“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 today 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
