“That seems clear enough,” Sir Clinton said in a tone which suggested that he had got all the information he wanted. “Have you any questions to ask, inspector?”
“There’s just one point,” Armadale explained. “Did you see anyone except Staveley between the hotel and the rock, either going or coming?”
Stanley Fleetwood shook his head.
“I saw nobody at all. Naturally I kept a sharp lookout on the way home.”
Sir Clinton indicated that, so far as he was concerned, the matter was ended. As if to make this still clearer, he turned to the lawyer, Calder, who had taken practically no part in the proceedings.
“Are you by any chance Mr. Fordingbridge’s lawyer?”
Calder seemed somewhat surprised by the question.
“My firm has had charge of the legal affairs of the Fordingbridge family for more than a generation,” he explained a little stiffly. “But I don’t see what that has to do with this business.”
Sir Clinton ignored the stiffness.
“We’re investigating Mr. Fordingbridge’s disappearance just now,” he explained, “and I would like you to give us some information which might help us. Can you spare a moment or two?”
Calder, though evidently not prepared for the move, made no objection; and, when Sir Clinton and his companions left the room, the lawyer followed them.
As soon as they had reached a place where there was some chance of privacy, Sir Clinton made his purpose clear.
“One possible explanation of Mr. Fordingbridge’s disappearance has been suggested, Mr. Calder. He had large funds belonging to other people within his control under a power of attorney. Unless we can learn the state of these funds, we are rather at a loss to know what we’re looking for. Now, quite unofficially, have you any information on the point, or can you make a guess as to the state of affairs? Every moment may count, you understand; and we don’t want to bark up the wrong tree, if it is the wrong tree.”
The lawyer evidently had no desire to implicate himself.
“There’s always a possibility of malversation,” he admitted, “in every case where a man has control of someone else’s money.”
“You were familiar with the affairs of the Fordingbridge estate, I suppose, before Paul Fordingbridge took them out of your firm’s hands not long ago? I mean that, if I got hold of his papers, you could tell roughly if there had been any hanky-panky?”
“I think it’s possible.”
Sir Clinton considered for a time before speaking again.
“Suppose I get permission to examine his papers, either from the family or from the authorities, you could put your finger on any malversation if you had time to look into things?”
“Very likely, though it might take time.”
“Then I’ll get permission, one way or another. I suppose any papers will be at his house in London?”
“Probably.”
“Then I’ll go up to town with you this afternoon, Mr. Calder, and we’ll look into things with your help.”
The lawyer made no comment on the suggestion, and, as Sir Clinton showed no desire to detain him further, he went back to his clients. As soon as his back was turned, Armadale swung round on Wendover.
“I see what you’re driving at now, sir,” he declared in a rather scornful tone. “You think she’ll get off on a manslaughter charge instead of a murder case. And, of course, if it’s merely manslaughter, she’s a nice-looking girl with a hard-luck story ready, and you’re counting on a sympathetic jury to bring in a verdict that’ll amount to an acquittal. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Wendover was genuinely amused.
“That’s deuced ingenious of you, inspector,” he admitted. “I hadn’t thought of it in that light at all.”
“Oh, hadn’t you?” Armadale replied. “Well, in any case, you needn’t count much on it. What’s the evidence in favour of it? Nothing but a prepared statement by the accused and her accomplice, backed by a sharp lawyer. Any prosecutor would make hay of it in five minutes so far as credibility goes.”
“I’m not depending on her statement, inspector. I had the whole affair cut and dried in my mind before she opened her lips. All that her statement did was to confirm my ideas on every point. Your case is a complete washout.”
Armadale seemed quite unshaken by this blunt assertion.
“I’ll be glad to listen to your notions, sir,” he replied, in a tone which he would have used towards a spoiled child whom he wished to conciliate. “It’ll be most instructive to hear what a layman thinks of this affair, sir.”
Wendover was slightly nettled—as the inspector meant him to be—by the faint but unmistakable emphasis on the word “layman.”
“Sometimes the looker-on sees most of the game,” he retorted sententiously. “It’s true enough in this case. You’ve missed the crucial bit of the evidence, inspector. Didn’t you hear Mrs. Fleetwood tell you that, while she was interviewing him, Staveley had no overcoat on? And yet he was shot through his coat. The hole in the coat corresponded to the position of the wound on the body. Does that convince you?”
“You mean that he must have been shot later on, after he’d put on his coat? No, sir, it doesn’t count for a rap, so far as convincing me goes. She and Fleetwood have had plenty of time to concoct their yarn and put in nifty little touches like that. What’s that evidence worth? Nothing, when it comes from the criminals and when there’s nothing to back it up independently.”
Wendover’s smile broadened into something resembling an impish grin.
“You’ve missed the crucial bit of evidence, inspector. Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux could have given it to you if you’d asked her; but you didn’t think of it. I did.”
“And might I ask what this valuable bit of evidence is?” the inspector inquired, with heavy politeness.
Wendover had no
