The inspector thought he saw what Wendover was driving at.
“You mean that Staveley put on his coat when the rain came down, and you're relying on his not having had it on beforehand when Mrs. Fleetwood met him? But you've only her story to go on.”
“No, inspector. I've got an independent witness to the fact that he was carrying his coat over his arm at first. Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux told me he was carrying it that way when she met him before eleven o'clock.”
“He might have put it on as soon as she left him,” objected the inspector, fighting hard for his case.
Wendover shook his head.
“It's no good, inspector. There's more evidence still. If you remember, Staveley's jacket was wet through by the rain, although he was wearing his rainproof coat over it. He was shot through the coat. He put the coat on after the rain started. But by the time the rain had started the Fleetwoods were away up the road to the hotel in their car. Further, if he put it on after the rain started, then the shot that Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux heard was obviously not the shot that killed Staveley. See it now, inspector?”
Armadale was plainly disconcerted by this last touch.
“It's ingenious,” he conceded gruffly, without admitting that he was convinced. “What you mean is that Staveley was carrying his coat while he talked to Mrs. Fleetwood. She fired her pistol and her shot missed him. She ran off to the car. Then, after the car had gone, the rain came down and soaked Staveley to the skin. After being nicely wet, he took the trouble to put on his coat, which had slipped his mind during the downpour. And then someone else came along and shot him for keeps. That's how you look at it?”
“More or less.”
“H'm!” said Armadale, pouncing on what he thought was a weak spot. “I generally manage to struggle into a coat, if I have one, when a thunderstorm comes down. This Staveley man must have been a curious bird, by your way of it.”