“No,” he answered. “If you don’t mind, since I’m in the thing now, I’ll stay in. You may need an impartial witness again, and I may as well have the job.”
The inspector made no attempt to conceal his disgust. Sir Clinton showed neither approval nor objection, but he evidently thought it right to give a warning.
“Very well, squire. It’s your own choice. But, remember, you’re only a witness. You’re not to go putting your oar in when it’s not wanted.”
Wendover indicated his acquiescence by a curt nod. Sir Clinton restarted his car and drove along with his eyes fixed on the clearly marked tracks of the nonskid tyres. At the hotel entrance the studded print turned inward, and was lost on the gravel of the sweep up to the hotel.
As he noticed this, the inspector made an involuntary gesture of satisfaction, whilst Wendover felt that the net had been drawn yet tighter by this last piece of evidence.
“That’s a clincher, sir,” Armadale pointed out with a frank satisfaction which irritated Wendover intensely. “She took a car down and back. This is going to be as easy as falling off a log.”
“I suppose you noticed that that car never stopped at all on the road home,” Sir Clinton remarked casually. “The tracks showed no sign of a stop and a restart once the machine had got going.”
Only after he had run his car into the hotel garage did he speak again.
“We don’t want any more chatter than we can help at present, inspector. There’s no real case against anyone yet; and it won’t do to rush into the limelight. I suggest that Mr. Wendover should ask to see Mrs. Fleetwood. If you inquired for her, every tongue in the place would be at work in five minutes; and by the time they’d compared notes with each other, it’ll be quite impossible to dig out anything that one or two of them may really happen to know. Everything will have got mixed up in their minds, and they won’t remember whether they saw something themselves or merely heard about it from someone else.”
Wendover saw the force of the argument; but he also realised clearly the position into which he was being pushed.
“I’m not so sure I care about that job, Clinton,” he protested. “It puts me in a false position.”
The chief constable interrupted him brutally.
“Five minutes ago I offered you the chance to get off the bus. You preferred to stay with us. Therefore you do as you’re told. That’s that.”
Wendover understood that his only chance of keeping in touch with the hunters now depended on his obeying orders. Gloomily he made his submission.
“All right, Clinton. I don’t like it; but I see there are some advantages.”
Accompanied by the others, he entered the hotel and made his way to the desk, while the two officials dropped into the background.
“Mrs. Fleetwood?” the clerk repeated, when Wendover had made his inquiry. “Yes, sir, she’s upstairs. Didn’t you know that Mr. Fleetwood broke his leg last night? The doctor’s set it now. I think Mrs. Fleetwood’s up in his room with him.”
“What’s the number?” Wendover asked.
“No. 35, sir. Shall I phone up and ask if you can see her? It’s no trouble.”
Wendover shook his head and turned away from the desk. As he crossed the hall, the other two rejoined him.
“It’s on the first floor. We’ll walk up,” said Sir Clinton, turning towards the stairs. “You can do the talking, inspector.”
Nothing loath, Armadale knocked at the door of No. 35, and, on receiving an answer, he turned the handle and entered the room. Sir Clinton followed him, whilst Wendover, acutely uncomfortable, hovered on the threshold. On the bed, with his features pale and drawn, lay Stanley Fleetwood. Cressida rose from an armchair and threw a startled glance at the intruders.
The inspector was no believer in tactful openings.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said gruffly, “but I understand you can give me some information about the affair on the beach last night.”
Wendover, despite his animus against Armadale, could not help admiring the cleverness of this sentence, which took so much for granted and yet had a vagueness designed to lead a criminal into awkward difficulties in his reply. But his main interest centred in Cressida; and at the look on her face his heart sank suddenly. Strain, confusion, and desperation seemed to have their part in it; but plainest of all was fear. She glanced from her husband to Armadale, and it was patent that she understood the acuteness of the danger.
“Why,” he admitted to himself in dismay, “she looks as if she’d really done it! And she’s deadly afraid that Armadale can prove it.”
Cressida moistened her lips automatically, as if she were about to reply; but, before she could say a word, her husband broke in.
“What makes you come here with inquiries? I suppose you’ve some authority? Or are you a reporter?”
“I’m Inspector Armadale.”
Stanley Fleetwood made an evident effort to keep himself in hand, in spite of the physical pain which he was obviously suffering. He nodded in acknowledgment of the inspector’s introduction, and then repeated his question.
“What makes you come to us?”
Armadale was not to be led into betraying anything about the extent of his information.
“I really can’t go into that, Mr. Fleetwood. I came to ask a few questions, not to answer any. It’s to your interest to answer frankly.”
He turned to Cressida.
“You were on the beach last night about eleven o’clock?”
Stanley Fleetwood broke in again before Cressida could make a reply.
“Wait a moment, inspector. Are you proposing to bring a charge against me?”
Armadale hesitated for a moment, as if undecided as to his next move. He seemed to see something further behind the question.
“There’s no charge against anyone—yet,” he said, with a certain dwelling on the
