Agatha Christie

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

A Miss Marple Mystery

For Harry Smith
because I appreciate the scientific way
he reads my books

Chapter One

In the heart of the West End, there are many quiet pockets, unknown to almost all but taxi drivers who traverse them with expert knowledge, and arrive triumphantly thereby at Park Lane, Berkeley Square or South Audley Street.

If you turn off on an unpretentious street from the Park, and turn left and right once or twice, you will find yourself in a quiet street with Bertramâs Hotel on the right-hand side. Bertramâs Hotel has been there a long time. During the war, houses were demolished on the right of it, and a little farther down on the left of it, but Bertramâs itself remained unscathed. Naturally it could not escape being, as house agents would say, scratched, bruised and marked, but by the expenditure of only a reasonable amount of money it was restored to its original condition. By 1955 it looked precisely as it had looked in 1939âdignified, unostentatious, and quietly expensive.

Such was Bertramâs, patronized over a long stretch of years by the higher Ã©chelons of the clergy, dowager ladies of the aristocracy up from the country, girls on their way home for the holidays from expensive finishing schools. (âSo few places where a girl can stay alone in London but of course it is quite all right at Bertramâs. We have stayed there for years.â)

There had, of course, been many other hotels on the model of Bertramâs. Some still existed, but nearly all had felt the wind of change. They had had necessarily to modernize themselves, to cater for a different clientele. Bertramâs, too, had had to change, but it had been done so cleverly that it was not at all apparent at the first casual glance.

Outside the steps that led up to the big swing doors stood what at first sight appeared to be no less than a Field Marshal. Gold braid and medal ribbons adorned a broad and manly chest. His deportment was perfect. He received you with tender concern as you emerged with rheumatic difficulty from a taxi or a car, guided you carefully up the steps and piloted you through the silently swinging doorway.

Inside, if this was the first time you had visited Bertramâs, you felt, almost with alarm, that you had reentered a vanished world. Time had gone back. You were in Edwardian England once more.

There was, of course, central heating, but it was not apparent. As there had always been, in the big central lounge, there were two magnificent coal fires; beside them big brass coal scuttles shone in the way they used to shine when Edwardian housemaids polished them, and they were filled with exactly the rightsized lumps of coal. There was a general appearance of rich red velvet and plushy cosiness. The armchairs were not of this time and age. They were well above the level of the floor, so that rheumatic old ladies had not to struggle in an undignified manner in order to get to their feet. The seats of the chairs did not, as in so many modern high-priced armchairs, stop halfway between the thigh and the knee, thereby inflicting agony on those suffering from arthritis and sciatica; and they were not all of a pattern. There were straight backs and reclining backs, different widths to accommodate the slender and the obese. People of almost any dimension could find a comfortable chair at Bertramâs.

Since it was now the tea hour, the lounge hall was full. Not that the lounge hall was the only place where you could have tea. There was a drawing room (chintz), a smoking room (by some hidden influence reserved for gentlemen only), where the vast chairs were of fine leather, two writing rooms, where you could take a special friend and have a cosy little gossip in a quiet cornerâand even write a letter as well if you wanted to. Besides these amenities of the Edwardian age, there were other retreats, not in anyway publicized, but known to those who wanted them. There was a double bar, with two bar attendants, an American barman to make the Americans feel at home and to provide them with bourbon, rye, and every kind of cocktail, and an English one to deal with sherries and Pimmâs No. 1, and to talk knowledgeably about the runners at Ascot and Newbury to the middle-aged men who stayed at Bertramâs for the more serious race meetings. There was also, tucked down a passage, in a secretive way, a television room for those who asked for it.

But the big entrance lounge was the favourite place for the afternoon tea drinking. The elderly ladies enjoyed seeing who came in and out, recognizing old friends, and commenting unfavourably on how these had aged. There were also American visitors fascinated by seeing the titled English really getting down to their traditional afternoon tea. For afternoon tea was quite a feature of Bertramâs.

It was nothing less than splendid. Presiding over the ritual was Henry, a large and magnificent figure, a ripe fifty, avuncular, sympathetic, and with the courtly manners of that long vanished species: the perfect butler. Slim youths performed the actual work under Henryâs austere direction. There were large crested silver trays, and Georgian silver teapots. The china, if not actually Rockingham and Davenport, looked like it. The Blind Earl services were particular favourites. The tea was the best Indian, Ceylon, Darjeeling, Lapsang, etc. As for eatables, you could ask for anything you likedâand get it!

On this particular day, November the 17th, Lady Selina Hazy, sixty-five, up from Leicestershire, was eating delicious well-buttered muffins with all an elderly ladyâs relish.

Her absorption with muffins, however, was not so great that she failed to look up sharply every time the inner pair of swing doors opened to admit a newcomer.

So it was that she smiled and nodded to welcome Colonel Luscombeâerect, soldierly, race glasses hanging round his neck. Like the old autocrat that she was, she beckoned imperiously and, in a minute or two, Luscombe came over to her.

âHallo, Selina, what brings you up to Town?â

âDentist,â said Lady Selina, rather indistinctly, owing to muffin. âAnd I thought as I was up, I might as well go and see that man in Harley Street about my arthritis. You know who I mean.â

Although Harley Street contained several hundreds of fashionable practitioners for all and every ailment, Luscombe did know whom she meant.

âDo you any good?â he asked.

âI rather think he did,â said Lady Selina grudgingly. âExtraordinary fellow. Took me by the neck when I wasnât expecting it, and wrung it like a chicken.â She moved her neck gingerly.

âHurt you?â

âIt must have done, twisting it like that, but really I hadnât time to know.â She continued to move her neck gingerly. âFeels all right. Can look over my right shoulder for the first time in years.â

She put this to a practical test and exclaimed, âWhy I do believe thatâs old Jane Marple. Thought she was dead years ago. Looks a hundred.â

Colonel Luscombe threw a glance in the direction of Jane Marple thus resurrected, but without much interest: Bertramâs always had a sprinkling of what he called fluffy old pussies.

Lady Selina was continuing.

âOnly place in London you can still get muffins. Real muffins. Do you know when I went to America last year they had something called muffins on the breakfast menu. Not real muffins at all. Kind of teacake with raisins in them. I mean, why call them muffins?â

She pushed in the last buttery morsel and looked round vaguely. Henry materialized immediately. Not quickly or hurriedly. It seemed that, just suddenly, he was there.

âAnything further I can get you, my lady? Cake of any kind?â

âCake?â Lady Selina thought about it, was doubtful.

âWe are serving very good seed cake, my lady. I can recommend it.â

âSeed cake? I havenât eaten seed cake for years. It is real seed cake?â

âOh, yes, my lady. The cook has had the recipe for years. Youâll enjoy it, Iâm sure.â

Henry gave a glance at one of his retinue, and the lad departed in search of seed cake.

âI suppose youâve been at Newbury, Derek?â

âYes. Darned cold, I didnât wait for the last two races. Disastrous day. That filly of Harryâs was no good at all.â

âDidnât think she would be. What about Swanhilda?â

âFinished fourth.â Luscombe rose. âGot to see about my room.â

He walked across the lounge to the reception desk. As he went he noted the tables and their occupants. Astonishing number of people having tea here. Quite like old days. Tea as a meal had rather gone out of fashion since the war. But evidently not at Bertramâs. Who were all these people? Two Canons and the Dean of Chislehampton. Yes, and another pair of gaitered legs over in the corner, a Bishop, no less! Mere Vicars were scarce. âHave to be at least a Canon to afford Bertramâs,â he thought. The rank and file of the clergy certainly couldnât, poor devils. As far as that went, he wondered how on earth people like old Selina Hazy could. Sheâd only got twopence or so a year to bless herself with. And there was old Lady Berry, and Mrs. Posselthwaite from Somerset, and Sybil Kerrâall poor as church mice.

Still thinking about this he arrived at the desk and was pleasantly greeted by Miss Gorringe the receptionist. Miss Gorringe was an old friend. She knew every one of the clientele and, like Royalty, never forgot a face. She looked frumpy but respectable. Frizzled yellowish hair (old-fashioned tongs, it suggested), black silk dress, a high bosom on which reposed a large gold locket and a cameo brooch.

âNumber fourteen,â said Miss Gorringe. âI think you had fourteen last time, Colonel Luscombe, and liked it. Itâs quiet.â

âHow you always manage to remember these things, I canât imagine, Miss Gorringe.â

âWe like to make our old friends comfortable.â

âTakes me back a long way, coming in here. Nothing seems to have changed.â

He broke off as Mr. Humfries came out from an inner sanctum to greet him.

Mr. Humfries was often taken by the uninitiated to be Mr. Bertram in person. Who the actual Mr. Bertram was, or indeed, if there ever had been a Mr. Bertram was now lost in the mists of antiquity. Bertramâs had existed since about 1840, but nobody had taken any interest in tracing its past history. It was just there, solid, in fact. When addressed as Mr. Bertram, Mr. Humfries never corrected the impression. If they wanted him to be Mr. Bertram he would be Mr. Bertram. Colonel Luscombe knew his name, though he didnât know if Humfries was the manager or the owner. He rather fancied the latter.

Mr. Humfries was a man of about fifty. He had very good manners, and the presence of a Junior Minister. He could, at any moment, be all things to all people. He could talk racing shop, cricket, foreign politics, tell anecdotes of Royalty, give Motor Show information, knew the most interesting plays on at presentâadvise on places Americans ought really to see in England however short their stay. He had knowledgeable information about where it would suit persons of all incomes and tastes to dine. With all this, he did not make himself too cheap. He was not on tap all the time. Miss Gorringe had all the same facts at her fingertips and could retail them efficiently. At brief intervals Mr. Humfries, like the sun, made his appearance above the horizon and flattered someone by his personal attention.

This time it was Colonel Luscombe who was so honoured. They exchanged a few racing platitudes, but Colonel Luscombe was absorbed by his problem. And here was the man who could give him the answer.

âTell me, Humfries, how do all these old dears manage to come and stay here?â

âOh youâve been wondering about that?â Mr. Humfries seemed amused. âWell, the answerâs simple. They couldnât afford it. Unlessââ

He paused.

âUnless you make special prices for them? Is that it?â

âMore or less. They donât know, usually, that they are special prices, or if they do realize it, they think itâs because theyâre old customers.â

âAnd it isnât just that?â

âWell, Colonel Luscombe, I am running a hotel. I couldnât afford actually to lose money.â

âBut how can that pay you?â

âItâs a question of atmosphereâ¦Strangers coming to this country (Americans, in particular, because they are the ones who have the money) have their own rather queer ideas of what England is like. Iâm not talking, you understand, of the rich business tycoons who are always crossing the Atlantic. They usually go to the Savoy or the Dorchester. They want modern dÃ©cor, American food, all the things that will make them feel at home. But there are a lot of people who come abroad at rare intervals and who expect this country to beâwell, I wonât go back as far as Dickens, but theyâve read Cranford and Henry James, and they donât want to find this country just the same as their own! So they go back home afterwards and say: âThereâs a wonderful place in London; Bertramâs Hotel, itâs called. Itâs just like stepping back a hundred years. It just is old England! And the people who stay there! People youâd never come across anywhere else. Wonderful old Duchesses. They serve all the old English dishes, thereâs a marvellous old-fashioned beefsteak pudding! Youâve never tasted anything like it; and great sirloins of beef and saddles of mutton, and an old-fashioned English tea and a wonderful English breakfast. And of course all the usual things as well. And itâs wonderfully comfortable. And warm. Great log fires.ââ

Mr. Humfries ceased his impersonation and permitted himself something nearly approaching a grin.

âI see,â said Luscombe thoughtfully. âThese people; decayed aristocrats, impoverished members of the old County families, they are all so much mise en scÃ¨ne?â

Mr. Humfries nodded agreement.

âI really wonder no one else has thought of it. Of course I found Bertramâs ready-made, so to speak. All it needed was some rather expensive restoration. All the people who come here think itâs something that theyâve discovered for themselves, that no one else knows about.â

âI suppose,â said Luscombe, âthat the restoration was quite expensive?â

âOh yes. The place has got to look Edwardian, but itâs got to have the modern comforts that we take for granted in these days. Our old dearsâif you will forgive me referring to them as thatâhave got to feel that nothing has changed since the turn of the century, and our travelling clients have got to feel they can have period surroundings, and still have what they are used to having at home, and canât really live without!â

âBit difficult sometimes?â suggested Luscombe.

âNot really. Take central heating for instance. Americans requireâneed, I should sayâat least ten degrees Fahrenheit higher than English people do. We actually have two quite different sets of bedrooms. The English we put in one lot, the Americans in the other. The rooms all look alike, but they are full of actual differencesâelectric razors, and showers as well as tubs in some of the bathrooms, and if you want an American breakfast, itâs thereâcereals and iced orange juice and allâor if you prefer you can have the English breakfast.â

âEggs and bacon?â

âAs you sayâbut a good deal more than that if you want it. Kippers, kidneys and bacon, cold grouse, York ham. Oxford marmalade.â

âI must remember all that tomorrow morning. Donât get that sort of thing anymore at home.â

Humfries smiled.

âMost gentlemen only ask for eggs and bacon. Theyâveâwell, theyâve got out of the way of thinking about the things there used to be.â

âYes, yesâ¦I remember when I was a childâ¦Sideboards groaning with hot dishes. Yes, it was a luxurious way of life.â

âWe endeavour to give people anything they ask for.â

âIncluding seed cake and muffinsâyes, I see. To each according to his needâI seeâ¦Quite Marxian.â

âI beg your pardon?â

âJust a thought, Humfries. Extremes meet.â

Colonel Luscombe turned away, taking the key Miss Gorringe offered him. A page boy sprang to attention and conducted him to the lift. He saw in passing that Lady Selina Hazy was now sitting with her friend Jane Something or other.

Chapter Two

âAnd I suppose youâre still living at that dear St. Mary Mead?â Lady Selina was asking. âSuch a sweet unspoilt village. I often think about it. Just the same as ever, I suppose?â

âWell, not quite.â Miss Marple reflected on certain aspects of her place of residence. The new Building Estate. The additions to the Village Hall, the altered appearance of the High Street with its up-to-date shop frontsâShe sighed. âOne has to accept change, I suppose.â

âProgress,â said Lady Selina vaguely. âThough it often seems to me that it isnât progress. All these smart plumbing fixtures they have nowadays. Every shade of colour and superb what they call âfinishââbut do any of them really pull? Or push, when theyâre that kind. Every time you go to a friendâs house, you find some kind of a notice in the looââPress sharply and release,â âPull to the left,â âRelease quickly.â But in the old days, one just pulled up a handle any kind of way, and cataracts of water came at onceâThereâs the dear Bishop of Medmenham,â Lady Selina broke off to say, as a handsome, elderly cleric passed by. âPractically quite blind, I believe. But such a splendid militant priest.â

A little clerical talk was indulged in, interspersed by lady Selinaâs recognition of various friends and acquaintances, many of whom were not the people she thought they were. She and Miss Marple talked a little of âold days,â though Miss Marpleâs upbringing, of course, had been quite different from Lady Selinaâs, and their reminiscences were mainly confined to the few years when Lady Selina, a recent widow of severely straitened means, had taken a small house in the village of St. Mary Mead during the time her second son had been stationed at an airfield nearby.

