Well, she couldn't wear a 3½ shoe.”
“No. That's admitted. She hasn't such a thing in her possession; I'm
sure of that. Give it up, squire. The fishing's very poor in this
district. I'm not going to tell you anything just now.”
Wendover recognised that he could not hope to extract any further
information from the chief constable, and he consoled himself with the
thought that a couple of hours at most would see this part of the
mystery cleared up. After breakfast he went into the lounge, and
passed the time in smoking and reviewing the state of affairs. He
became so engrossed in this exercise that it was almost with a start
that he realised the time had come to take out the car and pick up
Armadale.
As he and the inspector drove slowly back from the village, they saw
the figures of Sir Clinton and Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux sauntering
across the sands just below high-tide mark; and in a few moments the
car came level with the walkers. Sir Clinton waved his arm, and
Wendover and Armadale got out and walked down the beach.
“This is Inspector Armadale, Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux,” the chief
constable said, as they came up. “He wants to ask you some questions
about Friday night, when you were at that rock over there.”
He pointed to Neptune's seat as he spoke. Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux
seemed completely taken by surprise. For a moment or two she stood
glancing uneasily from one to another; and her eyes showed something
more than a tinge of fear.
“I am much surprised, Sir Clinton,” she said at last, her accent
coming out more markedly than usual in her nervous voice. “I had
supposed that you were friendly to me; and now it appears that,
without making a seeming of it, you have been leading me into what you
call an English police-trap, isn't it? That is not good of you.”
Armadale had picked up his cue from Sir Clinton's words.
“I'm afraid I must ask you to answer my questions, ma'am,” he said,
with a certain politeness. Obviously he was by no means sure of his
ground.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux eyed him in silence for some moments.
“What is it that you desire to know?” she demanded finally.
Before Armadale could formulate a question, Sir Clinton intervened.
“I think, madame, that it will make things easier for us all if I tell
you that the inspector is preparing a case against someone else. He
needs your deposition to support his charge. That is the whole truth,
so far as he is concerned. You need not have any fears, provided that
you tell us all that you know about Friday night.”
Wendover noticed the double meaning which might be attached to Sir
Clinton's words; but he could not feel sure whether the chief
constable wished to deceive or merely to reassure his witness. Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux's face cleared slightly as she grasped the
meaning of Sir Clinton's speech.
“If such is the case,” she said cautiously, “I might recall to myself
some of the things which happened.”
Armadale seemed a trifle suspicious at this guarded offer, but he
proceeded to put some questions.
“You knew this man Staveley, ma'am?”
“Nicholas Staveley? Yes, I knew him; I had known him for a long time.”
Sir Clinton interposed again.
“Perhaps you would prefer to tell us what you know of him in your own
words, madame. It would be easier for us if you would do so.”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux nodded her agreement. She seemed to have
conquered her nervousness.
“It was during the war, messieurs, in 1915. I was Odette Pascal then,
a young girl, an honest girl—what you English call straight, isn't it?
It was later that I became Aline Laurent-Desrousseaux, you understand?
I encountered this Nicholas Staveley in Paris, where I was employed in
a Government office. He was very charming, very caressing; he knew how
to make himself loved.”
She made a gesture, half cynical, half regretful, and paused for a
moment before she continued in a harder tone:
“It did not last long, that honeymoon. I discovered his character, so
different from that which I had believed it. He abandoned me, and I
was very rejoiced to let him go; but he had taught me things, and
forced me to work for him while he had me. When we separated
ourselves, in fact, I was no longer the gentle, honest little girl
that I had been. All that was finished, you understand?”
Wendover saw that the inspector was taking notes in shorthand. Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux paused for a time to allow Armadale to catch up.
“The rest is without importance. I became Aline Laurent-Desrousseaux,
and I had not any need of Nicholas Staveley. During a long time I had
no need of him; but from time to time I heard speak of him, for I had
many friends, and some of them could tell a little; and always he was
the same. Then is come the report that he was killed at the Front.”
She paused again, with her eye on the inspector's pencil.
