“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 jigsaw 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