âDo you always stay here when you come up, Jane? Odd I havenât seen you here before.â

âOh no, indeed. I couldnât afford to, and anyway, I hardly ever leave home these days. No, it was a very kind niece of mine who thought it would be a treat for me to have a short visit to London. Joan is a very kind girlâat least perhaps hardly a girl.â Miss Marple reflected with a qualm that Joan must now be close on fifty. âShe is a painter, you know. Quite a well-known painter. Joan West. She had an exhibition not long ago.â

Lady Selina had little interest in painters, or indeed in anything artistic. She regarded writers, artists and musicians as a species of clever performing animal; she was prepared to feel indulgent towards them, but to wonder privately why they wanted to do what they did.

âThis modern stuff, I suppose,â she said, her eyes wandering. âThereâs Cicely Longhurstâdyed her hair again, I see.â

âIâm afraid dear Joan is rather modern.â

Here Miss Marple was quite wrong. Joan West had been modern about twenty years ago, but was now regarded by the young arriviste artists as completely old-fashioned.

Casting a brief glance at Cicely Longhurstâs hair, Miss Marple relapsed into a pleasant remembrance of how kind Joan had been. Joan had actually said to her husband, âI wish we could do something for poor old Aunt Jane. She never gets away from home. Do you think sheâd like to go to Bournemouth for a week or two?â

âGood idea,â said Raymond West. His last book was doing very well indeed, and he felt in a generous mood.

âShe enjoyed her trip to the West Indies, I think, though it was a pity she had to get mixed-up in a murder case. Quite the wrong thing at her age.â

âThat sort of thing seems to happen to her.â

Raymond was very fond of his old aunt and was constantly devising treats for her, and sending her books that he thought might interest her. He was surprised when she often politely declined the treats, and though she always said the books were âso interestingâ he sometimes suspected that she had not read them. But then, of course, her eyes were failing.

In this last he was wrong. Miss Marple had remarkable eyesight for her age, and was at this moment taking in everything that was going on round her with keen interest and pleasure.

To Joanâs proffer of a week or two at one of Bournemouthâs best hotels, she had hesitated, murmured, âItâs very, very kind of you, my dear, but I really donât thinkââ

âBut itâs good for you, Aunt Jane. Good to get away from home sometimes. It gives you new ideas, and new things to think about.â

âOh yes, you are quite right there, and I would like a little visit somewhere for a change. Not, perhaps, Bournemouth.â

Joan was slightly surprised. She had thought Bournemouth would have been Aunt Janeâs Mecca.

âEastbourne? Or Torquay?â

âWhat I would really likeââ Miss Marple hesitated.

âYes?â

âI dare say you will think it rather silly of me.â

âNo, Iâm sure I shanât.â (Where did the old dear want to go?)

âI would really like to go to Bertramâs Hotelâin London.â

âBertramâs Hotel?â The name was vaguely familiar.

Words came from Miss Marple in a rush.

âI stayed there onceâwhen I was fourteen. With my uncle and aunt, Uncle Thomas, that was, he was Canon of Ely. And Iâve never forgotten it. If I could stay thereâa week would be quite enoughâtwo weeks might be too expensive.â

âOh, thatâs all right. Of course you shall go. I ought to have thought that you might want to go to Londonâthe shops and everything. Weâll fix it upâif Bertramâs Hotel still exists. So many hotels have vanished, sometimes bombed in the war and sometimes just given up.â

âNo, I happen to know Bertramâs Hotel is still going. I had a letter from thereâfrom my American friend Amy McAllister of Boston. She and her husband were staying there.â

âGood, then Iâll go ahead and fix it up.â She added gently, âIâm afraid you may find itâs changed a good deal from the days when you knew it. So donât be disappointed.â

But Bertramâs Hotel had not changed. It was just as it had always been. Quite miraculously so, in Miss Marpleâs opinion. In fact, she wonderedâ¦.

It really seemed too good to be true. She knew quite well, with her usual clear-eyed common sense, that what she wanted was simply to refurbish her memories of the past in their old original colours. Much of her life had, perforce, to be spent recalling past pleasures. If you could find someone to remember them with, that was indeed happiness. Nowadays that was not easy to do; she had outlived most of her contemporaries. But she still sat and remembered. In a queer way, it made her come to life againâJane Marple, that pink and white eager young girlâ¦Such a silly girl in many waysâ¦now who was that very unsuitable young man whose nameâoh dear, she couldnât even remember it now! How wise her mother had been to nip that friendship so firmly in the bud. She had come across him years laterâand really he was quite dreadful! At the time she had cried herself to sleep for at least a week!

Nowadays, of courseâshe considered nowadaysâ¦These poor young things. Some of them had mothers, but never mothers who seemed to be any goodâmothers who were quite incapable of protecting their daughters from silly affairs, illegitimate babies, and early and unfortunate marriages. It was all very sad.

Her friendâs voice interrupted these meditations.

âWell, I never. It isâyes, it isâBess Sedgwick over there! Of all the unlikely placesââ

Miss Marple had been listening with only half an ear to Lady Selinaâs comments on her surroundings. She and Miss Marple moved in entirely different circles, so that Miss Marple had been unable to exchange scandalous titbits about the various friends or acquaintances that Lady Selina recognized or thought she recognized.

But Bess Sedgwick was different. Bess Sedgwick was a name that almost everyone in England knew. For over thirty years now, Bess Sedgwick had been reported by the Press as doing this or that outrageous or extraordinary thing. For a good part of the war she had been a member of the French Resistance, and was said to have six notches on her gun representing dead Germans. She had flown solo across the Atlantic years ago, had ridden on horseback across Europe and fetched up at Lake Van. She had driven racing cars, had once saved two children from a burning house, had several marriages to her credit and discredit and was said to be the second best-dressed woman in Europe. It was also said that she had successfully smuggled herself aboard a nuclear submarine on its test voyage.

It was therefore with the most intense interest that Miss Marple sat up and indulged in a frankly avid stare.

Whatever she had expected of Bertramâs Hotel, it was not to find Bess Sedgwick there. An expensive night club, or a lorry driversâ pull upâeither of those would be quite in keeping with Bess Sedgwickâs wide range of interests. But this highly respectable and old world hostelry seemed strangely alien.

Still there she wasâno doubt of it. Hardly a month passed without Bess Sedgwickâs face appearing in the fashion magazines or the popular press. Here she was in the flesh, smoking a cigarette in a quick impatient manner and looking in a surprised way at the large tea tray in front of her as though she had never seen one before. She had orderedâMiss Marple screwed up her eyes and peeredâit was rather far awayâyes, doughnuts. Very interesting.

As she watched, Bess Sedgwick stubbed out her cigarette in her saucer, lifted a doughnut and took an immense bite. Rich red real strawberry jam gushed out over her chin. Bess threw back her head and laughed, one of the loudest and gayest sounds to have been heard in the lounge of Bertramâs Hotel for some time.

Henry was immediately beside her, a small delicate napkin proffered. She took it, scrubbed her chin with the vigour of a schoolboy, exclaiming: âThatâs what I call a real doughnut. Gorgeous.â

She dropped the napkin on the tray and stood up. As usual every eye was on her. She was used to that. Perhaps she liked it, perhaps she no longer noticed it. She was worth looking atâa striking woman rather than a beautiful one. The palest of platinum hair fell sleek and smooth to her shoulders. The bones of her head and face were exquisite. Her nose was faintly aquiline, her eyes deep set and a real grey in colour. She had the wide mouth of a natural comedian. Her dress was of such simplicity that it puzzled most men. It looked like the coarsest kind of sacking, had no ornamentation of any kind, and no apparent fastening or seams. But women knew better. Even the provincial old dears in Bertramâs knew, quite certainly, that it had cost the earth!

Striding across the lounge towards the lift, she passed quite close to Lady Selina and Miss Marple, and she nodded to the former.

âHello, Lady Selina. Havenât seen you since Crufts. How are the Borzois?â

âWhat on earth are you doing here, Bess?â

âJust staying here. Iâve just driven up from Landâs End. Four hours and three-quarters. Not bad.â

âYouâll kill yourself one of these days. Or someone else.â

âOh I hope not.â

âBut why are you staying here?â

Bess Sedgwick threw a swift glance round. She seemed to see the point and acknowledge it with an ironic smile.

âSomeone told me I ought to try it. I think theyâre right. Iâve just had the most marvellous doughnut.â

âMy dear, they have real muffins too.â

âMuffins,â said Lady Sedgwick thoughtfully. âYesâ¦â She seemed to concede the point. âMuffins!â

She nodded and went on towards the lift.

âExtraordinary girl,â said Lady Selina. To her, like to Miss Marple, every woman under sixty was a girl. âKnown her ever since she was a child. Nobody could do anything with her. Ran away with an Irish groom when she was sixteen. They managed to get her back in timeâor perhaps not in time. Anyway they bought him off and got her safely married to old Conistonâthirty years older than she was, awful old rip, quite dotty about her. That didnât last long. She went off with Johnnie Sedgwick. That might have stuck if he hadnât broken his neck steeplechasing. After that she married Ridgway Becker, the American yacht owner. He divorced her three years ago and I hear sheâs taken up with some Racing Motor Driverâa Pole or something. I donât know whether sheâs actually married or not. After the American divorce she went back to calling herself Sedgwick. She goes about with the most extraordinary people. They say she takes drugsâ¦I donât know, Iâm sure.â

âOne wonders if she is happy,â said Miss Marple.

Lady Selina, who had clearly never wondered anything of the kind, looked rather startled.

âSheâs got packets of money, I suppose,â she said doubtfully. âAlimony and all that. Of course that isnât everythingâ¦.â

âNo, indeed.â

âAnd sheâs usually got a manâor several menâin tow.â

âYes?â

âOf course when some women get to that age, thatâs all they wantâ¦But somehowââ

She paused.

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âI donât think so either.â

There were people who would have smiled in gentle derision at this pronouncement on the part of an old-fashioned old lady who could hardly be expected to be an authority on nymphomania, and indeed it was not a word that Miss Marple would have usedâher own phrase would have been âalways too fond of men.â But Lady Selina accepted her opinion as a confirmation of her own.

âThere have been a lot of men in her life,â she pointed out.

âOh yes, but I should say, wouldnât you, that men were an adventure to her, not a need?â

And would any woman, Miss Marple wondered, come to Bertramâs Hotel for an assignation with a man? Bertramâs was very definitely not that sort of place. But possibly that could be, to someone of Bess Sedgwickâs disposition, the very reason for choosing it.

She sighed, looked up at the handsome grandfather clock decorously ticking in the corner, and rose with the careful effort of the rheumatic to her feet. She walked slowly towards the lift. Lady Selina cast a glance around her and pounced upon an elderly gentleman of military appearance who was reading the Spectator.

âHow nice to see you again. Erâit is General Arlington, isnât it?â

But with great courtesy the old genleman declined being General Arlington. Lady Selina apologized, but was not unduly discomposed. She combined short sight with optimism and since the thing she enjoyed most was meeting old friends and acquaintances, she was always making this kind of mistake. Many other people did the same, since the lights were pleasantly dim and heavily shaded. But nobody ever took offenceâusually indeed it seemed to give them pleasure.

Miss Marple smiled to herself as she waited for the lift to come down. So like Selina! Always convinced that she knew everybody. She herself could not compete. Her solitary achievement in that line had been the handsome and well-gaitered Bishop of Westchester whom she had addressed affectionately as âdear Robbieâ and who had responded with equal affection and with memories of himself as a child in a Hampshire vicarage calling out lustily âBe a crocodile now, Aunty Janie. Be a crocodile and eat me.â

The lift came down, the uniformed middle-aged man threw open the door. Rather to Miss Marpleâs surprise the alighting passenger was Bess Sedgwick whom she had seen go up only a minute or two before.

And then, one foot poised, Bess Sedgwick stopped dead, with a suddenness that surprised Miss Marple and made her own forward step falter. Bess Sedgwick was staring over Miss Marpleâs shoulder with such concentration that the old lady turned her own head.

The commissionaire had just pushed open the two swing doors of the entrance and was holding them to let two women pass through into the lounge. One of them was a fussy looking middle-aged lady wearing a rather unfortunate flowered violet hat, the other was a tall, simply but smartly dressed, girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen with long straight flaxen hair.

Bess Sedgwick pulled herself together, wheeled round abruptly and reentered the lift. As Miss Marple followed her in, she turned to her and apologized.

âIâm so sorry. I nearly ran into you.â She had a warm friendly voice. âI just remembered Iâd forgotten somethingâwhich sounds nonsense but isnât really.â

âSecond floor?â said the operator. Miss Marple smiled and nodded in acknowledgment of the apology, got out and walked slowly along to her room, pleasurably turning over sundry little unimportant problems in her mind as was so often her custom.

For instance what Lady Sedgwick had said wasnât true. She had only just gone up to her room, and it must have been then that she âremembered she had forgotten somethingâ (if there had been any truth in that statement at all) and had come down to find it. Or had she perhaps come down to meet someone or look for someone? But if so, what she had seen as the lift door opened had startled and upset her, and she had immediately swung into the lift again and gone up so as not to meet whoever it was she had seen.

It must have been the two newcomers. The middle-aged woman and the girl. Mother and daughter? No, Miss Marple thought, not mother and daughter.

Even at Bertramâs, thought Miss Marple, happily, interesting things could happenâ¦.

Chapter Three

âErâis Colonel Luscombeâ?â

The woman in the violet hat was at the desk. Miss Gorringe smiled in a welcoming manner and a page, who had been standing at the ready, was immediately dispatched but had no need to fulfil his errand, as Colonel Luscombe himself entered the lounge at that moment and came quickly across to the desk.

âHow do you do, Mrs. Carpenter.â He shook hands politely, then turned to the girl. âMy dear Elvira.â He took both hands affectionately in his. âWell, well, this is nice. Splendidâsplendid. Come and letâs sit down.â He led them to chairs, established them. âWell, well,â he repeated, âthis is nice.â

The effort he made was somewhat palpable as was his lack of ease. He could hardly go on saying how nice this was. The two ladies were not very helpful. Elvira smiled very sweetly. Mrs. Carpenter gave a meaningless little laugh, and smoothed her gloves.

âA good journey, eh?â

âYes, thank you,â said Elvira.

âNo fog. Nothing like that?â

âOh no.â

âOur flight was five minutes ahead of time,â said Mrs. Carpenter.