“The time passed,” she resumed, “and I desired only to forget him. I
believed him well dead, you understand? And then, from one of my
friends, I learned that he had been seen again after the war. I
disinterested myself from the affair; I had no desire to see him. But
suddenly it became of importance to me to satisfy myself about him. It
is much complicated, and has nothing to do with him—I pass on. But it
was most necessary that I should see him and get him to consent to
some arrangements, or an affair of mine would be embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed,” Armadale repeated, to show that he was ready to
continue.
“I have consulted my friends,” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux pursued.
“Some among them have been able to help me, and I have discovered
where he was living in London. It was most necessary for me to speak
with him. Thus I came over to England, to London. But he is no longer
there; he is gone to Lynden Sands, one says. So I procure his
address—at Flatt's cottage—and I come myself to Lynden Sands Hotel.”
Armadale's involuntary upward glance from his note-book betrayed the
increase in his interest at this point.
“I arrive here; and at once I write him a letter saying I go to
Flatt's cottage to see him on Friday night. There is no response, but
I go to Flatt's cottage as I had planned. When I knocked at the door,
Staveley appeared.”
“What time on Friday night was that?” Armadale interposed.
“In my letter I had fixed a rendezvous at half-past nine. I was
exact—on time, you say, isn't it? But it seemed that this Staveley
could not see me alone there; others were in the cottage. Then he said
that he would meet me later—at half-past ten—at some great rock beside
the sea, the rock one calls Neptune's Seat.”
“So you came away, and he went back into the cottager” Armadale
demanded.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux assented with a slight bow.
“I came away,” she continued. “To pass the time, I walked on the road,
and perhaps I walked too far. It was late—after the hour of the
rendezvous—when I arrived opposite the rock, this Neptune's Seat. I
went down on to the sands and attained to the rock. Staveley was
there, very angry because I was ten minutes late. He was much enraged,
it appears, because he had a second rendezvous at that place in a few
minutes. He would not listen to me at all at the moment. I saw that it
was no time for negotiating with him, he was so much in anger and so
anxious to deliver himself of me. I fixed another rendezvous for the
following day, and I left him.”
“What time did you leave him on the rock?” Armadale interjected.
“Let us see.” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux halted for a moment to
consider. “I passed some minutes with him on the rock—let us put ten
minutes at the least.”
“That would mean you left the rock very shortly before eleven o'clock,
then?”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux agreed with a gesture.
“I went away from the rock by the same road as I had come,” she went
on. “I was much agitated, you understand? It was a great
disappointment that I had attained to no arrangement at that moment, I
had hoped for something better, isn't it? And that Staveley had been
very little obliging—unkind, isn't it? It was very desolating.
“As I was crossing the sands, a great automobile appeared on the road,
coming from the hotel. It stopped whilst I was waiting for it to pass;
and the chauffeur extinguished its projectors. Then a woman descended
from the automobile, and walked down on to the sands towards the
rock.”
Wendover could read on Armadale's face an expression of triumph. The
inspector was clearly overjoyed at getting some direct evidence to
support his case against Cressida; and Wendover had to admit, with
considerable disquietude, that Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's narrative
bore out Armadale's hypothesis very neatly.
“When I again regarded the automobile, the chauffeur also had
vanished. He was not on the road. Perhaps he also had gone down to the
_rivage_.”
“Shore,” Sir Clinton interjected, seeing Armadale's obvious perplexity
at the word.
“I was standing there for some minutes,” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux
continued. “Against one like that Staveley one must utilise all
weapons, isn't it?—even espionage. I had a presentiment that something
might eventuate. Staveley and a woman, you understand? I was hoping
that something, anything, might arrive to give me an advantage over
him.
“I have forgotten to say that the sky was obscured by great clouds. It
was a little difficult to see clearly. On the rock they discussed and
discussed, but I could hear nothing; and in the end I grew tired of
attending.”
“How long did you stand there?” Armadale asked.
“It would be difficult to say, but perhaps it was about a
quarter-hour. I was quite tired of attending, and I walked—quite
slowly—along the road away from the hotel. I avoided the automobile,
you understand? I desired no embarrassments. It was not my
affair—isn't it?—to discover the identity of this woman. All that I
desired was an arm against Staveley. There was nothing else at all.
