“He was a bit doubtful there,” Armadale explained. “I pressed him on the point, and he finally said he thought he heard two. But he wasn’t certain. He seems to have been mooning along, not paying attention to anything, when he heard something. It wasn’t for some seconds that he identified the sound for what it was; and by that time he was quite muddled up as to what he had really heard. He doesn’t seem very bright,” the inspector added contemptuously.
“Well, what happened after the Wild West broke loose on the beach?” Sir Clinton demanded, hunting for his shoes.
“It appears,” pursued Armadale, “that he ran along the beach close to the water’s edge. His story is that he couldn’t see anything on the beach; but when he came level with that big rock they call Neptune’s Seat he saw a dead man lying on it.”
“Sure he was dead?”
“Billingford was quite sure about it. He says he was in the R.A.M.C. in the war and knows a dead ’un when he sees one.”
“Well, what next?”
“I didn’t question him much; just left him in charge of Sapcote till I came back. Then I hunted up a couple of fishermen from the village and went off myself along with them to Neptune’s Seat. I made them stick to the road; and when I got within a couple of hundred yards of the rock, I left them and went down to the very edge of the water—below Billingford’s marks, as the tide was still falling—and kept along there. There was enough moonlight to save me from trampling over anyone’s footmarks and I took care to keep clear of anything of that sort.”
Sir Clinton gave a nod of approval, but did not interrupt the story by any verbal comment.
“The body was there all right,” Armadale continued. “He’d been shot through the heart—probably with a small-calibre bullet, I should think. Dead as a doornail, anyhow. There was nothing to be done for him, so I left him as he was. My main idea was to avoid muddling up any footprints there might be on the sand.”
Again Sir Clinton mutely showed his approval of the inspector’s methods. Armadale continued his narrative:
“It was too dim a light to make sure of things just then, a bit cloudy. So the best thing seemed to be to put the men I had with me to patrol the road and warn anyone off the sands. Not that anyone was likely to be about at that hour of the morning. I didn’t think it worth while to knock you up, sir, until it got a bit brighter; but as soon as there seemed any chance of getting to work, I came up here. You understand, sir, the tide’s coming in; and it’ll wash out any tracks as it rises. It’s a case of now or never if you want to see them. That’s why I couldn’t delay any longer. We’ve got to make the best of the time we have between dawn and high tide.”
Armadale paused, and looked at Sir Clinton doubtfully.
“I understand, inspector.” The chief constable answered his unspoken query. “There’s no room for fooling at present. This is a case where we’re up against time. Come along!”
As he stood aside to let the inspector leave the room in front of him, Sir Clinton was struck by a fresh idea.
“Just knock up Mr. Wendover, inspector. He’s next door—No. 90. Tell him to dress and follow on after us. I’ll get my car out, and that will save us a minute or two in getting to the place.”
Armadale hesitated most obviously before turning to obey.
“Don’t you see, inspector? All these tracks will be washed out in an hour or two. We’ll be none the worse of having an extra witness to anything we find; and your fishermen pals would never understand what was important and what wasn’t. Mr. Wendover will make a useful witness if we ever need him. Hurry, now!”
The inspector saw the point, and obediently went to wake up Wendover, whilst Sir Clinton made his way to the garage of the hotel.
In a few minutes the inspector joined him.
“I waked up Mr. Wendover, sir. I didn’t wait to explain the thing to him; but I told him enough to make him hurry with his dressing. He says he’ll follow in less than five minutes.”
“Good! Get in.”
Armadale jumped into the car, and, as he slammed the door, Sir Clinton let in the clutch.
“That tide’s coming in fast,” he said anxiously. “The Blowhole up there is beginning to spout already.”
Armadale followed in the direction of the chief constable’s glance, and saw a cloud of white spray hurtling up into the air from the top of a headland beside the hotel.
“What’s that?” he asked, as the menacing fountain choked and fell.
“Sort of thing they call a souffleur on the French coast,” Sir Clinton answered. “Sea-cave gets filled with compressed air owing to the rise of the tide, and some water’s blown off through a landward vent. That’s what makes the intermittent jet.”
About a mile from the hotel the inspector motioned to Sir Clinton to stop at a point where the road ran close to the beach, under some sand-dunes on the inland side. A man in a jersey hastened towards them as the car pulled up.
“Nobody’s come along, I suppose?” the inspector demanded when the newcomer reached them. Then, turning to Sir Clinton, he added: “This is one of the men who were watching the place for me.”
Sir Clinton looked up with a smile at the introduction.
“Very good of you to give us your help, Mr.—?”
“Wark’s my name, sir.”
“… Mr. Wark. By the way, you’re a fisherman, aren’t you? Then you’ll be able to tell me when high tide’s due this morning.”
“About half-past seven by God’s time, sir.”
Sir Clinton was puzzled for a moment, then he repressed a smile slightly different from his earlier one.
“Half-past eight by summer time then?” he queried.
He glanced at his