âYes, yes. Good, very good.â He took a pull upon himself. âI hope this place will be all right for you?â

âOh, Iâm sure itâs very nice,â said Mrs. Carpenter warmly, glancing round her. âVery comfortable.â

âRather old-fashioned, Iâm afraid,â said the Colonel apologetically. âRather a lot of old fogies. Noâerâdancing, anything like that.â

âNo, I suppose not,â agreed Elvira.

She glanced round in an expressionless manner. It certainly seemed impossible to connect Bertramâs with dancing.

âLot of old fogies here, Iâm afraid,â said Colonel Luscombe, repeating himself. âOught, perhaps, to have taken you somewhere more modern. Not very well up in these things, you see.â

âThis is very nice,â said Elvira politely.

âItâs only for a couple of nights,â went on Colonel Luscombe. âI thought weâd go to a show this evening. A musicalââ he said the word rather doubtfully, as though not sure he was using the right term. âLet Down Your Hair Girls. I hope that will be all right?â

âHow delightful,â exclaimed Mrs. Carpenter. âThat will be a treat, wonât it, Elvira?â

âLovely,â said Elvira, tonelessly.

âAnd then supper afterwards? At the Savoy?â

Fresh exclamations from Mrs. Carpenter. Colonel Luscombe, stealing a glance at Elvira, cheered up a little. He thought that Elvira was pleased, though quite determined to express nothing more than polite approval in front of Mrs. Carpenter. âAnd I donât blame her,â he said to himself.

He said to Mrs. Carpenter:

âPerhaps youâd like to see your roomsâsee theyâre all right and all thatââ

âOh, Iâm sure they will be.â

âWell, if thereâs anything you donât like about them, weâll make them change it. They know me here very well.â

Miss Gorringe, in charge at the desk, was pleasantly welcoming. Nos 28 and 29 on the second floor with an adjoining bathroom.

âIâll go up and get things unpacked,â said Mrs. Carpenter. âPerhaps, Elvira, you and Colonel Luscombe would like to have a little gossip.â

Tact, thought Colonel Luscombe. A bit obvious, perhaps, but anyway it would get rid of her for a bit. Though what he was going to gossip about to Elvira, he really didnât know. A very nice-mannered girl, but he wasnât used to girls. His wife had died in childbirth and the baby, a boy, had been brought up by his wifeâs family whilst an elder sister had come to keep house for him. His son had married and gone to live in Kenya, and his grandchildren were eleven, five and two and a half and had been entertained on their last visit by football and space science talk, electric trains, and a ride on his foot. Easy! But young girls!

He asked Elvira if she would like a drink. He was about to propose a bitter lemon, ginger ale, or orangeade, but Elvira forestalled him.

âThank you. I should like a gin and vermouth.â

Colonel Luscombe looked at her rather doubtfully. He supposed girls ofâwhat was she? sixteen? seventeen?âdid drink gin and vermouth. But he reassured himself that Elvira knew, so to speak, correct Greenwich social time. He ordered a gin and vermouth and a dry sherry.

He cleared his throat and asked:

âHow was Italy?â

âVery nice, thank you.â

âAnd that place you were at, the Contessa whatâs-her-name? Not too grim?â

âShe is rather strict. But I didnât let that worry me.â

He looked at her, not quite sure whether the reply was not slightly ambiguous.

He said, stammering a little, but with a more natural manner than he had been able to manage before:

âIâm afraid we donât know each other as well as we ought to, seeing Iâm your guardian as well as your godfather. Difficult for me, you knowâdifficult for a man whoâs an old buffer like meâto know what a girl wantsâat leastâI mean to know what a girl ought to have. Schools and then after schoolâwhat they used to call finishing in my day. But now, I suppose itâs all more serious. Careers eh? Jobs? All that? Weâll have to have a talk about all that sometime. Anything in particular you want to do?â

âI suppose I shall take a secretarial course,â said Elvira without enthusiasm.

âOh. You want to be a secretary?â

âNot particularlyââ

âOhâwell, thenââ

âItâs just what you start with,â Elvira explained.

Colonel Luscombe had an odd feeling of being relegated to his place.

âThese cousins of mine, the Melfords. You think youâll like living with them? If notââ

âOh I think so. I like Nancy quite well. And Cousin Mildred is rather a dear.â

âThatâs all right then?â

âQuite, for the present.â

Luscombe did not know what to say to that. Whilst he was considering what next to say, Elvira spoke. Her words were simple and direct.

âHave I any money?â

Again he took his time before answering, studying her thoughtfully. Then he said:

âYes. Youâve got quite a lot of money. That is to say, you will have when you are twenty-one.â

âWho has got it now?â

He smiled. âItâs held in trust for you; a certain amount is deducted each year from the income to pay for your maintenance and education.â

âAnd you are the trustee?â

âOne of them. There are three.â

âWhat happens if I die?â

âCome, come, Elvira, youâre not going to die. What nonsense!â

âI hope notâbut one never knows, does one? An airliner crashed only last week and everyone was killed.â

âWell, itâs not going to happen to you,â said Luscombe firmly.

âYou canât really know that,â said Elvira. âI was just wondering who would get my money if I died?â

âI havenât the least idea,â said the Colonel irritably. âWhy do you ask?â

âIt might be interesting,â said Elvira thoughtfully. âI wondered if it would be worth anyoneâs while to kill me.â

âReally, Elvira! This is a most unprofitable conversation. I canât understand why your mind dwells on such things.â

âOh. Just ideas. One wants to know what the facts really are.â

âYouâre not thinking of the Mafiaâor something like that?â

âOh no. That would be silly. Who would get my money if I was married?â

âYour husband, I suppose. But reallyââ

âAre you sure of that?â

âNo, Iâm not in the least sure. It depends on the wording of the Trust. But youâre not married, so why worry?â

Elvira did not reply. She seemed lost in thought. Finally she came out of her trance and asked:

âDo you ever see my mother?â

âSometimes. Not very often.â

âWhere is she now?â

âOhâabroad.â

âWhere abroad?â

âFranceâPortugal. I donât really know.â

âDoes she ever want to see me?â

Her limpid gaze met his. He didnât know what to reply. Was this a moment for truth? Or for vagueness? Or for a good thumping lie? What could you say to a girl who asked a question of such simplicity, when the answer was of great complexity? He said unhappily:

âI donât know.â

Her eyes searched him gravely. Luscombe felt thoroughly ill at ease. He was making a mess of this. The girl must wonderâclearly was wondering. Any girl would.

He said, âYou mustnât thinkâI mean itâs difficult to explain. Your mother is, well, rather different fromââ Elvira was nodding energetically.

âI know. Iâm always reading about her in the papers. Sheâs something rather special, isnât she? In fact, sheâs rather a wonderful person.â

âYes,â agreed the Colonel. âThatâs exactly right. Sheâs a wonderful person.â He paused and then went on. âBut a wonderful person is very oftenââ He stopped and started againââitâs not always a happy thing to have a wonderful person for a mother. You can take that from me because itâs the truth.â

âYou donât like speaking the truth very much, do you? But I think what youâve just said is the truth.â

They both sat staring towards the big brass-bound swing doors that led to the world outside.

Suddenly the doors were pushed open with violenceâa violence quite unusual in Bertramâs Hotelâand a young man strode in and went straight across to the desk. He wore a black leather jacket. His vitality was such that Bertramâs Hotel took on the atmosphere of a museum by way of contrast. The people were the dust-encrusted relics of a past age. He bent towards Miss Gorringe and asked:

âIs Lady Sedgwick staying here?â

Miss Gorringe on this occasion had no welcoming smile. Her eyes were flinty. She said:

âYes.â Then, with definite unwillingness, she stretched out her hand towards the telephone. âDo you want toâ?â

âNo,â said the young man. âI just wanted to leave a note for her.â

He produced it from a pocket of his leather coat and slid it across the mahogany counter.

âI only wanted to be sure this was the right hotel.â

There might have been some slight incredulity in his voice as he looked round him, then turned back towards the entrance. His eyes passed indifferently over the people sitting round him. They passed over Luscombe and Elvira in the same way, and Luscombe felt a sudden unsuspected anger. âDammit all,â he thought to himself, âElviraâs a pretty girl. When I was a young chap Iâd have noticed a pretty girl, especially among all these fossils.â But the young man seemed to have no interested eyes to spare for pretty girls. He turned back to the desk and asked, raising his voice slightly as though to call Miss Gorringeâs attention:

âWhatâs the telephone number here? 1129 isnât it?â

âNo,â said Miss Gorringe, â3925.â

âRegent?â

âNo. Mayfair.â

He nodded. Then swiftly he strode across to the door and passed out, swinging the doors behind him with something of the same explosive quality he had shown on entering.

Everybody seemed to draw a deep breath; to find difficulty in resuming their interrupted conversations.

âWell,â said Colonel Luscombe, rather inadequately, as if at a loss for words. âWell, really! These young fellows nowadaysâ¦.â

Elvira was smiling.

âYou recognized him, didnât you?â she said. âYou know who he is?â She spoke in a slightly awed voice. She proceeded to enlighten him. âLadislaus Malinowski.â

âOh, that chap.â The name was indeed faintly familiar to Colonel Luscombe. âRacing driver.â

âYes. He was world champion two years running. He had a bad crash a year ago. Broke lots of things. But I believe heâs driving again now.â She raised her head to listen. âThatâs a racing car heâs driving now.â

The roar of the engine had penetrated through to Bertramâs Hotel from the street outside. Colonel Luscombe perceived that Ladislaus Malinowski was one of Elviraâs heroes. âWell,â he thought to himself, âbetter that than one of those pop singers or crooners or long-haired Beatles or whatever they call themselves.â Luscombe was old-fashioned in his views of young men.

The swing doors opened again. Both Elvira and Colonel Luscombe looked at them expectantly but Bertramâs Hotel had reverted to normal. It was merely a white-haired elderly cleric who came in. He stood for a moment looking round him with a slightly puzzled air as of one who fails to understand where he was or how he had come there. Such an experience was no novelty to Canon Pennyfather. It came to him in trains when he did not remember where he had come from, where he was going, or why! It came to him when he was walking along the street, it came to him when he found himself sitting on a committee. It had come to him before now when he was in his cathedral stall, and did not know whether he had already preached his sermon or was about to do so.

âI believe I know that old boy,â said Luscombe, peering at him. âWho is he now? Stays here fairly often, I believe. Abercrombie? Archdeacon Abercrombieâno, itâs not Abercrombie, though heâs rather like Abercrombie.â

Elvira glanced round at Canon Pennyfather without interest. Compared with a racing driver he had no appeal at all. She was not interested in ecclesiastics of any kind although, since being in Italy, she admitted to a mild admiration for Cardinals whom she considered as at any rate properly picturesque.

Canon Pennyfatherâs face cleared and he nodded his head appreciatively. He had recognized where he was. In Bertramâs Hotel, of course; where he was going to spend the night on his way toânow where was he on his way to? Chadminster? No, no, he had just come from Chadminster. He was going toâof courseâto the Congress at Lucerne. He stepped forward, beaming, to the reception desk and was greeted warmly by Miss Gorringe.

âSo glad to see you, Canon Pennyfather. How well you are looking.â

âThank youâthank youâI had a severe cold last week but Iâve got over it now. You have a room for me. I did write?â

Miss Gorringe reassured him.

âOh yes, Canon Pennyfather, we got your letter. Weâve reserved No. 19 for you, the room you had last time.â

âThank youâthank you. Forâlet me seeâI shall want it for four days. Actually I am going to Lucerne and I shall be away for one night, but please keep the room. I shall leave most of my things here and only take a small bag to Switzerland. There wonât be any difficulty over that?â

Again Miss Gorringe reassured him.

âEverythingâs going to be quite all right. You explained very clearly in your letter.â

Other people might not have used the word âclearly.â âFullyâ would have been better, since he had certainly written at length.

All anxieties set at rest, Canon Pennyfather breathed a sigh of relief and was conveyed, together with his baggage, to Room 19.

In Room 28 Mrs. Carpenter had removed her crown of violets from her head and was carefully adjusting her nightdress on the pillow of her bed. She looked up as Elvira entered.

âAh, there you are, my dear. Would you like me to help you with your unpacking?â

âNo, thank you,â said Elvira politely. âI shanât unpack very much, you know.â

âWhich of the bedrooms would you like to have? The bathroom is between them. I told them to put your luggage in the far one. I thought this room might be a little noisy.â

âThat was very kind of you,â said Elvira in her expressionless voice.

âYouâre sure you wouldnât like me to help you?â

âNo, thanks, really I wouldnât. I think I might perhaps have a bath.â

âYes, I think thatâs a very good idea. Would you like to have the first bath? Iâd rather finish putting my things away.â

Elvira nodded. She went into the adjoining bathroom, shut the door behind her and pushed the bolts across. She went into her own room, opened her suitcase and flung a few things on the bed. Then she undressed, put on a dressing gown, went into the bathroom and turned the taps on. She went back into her own room and sat down on the bed by the telephone. She listened a moment or two in case of interruption, then lifted the receiver.

âThis is Room 29. Can you give me Regent 1129 please?â

Chapter Four

Within the confines of Scotland Yard a conference was in progress. It was by way of being an informal conference. Six or seven men were sitting easily around a table and each of those six men was a man of some importance in his own line. The subject that occupied the attention of these guardians of the law was a subject that had grown terrifically in importance during the last two or three years. It concerned a branch of crime whose success had been overwhelmingly disquieting. Robbery on a big scale was increasing. Bank holdups, snatches of payrolls, thefts of consignments of jewels sent through the mail, train robberies. Hardly a month passed but some daring and stupendous coup was attempted and brought off successfully.

Sir Ronald Graves, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, was presiding at the head of the table. According to his usual custom he did more listening than talking. No formal reports were being presented on this occasion. All that belonged to the ordinary routine of CID work. This was a high level consultation, a general pooling of ideas between men looking at affairs from slightly different points of view. Sir Ronald Gravesâ eyes went slowly round his little group, then he nodded his head to a man at the end of the table.

âWell, Father,â he said, âletâs hear a few homely wisecracks from you.â

The man addressed as âFatherâ was Chief-Inspector Fred Davy. His retirement lay not long ahead and he appeared to be even more elderly than he was. Hence his nickname of âFather.â He had a comfortable spreading presence, and such a benign and kindly manner that many criminals had been disagreeably surprised to find him a less genial and gullible man that he had seemed to be.

âYes, Father, letâs hear your views,â said another Chief-Inspector.

âItâs big,â said Chief-Inspector Davy with a deep sigh. âYes, itâs big. Maybe itâs growing.â

âWhen you say big, do you mean numerically?â

âYes, I do.â

Another man, Comstock, with a sharp, foxy face and alert eyes, broke in to say:

âWould you say that was an advantage to them?â

âYes and no,â said Father. âIt could be a disaster. But so far, devil take it, theyâve got it all well under control.â

Superintendent Andrews, a fair, slight, dreamy-looking man said, thoughtfully:

âIâve always thought thereâs a lot more to size than people realize. Take a little one-man business. If thatâs well run and if itâs the right size, itâs a sure and certain winner. Branch out, make it bigger, increase personnel, and perhaps youâll get it suddenly to the wrong size and down the hill it goes. The same way with a great big chain of stores. An empire in industry. If thatâs big enough it will succeed. If itâs not big enough it just wonât manage it. Everything has got its right size. When it is its right size and well run itâs the tops.â

âHow big do you think this show is?â Sir Ronald barked.