“A little after, I returned; it seemed to me longer, perhaps, than it
really was; and I was believing that they must be gone, those two.
Then, all at once, I heard the report of a firearm down at the rock——”
“A single shot?” Sir Clinton questioned. “_Un seul coup de feu?_”
“One only,” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux answered definitely. “I hastened
back along the road in the direction of the automobile. I had the idea
of an accident in my head, you understand? It was very sombre; great
clouds were passing on the moon. I could see with difficulty the
woman's figure hasten up from the rock towards the automobile; and
almost at once the chauffeur rejoined her. When they were getting into
the automobile I was quite close; I could hear them speak, although it
was too dark to see them except most dimly. The woman spoke first,
very agitated.”
Her three listeners were intent on her next words. Armadale looked up,
his pencil poised to take down her report. Wendover felt a catch in
his breath as he waited for the next sentences which would either make
or break the inspector's case.
“She said,” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux continued, “She said these very
words, for they were stamped on my memory since they meant so much to
me: ‘I've shot him, Stanley.’ And the chauffeur demanded: ‘Have you
killed him?’ And you can understand, messieurs, that I listened with
all my ears. The woman responded: ‘I think so. He fell at once and lay
quite still. What's to be done?’ And to that the chauffeur made the
reply: ‘Get you away at once.’ And he made some movement as if to put
the motor in march. But the woman stopped him and demanded: ‘Aren't
you going down to look at him—see if anything can be done?’ And to
that the chauffeur made the response in anger: ‘It's damn well likely,
isn't it?’ Just like that. And he pursued: ‘Not till I've seen you in
safety, anyhow. I'm not running any risks.’ ”
Wendover felt that his last shred of hope had been torn away. This
reported conversation might have been concerted between Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux and Armadale beforehand, so neatly did it fit
into its place in the inspector's case. He glanced up at Sir Clinton's
face, and saw there only the quiet satisfaction of a man who fits a
fresh piece of a jig-saw puzzle into position.
“Then,” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux continued, “the chauffeur set his
motor in march and reversed the automobile. I stepped aside off the
road for fear that they should see me; but they went off towards the
hotel without illuminating the projectors.”
She stopped, evidently thinking that she had told all that was of
importance. Armadale suggested that she should continue her tale.
“Figure to yourselves my position,” she went on. “Staveley was lying
dead on the rock. The automobile had gone. I was left alone. If one
came along the road and encountered me, there would be suspicion; and
one would have said that I had good reason to hate Staveley. I could
see nothing but embarrassments before me. And the chauffeur had
suggested that he might return later on. What more easy, if he found
me there, than to throw suspicion on me to discredit me? Or to
incriminate me, even? In thinking of these things, I lost my head. My
sole idea was to get away without being seen. I went furtively along
the road, in trembling lest the automobile should return. No one met
me; and I regained the gardens of the hotel without being encountered.
As I was passing one of the alleys, I noticed standing there the great
automobile, with its lights extinguished. I passed into the hotel
without misfortune.”
“What time did you get back to the hotel, madame?” Armadale asked, as
she halted again.
“Ah! I am able to tell you that, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, and exactly. I
noted the hour mechanically on the clock in the hall. It was midnight
less five minutes when I arrived.”
“It's a twenty to twenty-five minute walk,” Armadale commented. “That
means you must have left the beach somewhere round about half-past
eleven. Now, one more question, madame. Did you recognise the voices
of the man and the woman?”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux hesitated before replying.
“I should not wish to say,” she answered at last unwillingly.
A frown crossed Armadale's features at the reply, and, seeing it, she
turned to Sir Clinton, as though to appeal to him.
“The automobile has already been identified, madame,” the chief
constable said, answering her unspoken inquiry. “You can do no one any
harm by telling us the truth.”
His words seemed to remove her disinclination.
“In this case, I reveal nothing which you ignore? Then I say that it
was the voice of the young Madame Fleetwood which I have heard in the
night.”
Armadale bestowed a glance on Wendover, as much as to say that his
case was lock-fast. Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, now that she had got
her narrative off her mind, seemed to be puzzled by something. She
turned to Sir Clinton.
“I am embarrassed to know how you came to discover that I was at the
rock on that night. May I ask?”
Sir Clinton smiled, and with a wave of his hand he indicated the trail
of footmarks across the sands which they had made in their walk.
“Ah, I comprehend! I had forgotten the imprints which I must have left
when I went down to the rock. It was dark, you understand?—and
naturally I did not perceive that I was leaving traces. So that was
it, Sir Clinton?”
Armadale was obviously puzzled. He turned to Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux.
“What size of shoe do you wear, madame?”
She glanced at her neatly shod feet.
“These shoes I have bought in London a few days ago. The
_pointure_—the size, you call it, isn't it?—was No. 4.”
Armadale shrugged his shoulders, as though to express his disbelief.
“Measure these prints on the sand here, inspector,” Sir Clinton
suggested.
Armadale drew out his tape-measure and took the dimensions of the
footmarks left by Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux.
“And the length of step also, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“They correspond with the tracks down to the rock, true enough,” the
inspector admitted, when he completed his task. “But only a 3½ shoe
could have made them.”
Sir Clinton laughed, though not sneeringly.
“Would you lend me one of your shoes for a moment, madame?” he asked.
“You can lean on me while it's off, so as not to put your foot on the
wet sand.”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux slipped off her right shoe and held it out.
“Now, inspector, there's absolutely no deception. Look at the number
stamped on it. A four, isn't it?”
Armadale examined the shoe, and nodded affirmatively.
“Now take the shoe and press it gently on the sand alongside a
right-foot print of Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux—that one there will do.
See that you get it square on the sand and make a good impression.”
The inspector knelt down and did as he was told. As he lifted the shoe
again, Wendover saw a look of astonishment on his face.
“Why, they don't correspond!” he exclaimed. “The one I've made just
now is bigger than the other.”
“Of course,” the chief constable agreed. “Now do you see that a No. 4
shoe can make an impression smaller than itself if you happen to be
walking in sand or mud? While you were hunting for people with 3½
shoes, I was turning my attention to No. 4's. There aren't so many in
the hotel, as you know. And it so happened that I began with Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux. She was good enough to go for a walk with me;
and by counting her steps I gauged the length of her pace. It
corresponded to the distance on the tracks.”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux was examining Sir Clinton with obvious
admiration, not wholly unmixed with a certain uneasiness.
“You seem to be very adroit, Sir Clinton,” she observed. “But what is
this about the length of my pace?”
“The inspector is accustomed to our English girls, madame, who have a
free-swinging walk and therefore a fairly long step. From the length
of the steps on the sand he inferred that they had been made by
someone who was not very tall—rather under the average height. He
forgot that some of you Parisians have a different gait—more
restrained, more finished, shall we say?”
“Ah, now I see!” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux exclaimed, not at all
unsusceptible to the turn of Sir Clinton's phrase. “You mean the
difference between the cab-horse and the stepper?”
“Exactly,” Sir Clinton agreed with an impassive face.
Armadale was still puzzling over the two footprints. Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux, evidently wearying of standing with one foot off
the ground, recovered her shoe from him and slipped it on again. Sir
Clinton took pity on his subordinate.
“Here's the explanation, inspector. When you walk in sand, you put
down your heel first. But as the sand's soft, your heel goes forward
and downward as you plant your foot. Then, as your body moves on, your
foot begins to turn in the sand; and when you've come to the end of
your step, your toe also is driven downwards; but instead of going
_forward_, like your heel, it slips backward. The result is that in
the impression the heel is too far forward, whilst the toe is in the
rear of the true position—and that means an impression shorter than
the normal. On the sand, your foot really pivots on the sole under the
instep, instead of on heel and toe, as it does on hard ground. If you
look at these impressions, you'll find quite a heap of sand under the
point where the instep was; whilst the heel and toe are deeply marked
owing to each of them pivoting on the centre of the shoe. See it?”
The inspector knelt down, and Wendover followed his example. They had
no difficulty in seeing Sir Clinton's point.
“Of course,” the chief constable went on, “in the case of a woman's
shoe, the thing is even more exaggerated owing to the height of the
heel and the sharpness of the toe. Haven't you noticed, in tracks on
the sand, how neat any woman's prints always look? You never seem to
find the impression of a clumsy foot, simply because the impression is
so much smaller than the real foot. Clear enough, isn't it?”