âBigger than we thought at first,â said Comstock.

A tough-looking man, Inspector McNeill, said:

âItâs growing, Iâd say. Fatherâs right. Growing all the time.â

âThat may be a good thing,â said Davy. âIt may grow a bit too fast, and then itâll get out of hand.â

âThe question is, Sir Ronald,â said McNeill, âwho we pull in and when?â

âThereâs a round dozen or so we could pull in,â said Comstock. âThe Harris lot are mixed-up in it, we know that. Thereâs a nice little pocket down Luton way. Thereâs a garage at Epsom, thereâs a pub near Maidenhead, and thereâs a farm on the Great North Road.â

âAny of them worth pulling in?â

âI donât think so. Small-fry all of them. Links. Just links here and there in the chain. A spot where cars are converted, and turned over quickly; a respectable pub where messages get passed; a secondhand clothes shop where appearance can be altered, a theatrical costumier in the East End, also very useful. Theyâre paid, these people. Quite well paid but they donât really know anything!â

The dreamy Superintendent Andrews said again:

âWeâre up against some good brains. We havenât got near them yet. We know some of their affiliations and thatâs all. As I say, the Harris crowd are in it and Marks is in on the financial end. The foreign contacts are in touch with Weber but heâs only an agent. Weâve nothing actually on any of these people. We know that they all have ways of maintaining contact with each other, and with the different branches of the concern, but we donât know exactly how they do it. We watch them and follow them, and they know weâre watching them. Somewhere thereâs a great central exchange. What we want to get at is the planners.â

Comstock said:

âItâs like a giant network. I agree that there must be an operational headquarters somewhere. A place where each operation is planned and detailed and dovetailed completely. Somewhere, someone plots it all, and produces a working blueprint of Operation Mailbag or Operation Payroll. Those are the people weâre out to get.â

âPossibly they are not even in this country,â said Father quietly.

âNo, I dare say thatâs true. Perhaps theyâre in an igloo somewhere, or in a tent in Morocco or in a chalet in Switzerland.â

âI donât believe in these masterminds,â said McNeill, shaking his head: âthey sound all right in a story. Thereâs got to be a head, of course, but I donât believe in a Master Criminal. Iâd say there was a very clever little Board of Directors behind this. Centrally planned, with a Chairman. Theyâve got on to something good, and theyâre improving their technique all the time. All the sameââ

âYes?â said Sir Ronald encouragingly.

âEven in a right tight little team, there are probably expendables. What I call the Russian Sledge principle. From time to time, if they think we might be getting hot on the scent, they throw off one of them, the one they think they can best afford.â

âWould they dare to do that? Wouldnât it be rather risky?â

âIâd say it could be done in such a way that whoever it was wouldnât even know he had been pushed off the sledge. Heâd just think heâd fallen off. Heâd keep quiet because heâd think it was worth his while to keep quiet. So it would be, of course. Theyâve got plenty of money to play with, and they can afford to be generous. Family looked after, if heâs got one, whilst heâs in prison. Possibly an escape engineered.â

âThereâs been too much of that,â said Comstock.

âI think, you know,â said Sir Ronald, âthat itâs not much good going over and over our speculations again. We always say much the same thing.â

McNeill laughed.

âWhat is it you really wanted us for, sir?â

âWellââ Sir Ronald thought a moment, âweâre all agreed on the main things,â he said slowly. âWeâre agreed on our main policy, on what weâre trying to do. I think it might be profitable to have a look around for some of the small things, the things that donât matter much, that are just a bit out of the usual run. Itâs hard to explain what I mean, but like that business some years ago in the Culver case. An ink stain. Do you remember? An ink stain round a mouse hole. Now why on earth should a man empty a bottle of ink into a mouse hole? It didnât seem important. It was hard to get at the answer. But when we did hit on the answer, it led somewhere. Thatâsâroughlyâthe sort of thing I was thinking about. Odd things. Donât mind saying if you come across something that strikes you as a bit out of the usual. Petty if you like, but irritating, because it doesnât quite fit in. I see Fatherâs nodding his head.â

âCouldnât agree with you more,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âCome on, boys, try to come up with something. Even if itâs only a man wearing a funny hat.â

There was no immediate response. Everyone looked a little uncertain and doubtful.

âCome on,â said Father. âIâll stick my neck out first. Itâs just a funny story, really, but you might as well have it for what itâs worth. The London and Metropolitan Bank holdup. Carmolly Street Branch. Remember it? A whole list of car numbers and car colours and makes. We appealed to people to come forward and they respondedâhow they responded! About a hundred and fifty pieces of misleading information! Got it sorted out in the end to about seven cars that had been seen in the neighbourhood, anyone of which might have been concerned in the robbery.â

âYes,â said Sir Ronald, âgo on.â

âThere were one or two we couldnât get tags on. Looked as though the numbers might have been changed. Nothing out of the way in that. Itâs often done. Most of them got tracked down in the end. Iâll just bring up one instance. Morris Oxford, black saloon, number CMG 265, reported by a probation officer. He said it was being driven by Mr. Justice Ludgrove.â

He looked round. They were listening to him, but without any manifest interest.

âI know,â he said, âwrong as usual. Mr. Justice Ludgrove is a rather noticeable old boy, ugly as sin for one thing. Well, it wasnât Mr. Justice Ludgrove because at that exact time he was actually in Court. He has got a Morris Oxford, but its number isnât CMG 256.â He looked round. âAll right. All right. So thereâs no point in it, youâll say. But do you know what the number was? CMG 265. Near enough, eh? Just the sort of mistake one does make when youâre trying to remember a car number.â

âIâm sorry,â said Sir Ronald, âI donât quite seeââ

âNo,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âthereâs nothing to see really, is there? Onlyâit was very like the actual car number, wasnât it? 265â256 CMG. Really rather a coincidence that there should be a Morris Oxford car of the right colour with the number just one digit wrong, and with a man in it closely resembling the owner of the car.â

âDo you meanâ?â

âJust one little digit difference. Todayâs âdeliberate mistake.â It almost seems like that.â

âSorry, Davy. I still donât get it.â

âOh, I donât suppose thereâs anything to get. Thereâs a Morris Oxford car, CMG 265, proceeding along the street two and a half minutes after the bank snatch. In it, the probation officer recognizes Mr. Justice Ludgrove.â

âAre you suggesting it really was Mr. Justice Ludgrove? Come now, Davy.â

âNo, Iâm not suggesting that it was Mr. Justice Ludgrove and that he was mixed-up in a bank robbery. He was staying at Bertramâs Hotel in Pond Street, and he was at the Law Courts at that exact time. All proved up to the hilt. Iâm saying the car number and make and the identification by a probation officer who knows old Ludgrove quite well by sight is the kind of coincidence that ought to mean something. Apparently it doesnât. Too bad.â

Comstock stirred uneasily.

âThere was another case like that in connection with the jewellery business at Brighton. Some old Admiral or other. Iâve forgotten his name now. Some woman identified him most positively as having been on the scene.â

âAnd he wasnât?â

âNo, heâd been in London that night. Went up for some Naval dinner or other, I think.â

âStaying at his club?â

âNo, he was staying at a hotelâI believe it was that one you mentioned just now, Father, Bertramâs, isnât it? Quiet place. A lot of old service geezers go there, I believe.â

âBertramâs Hotel,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, thoughtfully.

Chapter Five

I

Miss Marple awoke early because she always woke early. She was appreciative of her bed. Most comfortable.

She pattered across to the window and pulled the curtains, admitting a little pallid London daylight. As yet, however, she did not try to dispense with the electric light. A very nice bedroom they had given her, again quite in the tradition of Bertramâs. A rose-flowered wallpaper, a large well-polished mahogany chest of drawersâa dressing table to correspond. Two upright chairs, one easy chair of a reasonable height from the ground. A connecting door led to a bathroom which was modern but which had a tiled wallpaper of roses and so avoided any suggestion of over-frigid hygiene.

Miss Marple got back into bed, plumped her pillows up, glanced at her clock, half past seven, picked up the small devotional book that always accompanied her, and read as usual the page and a half allotted to the day. Then she picked up her knitting and began to knit, slowly at first, since her fingers were stiff and rheumatic when she first awoke, but very soon her pace grew faster, and her fingers lost their painful stiffness.

âAnother day,â said Miss Marple to herself, greeting the fact with her usual gentle pleasure. Another dayâand who knew what it might bring forth?

She relaxed, and abandoning her knitting, let thoughts pass in an idle stream through her headâ¦Selina Hazyâ¦what a pretty cottage she had had in St. Mary Meadâand now someone had put on that ugly green roofâ¦Muffinsâ¦very wasteful in butterâ¦but very goodâ¦And fancy serving old-fashioned seed cake! She had never expected, not for a moment, that things would be as much like they used to beâ¦because, after all, Time didnât stand stillâ¦And to have made it stand still in this way must really have cost a lot of moneyâ¦Not a bit of plastic in the place!â¦It must pay them, she supposed. The out-of-date returns in due course as the picturesqueâ¦Look how people wanted old-fashioned roses now, and scorned hybrid teas!â¦None of this place seemed real at allâ¦Well, why should it?â¦It was fiftyâno, nearer sixty years since she had stayed here. And it didnât seem real to her because she was now acclimatized in this present year of Our LordâReally, the whole thing opened up a very interesting set of problemsâ¦The atmosphere and the peopleâ¦Miss Marpleâs fingers pushed her knitting farther away from her.

âPockets,â she said aloudâ¦âPockets, I supposeâ¦And quite difficult to findâ¦.â

Would that account for that curious feeling of uneasiness she had had last night? That feeling that something was wrongâ¦.

All those elderly peopleâreally very much like those she remembered when she had stayed here fifty years ago. They had been natural thenâbut they werenât very natural now. Elderly people nowadays werenât like elderly people thenâthey had that worried harried look of domestic anxieties with which they are too tired to cope, or they rushed around to committees and tried to appear bustling and competent, or they dyed their hair gentian blue, or wore wigs, and their hands were not the hands she remembered, tapering, delicate handsâthey were harsh from washing up and detergentsâ¦.

And soâwell, so these people didnât look real. But the point was that they were real. Selina Hazy was real. And that rather handsome old military man in the corner was realâshe had met him once, although she did not recall his nameâand the Bishop (dear Robbie!) was dead.

Miss Marple glanced at her little clock. It was eight thirty. Time for her breakfast.

She examined the instructions given by the hotelâsplendid big print so that it wasnât necessary to put oneâs spectacles on.

Meals could be ordered through the telephone by asking for Room Service, or you could press the bell labelled Chambermaid.

Miss Marple did the latter. Talking to Room Service always flustered her.

The result was excellent. In no time at all there was a tap on the door and a highly satisfactory chambermaid appeared. A real chambermaid looking unreal, wearing a striped lavender print dress and actually a cap, a freshly laundered cap. A smiling, rosy, positively countrified face. (Where did they find these people?)

Miss Marple ordered her breakfast. Tea, poached eggs, fresh rolls. So adept was the chambermaid that she did not even mention cereals or orange juice.

Five minutes later breakfast came. A comfortable tray with a big potbellied teapot, creamy-looking milk, a silver hot water jug. Two beautifully poached eggs on toast, poached the proper way, not little round hard bullets shaped in tin cups, a good-sized round of butter stamped with a thistle. Marmalade, honey and strawberry jam. Delicious-looking rolls, not the hard kind with papery interiorsâthey smelt of fresh bread (the most delicious smell in the world!). There was also an apple, a pear and a banana.

Miss Marple inserted a knife gingerly but with confidence. She was not disappointed. Rich deep yellow yolk oozed out, thick and creamy. Proper eggs!

Everythingâs piping hot. A real breakfast. She could have cooked it herself but she hadnât had to! It was brought to her as ifâno, not as though she were a queenâas though she were a middle-aged lady staying in a good but not unduly expensive hotel. In factâback to 1909. Miss Marple expressed appreciation to the chambermaid who replied smiling,

âOh, yes, Madam, the Chef is very particular about his breakfasts.â

Miss Marple studied her appraisingly. Bertramâs Hotel could certainly produce marvels. A real housemaid. She pinched her left arm surreptitiously.

âHave you been here long?â she asked.

âJust over three years, Madam.â

âAnd before that?â

âI was in a hotel at Eastbourne. Very modern and up-to-dateâbut I prefer an old-fashioned place like this.â

Miss Marple took a sip of tea. She found herself humming in a vague wayâwords fitting themselves to a long-forgotten song.

âOh where have you been all my lifeâ¦.â

The chambermaid was looking slightly startled.

âI was just remembering an old song,â twittered Miss Marple apologetically. âVery popular at one time.â

Again she sang softly. âOh where have you been all my lifeâ¦.â

âPerhaps you know it?â she asked.

âWellââ The chambermaid looked rather apologetic.

âToo long ago for you,â said Miss Marple. âAh well, one gets to remembering thingsâin a place like this.â

âYes, Madam, a lot of the ladies who stay here feel like that, I think.â

âItâs partly why they come, I expect,â said Miss Marple.

The chambermaid went out. She was obviously used to old ladies who twittered and reminisced.

Miss Marple finished her breakfast, and got up in a pleasant leisurely fashion. She had a plan ready-made for a delightful morning of shopping. Not too muchâto overtire herself. Oxford Street today, perhaps. And tomorrow Knightsbridge. She planned ahead happily.

It was about ten oâclock when she emerged from her room fully equipped: hat, gloves, umbrellaâjust in case, though it looked fineâhandbagâher smartest shopping bagâ

The door next but one on the corridor opened sharply and someone looked out. It was Bess Sedgwick. She withdrew back into the room and closed the door sharply.

Miss Marple wondered as she went down the stairs. She preferred the stairs to the lift first thing in the morning. It limbered her up. Her steps grew slower and slowerâ¦she stopped.

II

As Colonel Luscombe strode along the passage from his room, a door at the top of the stairs opened sharply and Lady Sedgwick spoke to him.

âThere you are at last! Iâve been on the look out for youâwaiting to pounce. Where can we go and talk? That is to say without falling over some old pussy every second.â

âWell, really, Bess, Iâm not quite sureâI think on the mezzanine floor thereâs a sort of writing room.â

âYouâd better come in here. Quick now, before the chambermaid gets peculiar ideas about us.â

Rather unwillingly, Colonel Luscombe stepped across the threshold and had the door shut firmly behind him.