“You are most ingenious, Sir Clinton,” Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux
commented. “I am very glad indeed that I have not you against me.”
Sir Clinton turned the point.
“The inspector will bring you a copy of the evidence you have so
kindly given us, madame, and you will do us the favour to sign it. It
is a mere formality, that; but we may need you as a witness in the
case, you understand?”
Rather ungraciously, Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux agreed. It was evident
that she had hoped to escape giving evidence in court.
“I do not desire to offer testimony against the young Madame Fleetwood
if it could be averted,” she said frankly. “She was good to me once or
twice; very gentle, very kind—not like the others in the hotel.”
The inspector shrugged his shoulders, as though the matter were out of
his hands; but he made no reply.
“You will, of course, say nothing about this to anyone, madame,” Sir
Clinton warned her, as they walked across the sands to the car.
At the hotel, Sir Clinton was met by a message from Cargill asking him
to go up to his room. Wendover accompanied him, and when they had
inquired about his wound and been reassured by a good report from the
doctor which Cargill was able to repeat, the Australian plunged into
the matter which he wished to lay before the chief constable.
“It's that thing I told you about before,” he explained. “This is how
it happened. I was so sore last night that I forgot all about it.”
He felt under his pillow, and drew out a crumpled envelope.
“I was in the writing-room one day lately, and Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux—that French high-stepper—was writing something at
one of the tables. She made a muddle of her addressing of the thing,
and flung a spoiled envelope into the waste-paper basket beside her.
Then she addressed another envelope, sealed up her letter, and went
out.
“I happened to have some jottings to make; and, as her waste-paper
basket was just at my elbow, I leaned over and fished out the old
envelope, to save myself the bother of getting out of my chair for a
piece of paper. I scribbled down the notes I wanted to make, put the
envelope in my pocket, and left it there. It wasn't for a while after
that—yesterday—that I needed the jottings I'd made. I fished the
envelope out, and was reading my notes, when suddenly my eye was
caught by the spoiled address on the envelope.” He handed the paper
across to Sir Clinton, who read:
Monsieur Nicholas Staveley,
Flatt's Cotage,
Lynden Sands.
“You see, she'd spelt ‘cottage’ with one ‘t,’ ” Cargill pointed out
unnecessarily. “That's what made her throw away the envelope, I
expect.”
Sir Clinton took the envelope and examined it carefully.
“That's extremely interesting,” he said. “I suppose I may keep this?
Then would you mind initialling it, just in case we need it for
reference later on?”
He handed Cargill a pencil, and the Australian scribbled his initials
on one corner of the envelope. The chief constable chatted for a few
minutes on indifferent matters, and then retired, followed by
Wendover.
“Why didn't you tell him he was a day after the fair?” Wendover
demanded, as they went down the stairs. “The only value that envelope
has now is that it further confirms Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's
evidence. And yet you treated it as if it were really of importance.”
“I hate to discourage enthusiasm, squire,” Sir Clinton answered.
“Remember that we owe the second cartridge-case to Cargill's industry.
If I had damped him over the envelope, he might feel disinclined to
give us any more assistance; and one never knows what may turn up yet.
Besides, why spoil his pleasure for him? He thought he was doing
splendidly.”
As they reached the first floor, they saw Paul Fordingbridge coming
along the corridor towards the stairs.
“Here's someone who can perhaps give us more valuable information,”
Sir Clinton added in a low tone.
He stopped Paul Fordingbridge at the head of the stairs.
“By the way, Mr. Fordingbridge,” he asked, glancing round to see that
there was no one within earshot, “there's just one point I'd like you
to clear up for me, if you don't mind.”
Paul Fordingbridge stared at him with an emotionless face.
“Very glad to do anything for you,” he said, without betraying
anything in his tone.
“It's nothing much,” Sir Clinton assured him. “All I want is to be
clear about this Foxhills estate and its trimmings. Your nephew owns
it at present?”
“If I have a surviving nephew, certainly. I can offer no opinion on
that point, you understand.”