âIâd no idea you would be staying here, Bess, I hadnât the faintest idea of it.â

âI donât suppose you had.â

âI meanâI would never have brought Elvira here. I have got Elvira here, you know?â

âYes, I saw her with you last night.â

âBut I really didnât know that you were here. It seemed such an unlikely place for you.â

âI donât see why,â said Bess Sedgwick, coldy. âItâs far and away the most comfortable hotel in London. Why shouldnât I stay here?â

âYou must understand that I hadnât any idea ofâ¦I meanââ

She looked at him and laughed. She was dressed ready to go out in a well cut dark suit and a shirt of bright emerald green. She looked gay and very much alive. Beside her, Colonel Luscombe looked rather old and faded.

âDarling Derek, donât look so worried. Iâm not accusing you of trying to stage a mother and daughter sentimental meeting. Itâs just one of those things that happen; where people meet each other in unsuspected places. But you must get Elvira out of here, Derek. You must get her out of it at onceâtoday.â

âOh, sheâs going. I mean, I only brought her here just for a couple of nights. Do a showâthat sort of thing. Sheâs going down to the Melfordsâ tomorrow.â

âPoor girl, thatâll be boring for her.â

Luscombe looked at her with concern. âDo you think she will be very bored?â

Bess took pity on him.

âProbably not after duress in Italy. She might even think it wildly thrilling.â

Luscombe took his courage in both hands.

âLook here, Bess, I was startled to find you here, but donât you think itâwell, you know, it might be meant in a way. I mean that it might be an opportunityâI donât think you really know howâwell, how the girl might feel.â

âWhat are you trying to say, Derek?â

âWell, you are her mother, you know.â

âIâm course Iâm her mother. Sheâs my daughter. And what good has that fact ever been to either of us, or ever will be?â

âYou canât be sure. I thinkâI think she feels it.â

âWhat gives you that idea?â said Bess Sedgwick sharply.

âSomething she said yesterday. She asked where you were, what you were doing.â

Bess Sedgwick walked across the room to the window. She stood there a moment tapping on the pane.

âYouâre so nice, Derek,â she said. âYou have such nice ideas. But they donât work, my poor angel. Thatâs what youâve got to say to yourself. They donât work and they might be dangerous.â

âOh come now, Bess. Dangerous?â

âYes, yes, yes. Dangerous. Iâm dangerous. Iâve always been dangerous.â

âWhen I think of some of the things youâve done,â said Colonel Luscombe.

âThatâs my own business,â said Bess Sedgwick. âRunning into danger has become a kind of habit with me. No, I wouldnât say habit. More an addiction. Like a drug. Like that nice little dollop of heroin addicts have to have every so often to make life seem bright coloured and worth living. Well, thatâs all right. Thatâs my funeralâor notâas the case may be. Iâve never taken drugsânever needed themâDanger has been my drug. But people who live as I do can be a source of harm to others. Now donât be an obstinate old fool, Derek. You keep that girl well away from me. I can do her no good. Only harm. If possible, donât even let her know I was staying in the same hotel. Ring up the Melfords and take her down there today. Make some excuse about a sudden emergencyââ

Colonel Luscombe hesitated, pulling his moustaches.

âI think youâre making a mistake, Bess.â He sighed. âShe asked where you were. I told her you were abroad.â

âWell, I shall be in another twelve hours, so that all fits very nicely.â

She came up to him, kissed him on the point of his chin, turned him smartly around as though they were about to play Blind Manâs Buff, opened the door, gave him a gentle little propelling shove out of it. As the door shut behind him, Colonel Luscombe noticed an old lady turning the corner from the stairs. She was muttering to herself as she looked into her handbag. âDear, dear me. I suppose I must have left it in my room. Oh dear.â

She passed Colonel Luscombe without paying much attention to him apparently, but as he went on down the stairs Miss Marple paused by her room door and directed a piercing glance after him. Then she looked towards Bess Sedgwickâs door. âSo thatâs who she was waiting for,â said Miss Marple to herself. âI wonder why.â

III

Canon Pennyfather, fortified by breakfast, wandered across the lounge, remembered to leave his key at the desk, pushed his way through the swinging doors, and was neatly inserted into a taxi by the Irish commissionaire who existed for this purpose.

âWhere to, sir?â

âOh dear,â said Canon Pennyfather in sudden dismay. âNow let me seeâwhere was I going?â

The traffic in Pond Street was held up for some minutes whilst Canon Pennyfather and the commissionaire debated this knotty point.

Finally Canon Pennyfather had a brainwave and the taxi was directed to go to the British Museum.

The commissionaire was left on the pavement with a broad grin on his face, and since no other exits seemed to be taking place, he strolled a little way along the faÃ§ade of the hotel whistling an old tune in a muted manner.

One of the windows on the ground floor of Bertramâs was flung upâbut the commissionaire did not even turn his head until a voice spoke unexpectedly through the open window.

âSo this is where youâve landed up, Micky. What on earth brought you to this place?â

He swung round, startledâand stared.

Lady Sedgwick thrust her head through the open window.

âDonât you know me?â she demanded.

A sudden gleam of recognition came across the manâs face.

âWhy, if it isnât little Bessie now! Fancy that! After all these years. Little Bessie.â

âNobody but you ever called me Bessie. Itâs a revolting name. What have you been doing all these years?â

âThis and that,â said Micky with some reserve. âIâve not been in the news like you have. Iâve read of your doings in the paper time and again.â

Bess Sedgwick laughed. âAnyway, Iâve worn better than you have,â she said. âYou drink too much. You always did.â

âYouâve worn well because youâve always been in the money.â

âMoney wouldnât have done you any good. Youâd have drunk even more and gone to the dogs completely. Oh yes, you would! What brought you here? Thatâs what I want to know. How did you ever get taken on at this place?â

âI wanted a job. I had theseââ his hand flicked over the row of medals.

âYes, I see.â She was thoughtful. âAll genuine too, arenât they?â

âSure theyâre genuine. Why shouldnât they be?â

âOh I believe you. You always had courage. Youâve always been a good fighter. Yes, the army suited you. Iâm sure of that.â

âThe armyâs all right in time of war, but itâs no good in peacetime.â

âSo you took to this stuff. I hadnât the least ideaââ she stopped.

âYou hadnât the least idea what, Bessie?â

âNothing. Itâs queer seeing you again after all these years.â

âI havenât forgotten,â said the man. âIâve never forgotten you, little Bessie. Ah! A lovely girl you were! A lovely slip of a girl.â

âA damnâ fool of a girl, thatâs what I was,â said Lady Sedgwick.

âThatâs true now. You hadnât much sense. If you had, you wouldnât have taken up with me. What hands you had for a horse. Do you remember that mareâwhat was her name now?âMolly OâFlynn. Ah, she was a wicked devil, that one was.â

âYou were the only one that could ride her,â said Lady Sedgwick.

âSheâd have had me off if she could! When she found she couldnât, she gave in. Ah, she was a beauty, now. But talking of sitting a horse, there wasnât one lady in those parts better than you. A lovely seat you had, lovely hands. Never any fear in you, not for a minute! And itâs been the same ever since, so I judge. Aeroplanes, racing cars.â

Bess Sedgwick laughed.

âI must get on with my letters.â

She drew back from the window.

Micky leaned over the railing. âIâve not forgotten Ballygowlan,â he said with meaning. âSometimes Iâve thought of writing to youââ

Bess Sedgwickâs voice came out harshly.

âAnd what do you mean by that, Mick Gorman?â

âI was just saying as I havenât forgottenâanything. I was justâreminding you like.â

Bess Sedgwickâs voice still held its harsh note.

âIf you mean what I think you mean, Iâll give you a piece of advice. Any trouble from you, and Iâd shoot you as easily as Iâd shoot a rat. Iâve shot men beforeââ

âIn foreign parts, maybeââ

âForeign parts or hereâitâs all the same to me.â

âAh, good Lord, now, and I believe you would do just that!â His voice held admiration. âIn Ballygowlanââ

âIn Ballygowlan,â she cut in, âthey paid you to keep your mouth shut and paid you well. You took the money. Youâll get no more from me so donât think it.â

âIt would be a nice romantic story for the Sunday papersâ¦.â

âYou heard what I said.â

âAh,â he laughed, âIâm not serious, I was just joking. Iâd never do anything to hurt my little Bessie. Iâll keep my mouth shut.â

âMind you do,â said Lady Sedgwick.

She shut down the window. Staring down at the desk in front of her she looked at her unfinished letter on the blotting paper. She picked it up, looked at it, crumpled it into a ball and slung it into the wastepaper basket. Then abruptly she got up from her seat and walked out of the room. She did not even cast a glance around her before she went.

The smaller writing rooms at Bertramâs often had an appearance of being empty even when they were not. Two well-appointed desks stood in the windows, there was a table on the right that held a few magazines, on the left were two very high-backed armchairs turned towards the fire. These were favourite spots in the afternoon for elderly military or naval gentlemen to ensconce themselves and fall happily asleep until teatime. Anyone coming in to write a letter did not usually even notice them. The chairs were not so much in demand during the morning.

As it happened, however, they were on this particular morning both occupied. An old lady was in one and a young girl in the other. The young girl rose to her feet. She stood a moment looking uncertainly towards the door through which Lady Sedgwick had passed out, then she moved slowly towards it. Elvira Blakeâs face was deadly pale.

It was another five minutes before the old lady moved. Then Miss Marple decided that the little rest which she always took after dressing and coming downstairs had lasted quite long enough. It was time to go out and enjoy the pleasures of London. She might walk as far as Piccadilly, and take a No. 9 bus to High Street, Kensington, or she might walk along to Bond Street and take a 25 bus to Marshall & Snelgroveâs, or she might take a 25 the other way which as far as she remembered would land her up at the Army & Navy Stores. Passing through the swing doors she was still savouring these delights in her mind. The Irish commissionaire, back on duty, made up her mind for her.

âYouâll be wanting a taxi, Maâam,â he said with firmness.

âI donât think I do,â said Miss Marple. âI think thereâs a 25 bus I could take quite near hereâor a 2 from Park Lane.â

âYouâll not be wanting a bus,â said the commissionaire firmly. âItâs very dangerous springing on a bus when youâre getting on in life. The way they start and stop and go on again. Jerk you off your feet, they do. No heart at all, these fellows, nowadays. Iâll whistle you along a taxi and youâll go to wherever you want to like a queen.â

Miss Marple considered and fell.

âVery well then,â she said, âperhaps I had better have a taxi.â

The commissionaire had no need even to whistle. He merely clicked his thumb and a taxi appeared like magic. Miss Marple was helped into it with every possible care and decided on the spur of the moment to go to Robinson & Cleaverâs and look at their splendid offer of real linen sheets. She sat happily in her taxi feeling indeed as the commissionaire had promised her, just like a queen. Her mind was filled with pleasurable anticipation of linen sheets, linen pillowcases and proper glass and kitchen cloths without pictures of bananas, figs or performing dogs and other pictorial distractions to annoy you when you were washing up.

IV

Lady Sedgwick came up to the Reception desk.

âMr. Humfries in his office?â

âYes, Lady Sedgwick.â Miss Gorringe looked startled.

Lady Sedgwick passed behind the desk, tapped on the door and went in without waiting for any response.

Mr. Humfries looked up startled.

âWhatââ

âWho engaged the man Michael Gorman?â

Mr. Humfries spluttered a little.

âParfitt leftâhe had a car accident a month ago. We had to replace him quickly. This man seemed all right. References OKâex-Armyâquite good recordânot very bright perhapsâbut thatâs all the better sometimesâyou donât know anything against him, do you?â

âEnough not to want him here.â

âIf you insist,â Humfries said slowly, âweâll give him his noticeââ

âNo,â said Lady Sedgwick slowly. âNoâitâs too late for thatâNever mind.â

Chapter Six

I

âElvira.â

âHallo, Bridget.â

The Hon. Elvira Blake pushed her way through the front door of 180 Onslow Square, which her friend Bridget had rushed down to open for her, having been watching through the window.

âLetâs go upstairs,â said Elvira.

âYes, weâd better. Otherwise weâll get entangled by Mummy.â

The two girls rushed up the stairs, thereby circumventing Bridgetâs mother, who came out onto the landing from her own bedroom just too late.

âYou really are lucky not to have a mother,â said Bridget, rather breathlessly as she took her friend into her bedroom and shut the door firmly. âI mean, Mummyâs quite a pet and all that, but the questions she asks! Morning, noon and night. Where are you going, and who have you met? And are they cousins of somebody else of the same name in Yorkshire? I mean, the futility of it all.â

âI suppose they have nothing else to think about,â said Elvira vaguely. âLook here, Bridget, thereâs something terribly important Iâve got to do, and youâve got to help me.â

âWell, I will if I can. What is itâa man?â

âNo, it isnât, as a matter of fact.â Bridget looked disappointed. âIâve got to get away to Ireland for twenty-four hours or perhaps longer, and youâve got to cover up for me.â

âTo Ireland? Why?â

âI canât tell you all about it now. Thereâs no time. Iâve got to meet my guardian, Colonel Luscombe, at Prunierâs for lunch at half past one.â

âWhat have you done with the Carpenter?â

âGave her the slip in Debenhamâs.â

Bridget giggled.

âAnd after lunch theyâre taking me down to the Melfords. Iâm going to live with them until Iâm twenty-one.â

âHow ghastly!â

âI expect I shall manage. Cousin Mildred is fearfully easy to deceive. Itâs arranged Iâm to come up for classes and things. Thereâs a place called World of Today. They take you to lectures and to Museums and to Picture Galleries and the House of Lords, and all that. The whole point is that nobody will know whether youâre where you ought to be or not! Weâll manage lots of things.â

âI expect we will.â Bridget giggled. âWe managed in Italy, didnât we? Old Macaroni thought she was so strict. Little did she know what we got up to when we tried.â

Both girls laughed in the pleasant consciousness of successful wickedness.

âStill, it did need a lot of planning,â said Elvira.

âAnd some splendid lying,â said Bridget. âHave you heard from Guido?â

âOh yes, he wrote me a long letter signed Ginevra as though he was a girlfriend. But I do wish youâd stop talking so much, Bridget. Weâve got a lot to do and only about an hour and a half to do it in. Now first of all just listen. Iâm coming up tomorrow for an appointment with the dentist. Thatâs easy, I can put it off by telephoneâor you can from here. Then, about midday, you can ring up the Melfords pretending to be your mother and explain that the dentist wants to see me again the next day and so Iâm staying over with you here.â

âThat ought to go down all right. Theyâll say how very kind and gush. But supposing youâre not back the next day?â

âThen youâll have to do some more ringing up.â

Bridget looked doubtful.

âWeâll have lots of time to think up something before then,â said Elvira impatiently. âWhatâs worrying me now is money. You havenât got any, I suppose?â Elvira spoke without much hope.

âOnly about two pounds.â

âThatâs no good. Iâve got to buy my air ticket. Iâve looked up the flights. It only takes about two hours. A lot depends upon how long it takes me when I get there.â

âCanât you tell me what youâre going to do?â

âNo, I canât. But itâs terribly, terribly important.â

Elviraâs voice was so different that Bridget looked at her in some surprise.