“Naturally,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. “Now, suppose your nephew's death
were proved, who are the next heirs? That's what I'd like you to tell
me, if you don't mind. I could get it hunted up at Somerset House, but
if you'll save me the trouble it will be a help.”
“Failing my nephew, it would go to my niece, Mrs. Fleetwood.”
“And if anything happened to her?”
“It falls to me in that case.”
“And if you weren't there to take it by then?”
“My sister would get it.”
“There's no one else? Young Fleetwood, for instance, couldn't step in
front of you owing to his having married your niece?”
“No,” Paul Fordingbridge answered at once. “The will took account of
seven lives, and I suppose that was sufficient in the ordinary way. My
sister, if she gets it, can leave it to anyone she chooses.”
Sir Clinton seemed thoughtful. It was only after a slight pause that
he took up a fresh line of questions.
“Can you tell me anything about the present management of the thing?
You have a power of attorney, I believe; but I suppose you leave
matters very much in the hands of lawyers?”
Paul Fordingbridge shook his head.
“I'm afraid I'm no great believer in lawyers. One's better to look
after things oneself. I'm not a busy man, and it's an occupation for
me. Everything goes through my hands.”
“Must be rather a business,” Sir Clinton criticised. “But I suppose
you do as I would myself—get a firm of auditors to keep your books for
you.”
Paul Fordingbridge seemed slightly nettled at the suggestion.
“No. Do you suppose I can't draw up a balance-sheet once a year? I'm
not quite incompetent.”
It was evident that Sir Clinton's suggestion had touched him in his
vanity, for his tone showed more than a trace of pique. The chief
constable hastened to smooth matters over.
“I envy you, Mr. Fordingbridge. I never had much of a head for figures
myself, and I shouldn't care to have that kind of work thrust on my
hands.”
“Oh, I manage very well,” Paul Fordingbridge answered coldly. “Is
there anything else you'd like to know?”
Sir Clinton reflected for a moment before replying.
“I think that's everything. Oh, there's one other matter which you may
know about, perhaps. When does Mrs. Fleetwood expect her lawyer to
turn up?”
“This afternoon,” Paul Fordingbridge intimated. “But I understand that
they wish to consult him before seeing you again. I believe they'll
make an appointment with Inspector Armadale for to-morrow.”
Sir Clinton's eyebrows lifted slightly at the news of this further
delay; but he made no audible comment. Paul Fordingbridge, with a
stiff bow, left them and went on his way downstairs. Sir Clinton gazed
after him.
“I'd hate to carry an automatic in my jacket pocket continuously,” he
remarked softly. “Look how his pocket's pulled all out of shape by the
thing. Very untidy.”
With a gesture he stopped the comment that rose to Wendover's lips,
and then followed Fordingbridge downstairs. Wendover led the way out
into the garden, where he selected a quiet spot.
“There's one thing that struck me about Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's
evidence,” he said, as they sat down, “and that is: It may be all lies
together.”
Sir Clinton pulled out his case and lit a cigarette before answering.
“You think so? It's not impossible, of course.”
“Well, look at it squarely,” Wendover pursued. “We know nothing about
the woman. For all we can tell, she may be an accomplished liar. By
her own showing, she had some good reason for wanting Staveley out of
the way.”
“It wouldn't be difficult to make a guess at it,” Sir Clinton
interjected. “I didn't want to go beyond our brief this morning, or
I'd have asked her about that. But I was very anxious not to rouse her
suspicions, and the matter really didn't bear directly on the case, so
I let it pass.”
“Well, let's assume that her yarn is mostly lies, and see where that
takes us,” Wendover went on. “We know she was at the cottage all
right; we've got the footprint to establish that. We know she was on
the rock, too, for her footprints were on the sands, and she doesn't
contest the fact of her presence either. These are the two undeniable
facts.”
“Euclidian, squire. But it leaves the story a bit bare, doesn't it? Go
on; clothe the dry bones with flesh, if you can.”
Wendover refused to be nettled. He was struggling, not too hopefully,
to shift the responsibility of the murder from the shoulders of
Cressida to those of another person; and he was willing to catch at
almost any straw.
“How would this fit, then?” he demanded. “Suppose that Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux herself was the murderess. She makes her
appointment with Staveley at the cottage as she told us; and she goes
there, just as she said she did. She meets Staveley, and he refuses to
see her. Now assume that he blurts out the tale of his appointment at
11 p.m. at Neptune's Seat with Mrs. Fleetwood, and makes no
appointment at all with Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux for that evening.
That part of her tale would be a lie, of course.”
Sir Clinton flicked the ash from his cigarette on to the seat beside
him, and seemed engrossed in brushing it away.
“She goes to the shore near 11 p.m.,” Wendover continued, “not to meet
Staveley, as she told us, but to eavesdrop on the two of them, as she
confessed she did in her tale. She waits until Mrs. Fleetwood goes
away; and then she sees her chance. She goes down to the rock herself
then and she shoots Staveley with her own hand for her own purposes.
She leaves the body on the rock and returns, as her footmarks show, to
the road, and so to the hotel. What's wrong with that?”
“Nothing whatever, squire, except that it omits the most damning facts
on which the inspector's depending. It leaves out, for instance, the
pistol that he found in Mrs. Fleetwood's golf-blazer.”
Wendover's face showed that his mind was hard at work.
“One can't deny that, I suppose,” he admitted. “But she might quite
well have let off her pistol to frighten Staveley. That would account
for——”
He broke off, thought hard for a moment or two, then his face cleared.
“There were two cartridge-cases: one at the rock and one at the
groyne. If Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux killed Staveley, then the
cartridge-case on the rock belongs to her pistol; and any other shot
fired by the Fleetwoods—at the groyne. That means that Stanley
Fleetwood, behind the groyne, fired a shot to scare Staveley. Then,
when the Fleetwoods had gone, Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux went down and
shot him on the rock. That accounts for everything, doesn't it?”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“Just think what happens when you fire an automatic. The ejector
mechanism jerks the empty case out to your right, well clear of your
shoulder, and lands it a yard or two behind you. It's a pretty big
impulse that the cartridge-case gets. Usually the thing hops along the
ground, if I remember rightly. You can take it from me that a shot
fired from where Fleetwood crouched wouldn't land the cartridge-case
at the point where Cargill showed us he'd picked it up.”
Wendover reflected for a while.
“Well, who did it, then?” he demanded. “If the shot had been fired on
the rock, the cartridge-case couldn't have skipped that distance,
including a jump over the groyne. And there were no other footmarks on
that far side of the groyne except Fleetwood's.”
Again he paused, thinking hard.
“You said there was a flaw in the inspector's case. Is this it, by any
chance?”
Looking up, he saw the figure of Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux crossing
the lawn not far from them.
“That's very opportune,” he said, glancing after her. “Any objection
to my asking your witness a couple of questions, Clinton?”
“None whatever.”
“Then come along.”
Wendover managed matters so that it appeared as though they had
encountered Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux by a mere accident; and it was
only after they had talked for a few minutes on indifferent matters
that he thought it safe to ask his questions.
“You must have got drenched before you reached the hotel on Friday
night, madame, surely? I hope there have been no ill-effects?”
“Yes, indeed!” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux answered readily. “It was a
real rain of storm—how do you say that in English?”
“Thunderstorm; heavy shower,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“Yes? _Une pluie battante._ I was all wetted.”
“When did the rain start, do you remember?” Wendover asked
indifferently.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux showed no hesitation whatever.
“It was after the automobile had started to return to the hotel—a few
minutes only after that.”
“You must have got soaked to the skin yourself,” Wendover commiserated
her. “That reminds me, had Staveley his coat on—his overcoat, I
mean—or was he carrying it over his arm when you met him at the rock?”
Again the Frenchwoman answered without pausing to consider.
“He carried it on his arm. Of that I am most certain.” Wendover,
having nothing else to ask, steered the talk into other channels; and
in a short time they left Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux to her own
affairs. When they were out of earshot, Sir Clinton glanced at
Wendover.
“Was that your own brains, squire, or a tip from the classic? You're
getting on, whichever it was. Armadale _will_ be vexed. But kindly
keep this to yourself. The last thing I want is to have any
information spread round.”