âIs anything really the matter, Elvira?â

âYes, it is.â

âIs it something nobodyâs got to know about?â

âYes, thatâs the sort of thing. Itâs frightfully, frightfully secret. Iâve got to find out if something is really true or not. Itâs a bore about the money. Whatâs maddening is that Iâm really quite rich. My guardian told me so. But all they give me is a measly dress allowance. And that seems to go as soon as I get it.â

âWouldnât your guardianâColonel Thingummybobâlend you some money?â

âThat wouldnât do at all. Heâd ask a lot of questions and want to know what I wanted it for.â

âOh, dear, I suppose he would. I canât think why everybody wants to ask so many questions. Do you know that if somebody rings me up, Mummy has to ask who it is? When it really is no business of hers!â

Elvira agreed, but her mind was on another tack.

âHave you ever pawned anything, Bridget?â

âNever. I donât think Iâd know how to.â

âItâs quite easy, I believe,â said Elvira. âYou go to the sort of jeweller who has three balls over the door, isnât that right?â

âI donât think Iâve got anything that would be any good taking to a pawnbroker,â said Bridget.

âHasnât your mother got some jewellery somewhere?â

âI donât think weâd better ask her to help.â

âNo, perhaps notâBut we could pinch something perhaps.â

âOh, I donât think we could do that,â said Bridget, shocked.

âNo? Well, perhaps youâre right. But I bet she wouldnât notice. We could get it back before she missed it. I know. Weâll go to Mr. Bollard.â

âWhoâs Mr. Bollard?â

âOh, heâs a sort of family jeweller. I take my watch there always to have it mended. Heâs known me ever since I was six. Come on, Bridget, weâll go there right away. Weâll just have time.â

âWeâd better go out the back way,â said Bridget, âand then Mummy wonât ask us where weâre going.â

Outside the old established business of Bollard and Whitley in Bond Street the two girls made their final arrangements.

âAre you sure you understand, Bridget?â

âI think so,â said Bridget in a far from happy voice.

âFirst,â said Elvira, âwe synchronize our watches.â

Bridget brightened up a little. This familiar literary phrase had a heartening effect. They solemnly synchronized their watches, Bridget adjusting hers by one minute.

âZero hour will be twenty-five past exactly,â said Elvira.

âThat will give me plenty of time. Perhaps even more than I need, but itâs better that way about.â

âBut supposingââ began Bridget.

âSupposing what?â asked Elvira.

âWell, I mean, supposing I really got run over?â

âOf course you wonât get run over,â said Elvira. âYou know how nippy you are on your feet, and all London traffic is used to pulling up suddenly. Itâll be all right.â

Bridget looked far from convinced.

âYou wonât let me down, Bridget, will you?â

âAll right,â said Bridget, âI wonât let you down.â

âGood,â said Elvira.

Bridget crossed to the other side of Bond Street and Elvira pushed open the doors of Messrs. Bollard and Whitley, old established jewellers and watchmakers. Inside there was a beautiful and hushed atmosphere. A frock-coated nobleman came forward and asked Elvira what he could do for her.

âCould I see Mr. Bollard?â

âMr. Bollard. What name shall I say?â

âMiss Elvira Blake.â

The nobleman disappeared and Elvira drifted to a counter where, below plate glass, brooches, rings and bracelets showed off their jewelled proportions against suitable shades of velvet. In a very few moments Mr. Bollard made his appearance. He was the senior partner of the firm, an elderly man of sixty odd. He greeted Elvira with warm friendliness.

âAh, Miss Blake, so you are in London. Itâs a great pleasure to see you. Now what can I do for you?â

Elvira produced a dainty little evening wristwatch.

âThis watch doesnât go properly,â said Elvira. âCould you do something to it?â

âOh yes, of course. Thereâs no difficulty about that.â Mr. Bollard took it from her. âWhat address shall I send it to?â

Elvira gave the address.

âAnd thereâs another thing,â she said. âMy guardianâColonel Luscombe you knowââ

âYes, yes, of course.â

âHe asked me what Iâd like for a Christmas present,â said Elvira. âHe suggested I should come in here and look at some different things. He said would I like him to come with me, and I said Iâd rather come along firstâbecause I always think itâs rather embarrassing, donât you? I mean, prices and all that.â

âWell, thatâs certainly one aspect,â said Mr. Bollard, beaming in an avuncular manner. âNow what had you in mind, Miss Blake? A brooch, braceletâa ring?â

âI think really brooches are more useful,â said Elvira. âBut I wonderâcould I look at a lot of things?â She looked up at him appealingly. He smiled sympathetically.

âOf course, of course. No pleasure at all if one has to make up oneâs mind too quickly, is it?â

The next five minutes were spent very agreeably. Nothing was too much trouble for Mr. Bollard. He fetched things from one case and another, brooches and bracelets piled up on the piece of velvet spread in front of Elvira. Occasionally she turned aside to look at herself in a mirror, trying the effect of a brooch or a pendant. Finally, rather uncertainly, a pretty little bangle, a small diamond wristwatch and two brooches were laid aside.

âWeâll make a note of these,â said Mr. Bollard, âand then when Colonel Luscombe is in London next, perhaps heâll come in and see what he decides himself heâd like to give you.â

âI think that way will be very nice,â said Elvira. âThen heâll feel more that heâs chosen my present himself, wonât he?â Her limpid blue gaze was raised to the jewellerâs face. That same blue gaze had registered a moment earlier that the time was now exactly twenty-five minutes past the hour.

Outside there was the squealing of brakes and a girlâs loud scream. Inevitably the eyes of everyone in the shop turned towards the windows of the shop giving on Bond Street. The movement of Elviraâs hand on the counter in front of her and then to the pocket of her neat tailor-made coat and skirt was so rapid and unobtrusive as to be almost unnoticeable, even if anybody had been looking.

âTcha, tcha,â said Mr. Bollard, turning back from where he had been peering out into the street. âVery nearly an accident. Silly girl! Rushing across the road like that.â

Elvira was already moving towards the door. She looked at her wristwatch and uttered an exclamation.

âOh dear, Iâve been far too long in here. I shall miss my train back to the country. Thank you so much, Mr. Bollard, and you wonât forget which the four things are, will you?â

In another minute, she was out of the door. Turning rapidly to the left and then to the left again, she stopped in the arcade of a shoe shop until Bridget, rather breathless, rejoined her.

âOh,â said Bridget, âI was terrified. I thought I was going to be killed. And Iâve torn a hole in my stocking, too.â

âNever mind,â said Elvira and walked her friend rapidly along the street and round yet another corner to the right. âCome on.â

âIs itâwas itâall right?â

Elviraâs hand slipped into her pocket and out again showing the diamond and sapphire bracelet in her palm.

âOh, Elvira, how you dared!â

âNow, Bridget, youâve got to get along to that pawnshop we marked down. Go in and see how much you can get for this. Ask for a hundred.â

âDo you thinkâsupposing they sayâI meanâI mean, it might be on a list of stolen thingsââ

âDonât be silly. How could it be on a list so soon? They havenât even noticed itâs gone yet.â

âBut Elvira, when they do notice itâs gone, theyâll thinkâperhaps theyâll knowâthat you must have taken it.â

âThey might think soâif they discover it soon.â

âWell, then theyâll go to the police andââ

She stopped as Elvira shook her head slowly, her pale yellow hair swinging to and fro and a faint enigmatic smile curving up the corners of her mouth.

âThey wonât go to the police, Bridget. Certainly not if they think I took it.â

âWhyâyou meanâ?â

âAs I told you, Iâm going to have a lot of money when Iâm twenty-one. I shall be able to buy lots of jewels from them. They wonât make a scandal. Go on and get the money quick. Then go to Aer Lingus and book the ticketâI must take a taxi to Prunierâs. Iâm already ten minutes late. Iâll be with you tomorrow morning by half past ten.â

âOh, Elvira, I wish you wouldnât take such frightful risks,â moaned Bridget.

But Elvira had hailed a taxi.

II

Miss Marple had a very enjoyable time at Robinson & Cleaverâs. Besides purchasing expensive but delicious sheetsâshe loved linen sheets with their texture and their coolnessâshe also indulged in a purchase of good quality red-bordered glass cloths. Really the difficulty in getting proper glass cloths nowadays! Instead, you were offered things that might as well have been ornamental tablecloths, decorated with radishes or lobsters or the Tour Eiffel or Trafalgar Square, or else littered with lemons and oranges. Having given her address in St. Mary Mead, Miss Marple found a convenient bus which took her to the Army & Navy Stores.

The Army & Navy Stores had been a haunt of Miss Marpleâs aunt in days long gone. It was not, of course, quite the same nowadays. Miss Marple cast her thoughts back to Aunt Helen seeking out her own special man in the grocery department, settling herself comfortably in a chair, wearing a bonnet and what she always called her âblack poplinâ mantle. Then there would ensue a long hour with nobody in a hurry and Aunt Helen thinking of every conceivable grocery that could be purchased and stored up for future use. Christmas was provided for, and there was even a far-off look towards Easter. The young Jane had fidgeted somewhat, and had been told to go and look at the glass department by way of amusement.

Having finished her purchases, Aunt Helen would then proceed to lengthy inquiries about her chosen shop-assistantâs mother, wife, second boy and crippled sister-in-law. Having had a thoroughly pleasant morning, Aunt Helen would say in the playful manner of those times, âAnd how would a little girl feel about some luncheon?â Whereupon they went up in the lift to the fourth floor and had luncheon which always finished with a strawberry ice. After that, they bought half a pound of coffee chocolate creams and went to a matinÃ©e in a four wheeler.

Of course, the Army & Navy Stores had had a good many face lifts since those days. In fact, it was now quite unrecognizable from the old times. It was gayer and much brighter. Miss Marple, though throwing a kindly and indulgent smile at the past, did not object to the amenities of the present. There was still a restaurant, and there she repaired to order her lunch.

As she was looking carefully down the menu and deciding what to have, she looked across the room and her eyebrows went up a little. How extraordinary coincidence was! Here was a woman she had never seen till the day before, though she had seen plenty of newspaper photographs of herâat race meetings, in Bermuda, or standing by her own plane or car. Yesterday, for the first time, she had seen her in the flesh. And now, as was so often the case, there was the coincidence of running into her again in a most unlikely place. For somehow she did not connect lunch at the Army & Navy Stores with Bess Sedgwick. She would not have been surprised to see Bess Sedgwick emerging from a den in Soho, or stepping out of Covent Garden Opera House in evening dress with a diamond tiara on her head. But somehow, not in the Army & Navy Stores which in Miss Marpleâs mind was, and always would be, connected with the armed forces, their wives, daughters, aunts and grandmothers. Still, there Bess Sedgwick was, looking as usual very smart, in her dark suit and her emerald shirt, lunching at a table with a man. A young man with a lean hawklike face, wearing a black leather jacket. They were leaning forward talking earnestly together, forking in mouthfuls of food as though they were quite unaware what they were eating.

An assignation, perhaps? Yes, probably an assignation. The man must be fifteen or twenty years younger than she wasâbut Bess Sedgwick was a magnetically attractive woman.

Miss Marple looked at the young man consideringly and decided that he was what she called a âhandsome fellow.â She also decided that she didnât like him very much. âJust like Harry Russell,â said Miss Marple to herself, dredging up a prototype as usual from the past. âNever up to any good. Never did any woman who had anything to do with him any good either.

âShe wouldnât take advice from me,â thought Miss Marple, âbut I could give her some.â However, other peopleâs love affairs were no concern of hers, and Bess Sedgwick, by all accounts, could take care of herself very well when it came to love affairs.

Miss Marple sighed, ate her lunch, and meditated a visit to the stationery department.

Curiosity, or what she preferred herself to call âtaking an interestâ in other peopleâs affairs, was undoubtedly one of Miss Marpleâs characteristics.

Deliberately leaving her gloves on the table, she rose and crossed the floor to the cash desk, taking a route that passed close to Lady Sedgwickâs table. Having paid her bill she âdiscoveredâ the absence of her gloves and returned to get themâunfortunately dropping her handbag on the return route. It came open and spilled various oddments. A waitress rushed to assist her in picking them up, and Miss Marple was forced to show a great shakiness and dropped coppers and keys a second time.

She did not get very much by these subterfuges but they were not entirely in vainâand it was interesting that neither of the two objects of her curiosity spared as much as a glance for the dithery old lady who kept dropping things.

As Miss Marple waited for the lift down she memorized such scraps as she had heard.

âWhat about the weather forecast?â

âOK. No fog.â

âAll set for Lucerne?â

âYes. Plane leaves 9:40.â

That was all she had got the first time. On the way back it had lasted a little longer.

Bess Sedgwick had been speaking angrily.

âWhat possessed you to come to Bertramâs yesterdayâyou shouldnât have come near the place.â

âItâs all right. I asked if you were staying there and everyone knows weâre close friendsââ

âThatâs not the point. Bertramâs is all right for meâNot for you. You stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone stares at you.â

âLet them!â

âYou really are an idiot. Whyâwhy? What reasons did you have? You had a reasonâI know youâ¦.â

âCalm down, Bess.â

âYouâre such a liar!â

That was all she had been able to hear. She found it interesting.

Chapter Seven

On the evening of 19th November Canon Pennyfather had finished an early dinner at the Athenaeum, he had nodded to one or two friends, had had a pleasant acrimonious discussion on some crucial points of the dating of the Dead Sea Scrolls and now, glancing at his watch, saw that it was time to leave to catch his plane to Lucerne. As he passed through the hall he was greeted by one more friend: Dr. Whittaker of the SOAS, who said cheerfully:

âHow are you, Pennyfather? Havenât seen you for a long time. How did you get on at the Congress? Any points of interest come up?â

âI am sure there will be.â

âJust come back from it, havenât you?â

âNo, no, I am on my way there. Iâm catching a plane this evening.â

âOh I see.â Whittaker looked slightly puzzled. âSomehow or other I thought the Congress was today.â

âNo, no. Tomorrow, the 19th.â

Canon Pennyfather passed out through the door while his friend, looking after him, was just saying:

âBut my dear chap, today is the 19th, isnât it?â

Canon Pennyfather, however, had gone beyond earshot. He picked up a taxi in Pall Mall, and was driven to the air terminal in Kensington. There was quite a fair crowd this evening. Presenting himself at the desk it at last came to his turn. He managed to produce ticket and passport and other necessities for the journey. The girl behind the desk, about to stamp these credentials, paused abruptly.

âI beg your pardon, sir, this seems to be the wrong ticket.â

âThe wrong ticket? No, no, that is quite right. Flight one hundred andâwell, I canât really read without my glassesâone hundred and something to Lucerne.â

âItâs the date, sir. This is dated Wednesday the 18th.â

âNo, no, surely. At leastâI meanâtoday is Wednesday the 18th.â

âIâm sorry, sir. Today is the 19th.â

âThe 19th!â The Canon was dismayed. He fished out a small diary, turning the pages eagerly. In the end he had to be convinced. Today was the 19th. The plane he had meant to catch had gone yesterday.

âThen that meansâthat meansâdear me, it means the Congress at Lucerne has taken place today.â

He stared in deep dismay across the counter; but there were many others travelling; the Canon and his perplexities were elbowed aside. He stood sadly, holding the useless ticket in his hand. His mind ranged over various possibilities. Perhaps his ticket could be changed? But that would be no useâno indeedâwhat time was it now? Going on for 9 oâclock? The conference had actually taken place; starting at 10 oâclock this morning. Of course, that was what Whittaker had meant at the Athenaeum. He thought Canon Pennyfather had already been to the Congress.

âOh dear, oh dear,â said Canon Pennyfather, to himself. âWhat a muddle I have made of it all!â He wandered sadly and silently into the Cromwell Road, not at its best a very cheerful place.

He walked slowly along the street carrying his bag and revolving perplexities in his mind. When at last he had worked out to his satisfaction the various reasons for which he had made a mistake in the day, he shook his head sadly.

âNow, I suppose,â he said to himself, âI supposeâlet me see, itâs after nine oâclock, yes, I suppose I had better have something to eat.â

It was curious, he thought, that he did not feel hungry.

Wandering disconsolately along the Cromwell Road he finally settled upon a small restaurant which served Indian curries. It seemed to him that though he was not quite as hungry as he ought to be, he had better keep his spirits up by having a meal, and after that he must find a hotel andâbut no, there was no need to do that. He had a hotel! Of course. He was staying at Bertramâs; and had reserved his room for four days. What a piece of luck! What a splendid piece of luck! So his room was there, waiting for him. He had only to ask for his key at the desk andâhere another reminiscence assailed him. Something heavy in his pocket?

He dipped his hand in and brought out one of those large and solid keys with which hotels try and discourage their vaguer guests from taking them away in their pockets. It had not prevented the Canon from doing so!

âNo. 19,â said the Canon, in happy recognition. âThatâs right. Itâs very fortunate that I havenât got to go and find a room in a hotel. They say theyâre very crowded just now. Yes, Edmunds was saying so at the Athenaeum this evening. He had a terrible job finding a room.â

Somewhat pleased with himself and the care he had taken over his travelling arrangements by booking a hotel beforehand, the Canon abandoned his curry, remembered to pay for it, and strode out once more into the Cromwell Road.

It seemed a little tame to go home just like this when he ought to have been dining in Lucerne and talking about all sorts of interesting and fascinating problems. His eye was caught by a cinema.

Walls of Jericho.

It seemed an eminently suitable title. It would be interesting to see if biblical accuracy had been preserved.

He bought himself a seat and stumbled into the darkness. He enjoyed the film, though it seemed to him to have no relationship to the biblical story whatsoever. Even Joshua seemed to have been left out. The walls of Jericho seemed to be a symbolical way of referring to a certain ladyâs marriage vows. When they had tumbled down several times, the beautiful star met the dour and uncouth hero whom she had secretly loved all along and between them they proposed to build up the walls in a way that would stand the test of time better. It was not a film destined particularly to appeal to an elderly clergyman; but Canon Pennyfather enjoyed it very much. It was not the sort of film he often saw and he felt it was enlarging his knowledge of life. The film ended, the lights went up, the National Anthem was played and Canon Pennyfather stumbled out into the lights of London, slightly consoled for the sad events of earlier in the evening.

It was a fine night and he walked home to Bertramâs Hotel after first getting into a bus which took him in the opposite direction. It was midnight when he got in and Bertramâs Hotel at midnight usually preserved a decorous appearance of everyone having gone to bed. The lift was on a higher floor so the Canon walked up the stairs. He came to his room, inserted the key in the lock, threw the door open and entered!

Good gracious, was he seeing things? But whoâhowâhe saw the upraised arm too lateâ¦.

Stars exploded in a kind of Guy Fawkesâ display within his headâ¦.

Chapter Eight

I

The Irish Mail rushed through the night. Or, more correctly, through the darkness of the early morning hours.

At intervals the diesel engine gave its weird banshee warning cry. It was travelling at well over eighty miles an hour. It was on time.

Then, with some suddenness, the pace slackened as the brakes came on. The wheels screamed as they gripped the metals. Slowerâ¦slowerâ¦The guard put his head out of the window noting the red signal ahead as the train came to a final halt. Some of the passengers woke up. Most did not.

One elderly lady, alarmed by the suddenness of the deceleration, opened the door and looked out along the corridor. A little way along one of the doors to the line was open. An elderly cleric with a thatch of thick white hair was climbing up from the permanent way. She presumed he had previously climbed down to the line to investigate. The morning air was distinctly chilly. Someone at the end of the corridor said: âOnly a signal.â The elderly lady withdrew into her compartment and tried to go to sleep again.

Farther up the line, a man waving a lantern was running towards the train from a signal box. The fireman climbed down from the engine. The guard who had descended from the train came along to join him. The man with the lantern arrived, rather short of breath and spoke in a series of gasps.

âBad crash aheadâ¦Goods train derailedâ¦.â

The engine driver looked out of his cab, then climbed down also to join the others.

At the rear of the train, six men who had just climbed up the embankment boarded the train through a door left open for them in the last coach. Six passengers from different coaches met them. With well-rehearsed speed, they proceeded to take charge of the postal van, isolating it from the rest of the train. Two men in Balaclava helmets at front and rear of the compartment stood on guard, coshes in hand.

A man in railway uniform went forward along the corridor of the stationary train, uttering explanations to such as demanded them.

âBlock on the line ahead. Ten minutesâ delay, maybe, not much moreâ¦.â It sounded friendly and reassuring.

By the engine, the driver and the fireman lay neatly gagged and trussed up. The man with the lantern called out:

âEverything OK here.â

The guard lay by the embankment, similarly gagged and tied.

The expert cracksmen in the postal van had done their work. Two more neatly trussed bodies lay on the floor. The special mailbags sailed out to where other men on the embankment awaited them.

In their compartments, passengers grumbled to each other that the railways were not what they used to be.

Then, as they settled themselves to sleep again, there came through the darkness the roar of an exhaust.

âGoodness,â murmured a woman. âIs that a jet plane?â

âRacing car, I should say.â

The roar died awayâ¦.

II

On the Bedhampton Motorway, nine miles away, a steady stream of night lorries was grinding its way north. A big white racing car flashed past them.

Ten minutes later, it turned off the motorway.

The garage on the corner of the B road bore the sign CLOSED. But the big doors swung open and the white car was driven straight in, the doors closing again behind it. Three men worked at lightning speed. A fresh set of number plates were attached. The driver changed his coat and cap. He had worn white sheepskin before. Now he wore black leather. He drove out again. Three minutes after his departure, an old Morris Oxford, driven by a clergyman, chugged out onto the road and proceeded to take a route through various turning and twisting country lanes.

A station wagon, driven along a country road, slowed up as it came upon an old Morris Oxford stationary by the hedge, with an elderly man standing over it.

The driver of the station wagon put out a head.

âHaving trouble? Can I help?â

âVery good of you. Itâs my lights.â

The two drivers approached each otherâlistened. âAll clear.â

Various expensive American-style cases were transferred from the Morris Oxford to the station wagon.

A mile or two farther on, the station wagon turned off on what looked like a rough track but which presently turned out to be the back way to a large and opulent mansion. In what had been a stableyard, a big white Mercedes car was standing. The driver of the station wagon opened its boot with a key, transferred the cases to the boot, and drove away again in the station wagon.

In a nearby farmyard a cock crowed noisily.

Chapter Nine

I

Elvira Blake looked up at the sky, noted that it was a fine morning and went into a telephone box. She dialled Bridgetâs number in Onslow Square. Satisfied by the response, she said:

âHallo? Bridget?â

âOh Elvira, is that you?â Bridgetâs voice sounded agitated.

âYes. Has everything been all right?â

âOh no. Itâs been awful. Your cousin, Mrs. Melford, rang up Mummy yesterday afternoon.â

âWhat, about me?â

âYes. I thought Iâd done it so well when I rang her up at lunchtime. But it seems she got worried about your teeth. Thought there might be something really wrong with them. Abscesses or something. So she rang up the dentist herself and found, of course, that youâd never been there at all. So then she rang up Mummy and unfortunately Mummy was right there by the telephone. So I couldnât get there first. And naturally Mummy said she didnât know anything about it, and that you certainly werenât staying here. I didnât know what to do.â

âWhat did you do?â

âPretended I knew nothing about it. I did say that I thought youâd said something about going to see some friends at Wimbledon.â

âWhy Wimbledon?â

âIt was the first place came into my head.â

Elvira sighed. âOh well, I suppose Iâll have to cook up something. An old governess, perhaps, who lives at Wimbledon. All this fussing does make things so complicated. I hope Cousin Mildred doesnât make a real fool of herself and ring up the police or something like that.â

âAre you going down there now?â

âNot till this evening. Iâve got a lot to do first.â

âYou got to Ireland. Was itâall right?â

âI found out what I wanted to know.â

âYou soundâsort of grim.â

âIâm feeling grim.â

âCanât I help you, Elvira? Do anything?â

âNobody can help me reallyâ¦Itâs a thing I have to do myself. I hoped something wasnât true, but it is true. I donât know quite what to do about it.â

âAre you in danger, Elvira?â

âDonât be melodramatic, Bridget. Iâll have to be careful, thatâs all. Iâll have to be very careful.â

âThen you are in danger.â

Elvira said after a momentâs pause, âI expect Iâm just imagining things, thatâs all.â

âElvira, what are you going to do about that bracelet?â

âOh, thatâs all right. Iâve arranged to get some money from someone, so I can go andâwhatâs the wordâredeem it. Then just take it back to Bollards.â

âDâyou think theyâll be all right about it?âNo, Mummy, itâs just the laundry. They say we never sent that sheet. Yes, Mummy, yes, Iâll tell the manageress. All right then.â

At the other end of the line Elvira grinned and put down the receiver. She opened her purse, sorted through her money, counted out the coins she needed and arranged them in front of her and proceeded to put through a call. When she got the number she wanted she put in the necessary coins, pressed Button A and spoke in a small rather breathless voice.

âHallo, Cousin Mildred. Yes, itâs meâ¦Iâm terribly sorryâ¦Yes, I knowâ¦well I was going toâ¦yes it was dear old Maddy, you know our old Mademoiselleâ¦yes I wrote a postcard, then I forgot to post it. Itâs still in my pocket nowâ¦well, you see she was ill and there was no one to look after her and so I just stopped to see she was all right. Yes, I was going to Bridgetâs but this changed thingsâ¦I donât understand about the message you got. Someone must have jumbled it upâ¦Yes, Iâll explain it all to you when I get backâ¦yes, this afternoon. No, I shall just wait and see the nurse whoâs coming to look after old Maddyâwell, not really a nurse. You know one of thoseâerâpractical aid nurses or something like that. No, she would hate to go to hospitalâ¦But I am sorry, Cousin Mildred, I really am very, very sorry.â She put down the receiver and sighed in an exasperated manner. âIf only,â she murmured to herself, âone didnât have to tell so many lies to everybody.â

She came out of the telephone box, noting as she did so the big newspaper placardsâBIG TRAIN ROBBERY. IRISH MAIL ATTACKED BY BANDITS.

II

Mr. Bollard was serving a customer when the shop door opened. He looked up to see the Honourable Elvira Blake entering.

âNo,â she said to an assistant who came forward to her. âIâd rather wait until Mr. Bollard is free.â

Presently Mr. Bollardâs customerâs business was concluded and Elvira moved into the vacant place.

âGood morning, Mr. Bollard,â she said.

âIâm afraid your watch isnât done quite as soon as this, Miss Elvira,â said Mr. Bollard.

âOh, itâs not the watch,â said Elvira. âIâve come to apologize. A dreadful thing happened.â She opened her bag and took out a small box. From it she extracted the sapphire and diamond bracelet. âYou will remember when I came in with my watch to be repaired that I was looking at things for a Christmas present and there was an accident outside in the street. Somebody was run over I think, or nearly run over. I suppose I must have had the bracelet in my hand and put it into the pocket of my suit without thinking, although I only found it this morning. So I rushed along at once to bring it back. Iâm so terribly sorry, Mr. Bollard, I donât know how I came to do such an idiotic thing.â

âWhy, thatâs quite all right, Miss Elvira,â said Mr. Bollard, slowly.

âI suppose you thought someone had stolen it,â said Elvira.

Her limpid blue eyes met him.

âWe had discovered its loss,â said Mr. Bollard. âThank you very much, Miss Elvira, for bringing it back so promptly.â

âI felt simply awful about it when I found it,â said Elvira. âWell, thank you very much, Mr. Bollard, for being so nice about it.â

âA lot of strange mistakes do occur,â said Mr. Bollard. He smiled at her in an avuncular manner. âWe wonât think of it anymore. But donât do it again, though.â He laughed with the air of one making a genial little joke.

âOh no,â said Elvira, âI shall be terribly careful in future.â

She smiled at him, turned and left the shop.

âNow I wonder,â said Mr. Bollard to himself, âI really do wonderâ¦.â

One of his partners, who had been standing near, moved nearer to him.

âSo she did take it?â he said.

âYes. She took it all right,â said Mr. Bollard.

âBut she brought it back,â his partner pointed out.

âShe brought it back,â agreed Mr. Bollard. âI didnât actually expect that.â

âYou mean you didnât expect her to bring it back?â

âNo, not if it was she whoâd taken it.â

âDo you think her story is true?â his partner inquired curiously. âI mean, that she slipped it into her pocket by accident?â

âI suppose itâs possible,â said Bollard, thoughtfully.

âOr it could be kleptomania, I suppose.â

âOr it could be kleptomania,â agreed Bollard. âItâs more likely that she took it on purposeâ¦But if so, why did she bring it back so soon? Itâs curiousââ

âJust as well we didnât notify the police. I admit I wanted to.â

âI know, I know. You havenât got as much experience as I have. In this case, it was definitely better not.â He added softly to himself, âThe thingâs interesting, though. Quite interesting. I wonder how old she is? Seventeen or eighteen I suppose. She might have got herself in a jam of some kind.â

âI thought you said she was rolling in money.â

âYou may be an heiress and rolling in money,â said Bollard, âbut at seventeen you canât always get your hands on it. The funny thing is, you know, they keep heiresses much shorter of cash than they keep the more impecunious. Itâs not always a good idea. Well, I donât suppose we shall ever know the truth of it.â

He put the bracelet back in its place in the display case and shut down the lid.

Chapter Ten

The offices of Egerton, Forbes & Wilborough were in Bloomsbury, in one of those imposing and dignified squares which have as yet not felt the wind of change. Their brass plate was suitably worn down to illegibility. The firm had been going for over a hundred years and a good proportion of the landed gentry of England were their clients. There was no Forbes in the firm anymore and no Wilboroughs. Instead there were Atkinsons, father and son, and a Welsh Lloyd and a Scottish McAllister. There was, however, still an Egerton, descendant of the original Egerton. This particular Egerton was a man of fifty-two and he was adviser to several families which had in their day been advised by his grandfather, his uncle, and his father.

At this moment he was sitting behind a large mahogany desk in his handsome room on the first floor, speaking kindly but firmly to a dejected looking client. Richard Egerton was a handsome man, tall, dark with a touch of grey at the temples and very shrewd grey eyes. His advice was always good advice, but he seldom minced his words.

âQuite frankly you havenât got a leg to stand upon, Freddie,â he was saying. âNot with those letters youâve written.â

âYou donât thinkââ Freddie murmured dejectedly.

âNo, I donât,â said Egerton. âThe only hope is to settle out of court. It might even be held that youâve rendered yourself liable to criminal prosecution.â

âOh, look here, Richard, thatâs carrying things a bit far.â

There was a small discreet buzz on Egertonâs desk. He picked up the telephone receiver with a frown.

âI thought I said I wasnât to be disturbed.â

There was a murmur at the other end. Egerton said, âOh. YesâYes, I see. Ask her to wait, will you.â

He replaced the receiver and turned once more to his unhappy looking client.

âLook here, Freddie,â he said, âI know the law and you donât. Youâre in a nasty jam. Iâll do my best to get you out of it, but itâs going to cost you a bit. I doubt if theyâd settle for less than twelve thousand.â

âTwelve thousand!â The unfortunate Freddie was aghast. âOh, I say! I havenât got it, Richard.â

âWell, youâll have to raise it then. There are always ways and means. If sheâll settle for twelve thousand, youâll be lucky, and if you fight the case itâll cost you a lot more.â

âYou lawyers!â said Freddie. âSharks, all of you!â

He rose to his feet. âWell,â he said, âdo your bloody best for me, Richard old boy.â

He took his departure, shaking his head sadly. Richard Egerton put Freddie and his affairs out of his mind, and thought about his next client. He said softly to himself, âThe Honourable Elvira Blake. I wonder what sheâs likeâ¦â He lifted his receiver. âLord Frederickâs gone. Send up Miss Blake, will you.â

As he waited he made little calculations on his desk pad. How many years sinceâ? She must be fifteenâseventeenâperhaps even more than that. Time went so fast. âConistonâs daughter,â he thought, âand Bessâs daughter. I wonder which of them she takes after?â

The door opened, the clerk announced Miss Elvira Blake and the girl walked into the room. Egerton rose from his chair and came towards her. In appearance, he thought, she did not resemble either of her parents. Tall, slim, very fair, Bessâs colouring but none of Bessâs vitality, with an old-fashioned air about her; though that was difficult to be sure of, since the fashion in dress happened at the moment to be ruffles and baby bodices.

âWell, well,â he said, as he shook hands with her. âThis is a surprise. Last time I saw you, you were eleven years old. Come and sit here.â He pulled forward a chair and she sat down.

âI suppose,â said Elvira, a little uncertainly, âthat I ought to have written first. Written and made an appointment. Something like that, but I really made up my mind very suddenly and it seemed an opportunity, since I was in London.â

âAnd what are you doing in London?â

âHaving my teeth seen to.â

âBeastly things, teeth,â said Egerton. âGive us trouble from the cradle to the grave. But I am grateful for the teeth, if it gives me an opportunity of seeing you. Let me see now; youâve been in Italy, havenât you, finishing your education there at one of these places all girls go to nowadays?â

âYes,â said Elvira, âthe Contessa Martinelli. But Iâve left there now for good. Iâm living with the Melfords in Kent until I make up my mind if thereâs anything Iâd like to do.â

âWell, I hope youâll find something satisfactory. Youâre not thinking of a university or anything like that?â

âNo,â said Elvira, âI donât think Iâd be clever enough for that.â She paused before saying, âI suppose youâd have to agree to anything if I did want to do it?â

Egertonâs keen eyes focused sharply.

âI am one of your guardians, and a trustee under your fatherâs will, yes,â he said. âTherefore, you have a perfect right to approach me at anytime.â

Elvira said, âThank you,â politely. Egerton asked:

âIs there anything worrying you?â

âNo. Not really. But you see, I donât know anything. Nobodyâs ever told me things. One doesnât always like to ask.â

He looked at her attentively.

âYou mean things about yourself?â

âYes,â said Elvira. âItâs kind of you to understand. Uncle Derekââ she hesitated.

âDerek Luscombe, you mean?â

âYes. Iâve always called him uncle.â

âI see.â

âHeâs very kind,â said Elvira, âbut heâs not the sort of person who ever tells you anything. He just arranges things, and looks a little worried in case they mightnât be what Iâd like. Of course he listens to a lot of peopleâwomen, I meanâwho tell him things. Like Contessa Martinelli. He arranges for me to go to schools or to finishing places.â

âAnd they havenât been where you wanted to go?â

âNo, I didnât mean that. Theyâve been quite all right. I mean theyâve been more or less where everyone else goes.â

âI see.â

âBut I donât know anything about myself, I mean what money Iâve got, and how much, and what I could do with it if I wanted.â

âIn fact,â said Egerton, with his attractive smile, âyou want to talk business. Is that it? Well, I think youâre quite right. Letâs see. How old are you? Sixteenâseventeen?â

âIâm nearly twenty.â

âOh dear. Iâd no idea.â

âYou see,â explained Elvira, âI feel all the time that Iâm being shielded and sheltered. Itâs nice in a way, but it can get very irritating.â

âItâs an attitude thatâs gone out of date,â agreed Egerton, âbut I can quite see that it would appeal to Derek Luscombe.â

âHeâs a dear,â said Elvira, âbut very difficult, somehow, to talk to seriously.â

âYes, I can see that that might be so. Well, how much do you know about yourself, Elvira? About your family circumstances?â

âI know that my father died when I was five and that my mother had run away from him with someone when I was about two, I donât remember her at all. I barely remember my father. He was very old and had his leg up on a chair. He used to swear. I was rather scared of him. After he died I lived first with an aunt or a cousin or something of my fatherâs, until she died, and then I lived with Uncle Derek and his sister. But then she died and I went to Italy. Uncle Derek has arranged for me, now, to live with the Melfords who are his cousins and very kind and nice and have two daughters about my age.â

âYouâre happy there?â

âI donât know yet. Iâve barely got there. Theyâre all very dull. I really wanted to know how much money Iâve got.â

âSo itâs financial information you really want?â

âYes,â said Elvira. âIâve got some money. Is it a lot?â

Egerton was serious now.

âYes,â he said. âYouâve got a lot of money. Your father was a very rich man. You were his only child. When he died, the title and the estate went to a cousin. He didnât like the cousin, so he left all his personal property, which was considerable, to his daughterâto you, Elvira. Youâre a very rich woman, or will be, when you are twenty-one.â

âYou mean I am not rich now?â

âYes,â said Egerton, âyouâre rich now, but the money is not yours to dispose of until you are twenty-one or marry. Until that time it is in the hands of your Trustees. Luscombe, myself and another.â He smiled at her. âWe havenât embezzled it or anything like that. Itâs still there. In fact, weâve increased your capital considerably by investments.â

âHow much will I have?â

âAt the age of twenty-one or upon your marriage, you will come into a sum which at a rough estimate would amount to six or seven hundred thousand pounds.â

âThat is a lot,â said Elvira, impressed.

âYes, it is a lot. Probably it is because it is such a lot that nobody has ever talked to you about it much.â

He watched her as she reflected upon this. Quite an interesting girl, he thought. Looked an unbelievably milk-and-water Miss, but she was more than that. A good deal more. He said, with a faintly ironic smile:

âDoes that satisfy you?â

She gave him a sudden smile.

âIt ought to, oughtnât it?â

âRather better than winning the pools,â he suggested.

She nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. Then she came out abruptly with a question.

âWho gets it if I die?â

âAs things stand now, it would go to your next of kin.â

âI meanâI couldnât make a will now, could I? Not until I was twenty-one. Thatâs what someone told me.â

âThey were quite right.â

âThatâs really rather annoying. If I was married and died I suppose my husband would get the money?â

âYes.â

âAnd if I wasnât married my mother would be my next of kin and get it. I really seem to have very few relationsâI donât even know my mother. What is she like?â

âSheâs a very remarkable woman,â said Egerton shortly. âEverybody would agree to that.â

âDidnât she ever want to see me?â

âShe may have doneâ¦I think itâs very possible that she did. But having made inâcertain waysârather a mess of her own life, she may have thought that it was better for you that you should be brought up quite apart from her.â

âDo you actually know that she thinks that?â

âNo. I donât really know anything about it.â

Elvira got up.

âThank you,â she said. âItâs very kind of you to tell me all this.â

âI think perhaps you ought to have been told more about things before,â said Egerton.

âItâs humiliating not to know things,â said Elvira. âUncle Derek, of course, thinks Iâm just a child.â

âWell, heâs not a very young man himself. He and I, you know, are well advanced in years. You must make allowances for us when we look at things from the point of view of our advanced age.â

Elvira stood looking at him for a moment or two.

âBut you donât think Iâm really a child, do you?â she said shrewdly, and added, âI expect you know rather more about girls than Uncle Derek does. He just lived with his sister.â Then she stretched out her hand and said, very prettily, âThank you so much. I hope I havenât interrupted some important work you had to do,â and went out.

Egerton stood looking at the door that had closed behind her. He pursed up his lips, whistled a moment, shook his head and sat down again, picked up a pen and tapped thoughtfully on his desk. He drew some papers towards him, then thrust them back and picked up his telephone.

âMiss Cordell, get me Colonel Luscombe, will you? Try his club first. And then the Shropshire address.â

He put back the receiver. Again he drew his papers towards him and started reading them but his mind was not on what he was doing. Presently his buzzer went.

âColonel Luscombe is on the wire now, Mr. Egerton.â

âRight. Put him through. Hallo, Derek. Richard Egerton here. How are you? Iâve just been having a visit from someone you know. A visit from your ward.â

âFrom Elvira?â Derek Luscombe sounded very surprised.

âYes.â

âBut whyâwhat on earthâwhat did she come to you for? Not in any trouble?â

âNo, I wouldnât say so. On the contrary, she seemed ratherâwell, pleased with herself. She wanted to know all about her financial position.â

âYou didnât tell her, I hope?â said Colonel Luscombe, in alarm.

âWhy not? Whatâs the point of secrecy?â

âWell, I canât help feeling itâs a little unwise for a girl to know that she is going to come into such a large amount of money.â

âSomebody else will tell her that, if we donât. Sheâs got to be prepared, you know. Money is a responsibility.â

âYes, but sheâs so much of a child still.â

âAre you sure of that?â

âWhat do you mean? Of course sheâs a child.â

âI wouldnât describe her as such. Whoâs the boyfriend?â

âI beg your pardon.â

âI said whoâs the boyfriend? There is a boyfriend in the offing, isnât there?â

âNo, indeed. Nothing of the sort. What on earth makes you think that?â

âNothing that she actually said. But Iâve got some experience, you know. I think youâll find there is a boyfriend.â

âWell, I can assure you youâre quite wrong. I mean, sheâs been most carefully brought up, sheâs been at very strict schools, sheâs been in a very select finishing establishment in Italy. I should know if there was anything of that kind going on. I dare say sheâs met one or two pleasant young fellows and all that, but Iâm sure thereâs been nothing of the kind you suggest.â

âWell, my diagnosis is a boyfriendâand probably an undesirable one.â

âBut why, Richard, why? What do you know about young girls?â

âQuite a lot,â said Egerton dryly. âIâve had three clients in the last year, two of whom were made wards of court and the third one managed to bully her parents into agreeing to an almost certainly disastrous marriage. Girls donât get looked after the way they used to be. Conditions are such that itâs very difficult to look after them at allââ

âBut I assure you Elvira has been most carefully looked after.â

âThe ingenuity of the young female of the species is beyond anything you could conjecture! You keep an eye on her, Derek. Make a few inquiries as to what sheâs been up to.â

âNonsense. Sheâs just a sweet simple girl.â

âWhat you donât know about sweet simple girls would fill an album! Her mother ran away and caused a scandalâremember?âwhen she was younger than Elvira is today. As for old Coniston, he was one of the worst rips in England.â

âYou upset me, Richard. You upset me very much.â

âYou might as well be warned. What I didnât quite like was one of her other questions. Why is she so anxious to know whoâd inherit her money if she dies?â

âItâs queer your saying that, because she asked me that same question.â

âDid she now? Why should her mind run on early death? She asked me about her mother, by the way.â

Colonel Luscombeâs voice sounded worried as he said: âI wish Bess would get in touch with the girl.â

âHave you been talking to her on the subjectâto Bess, I mean?â

âWell, yesâ¦Yes I did. I ran across her by chance. We were staying in the same hotel, as a matter of fact. I urged Bess to make some arrangements to see the girl.â

âWhat did she say?â asked Egerton curiously.

âRefused point-blank. She more or less said that she wasnât a safe person for the girl to know.â

âLooked at from one point of view I donât suppose she is,â said Egerton. âSheâs mixed-up with that racing fellow, isnât she?â

âIâve heard rumours.â

âYes, Iâve heard them too. I donât know if thereâs much in it really. There might be, I suppose. That could be why she feels as she does. Bessâs friends are strong meat from time to time! But what a woman she is, eh Derek? What a woman.â

âAlways been her own worst enemy,â said Derek Luscombe, gruffly.

âA really nice conventional remark,â said Egerton. âWell, sorry I bothered you, Derek, but keep a look out for undesirables in the background. Donât say you havenât been warned.â

He replaced the receiver and drew the pages on his desk towards him once more. This time he was able to put his whole attention on what he was doing.

Chapter Eleven

Mrs. McCrae, Canon Pennyfatherâs housekeeper, had ordered a Dover sole for the evening of his return. The advantages attached to a good Dover sole were manifold. It need not be introduced to the grill or frying pan until the Canon was safely in the house. It could be kept until the next day if necessary. Canon Pennyfather was fond of Dover sole; and, if a telephone call or telegram arrived saying that the Canon would after all be elsewhere on this particular evening, Mrs. McCrae was fond of a good Dover sole herself. All therefore was in good trim for the Canonâs return. The Dover sole would be followed by pancakes. The sole sat on the kitchen table, the batter for the pancakes was ready in a bowl. All was in readiness. The brass shone, the silver sparkled, not a minuscule of dust showed anywhere. There was only one thing lacking. The Canon himself.

The Canon was scheduled to return on the train arriving at 6:30 from London.

At 7 oâclock he had not returned. No doubt the train was late. At 7:30 he still had not returned. Mrs. McCrae gave a sigh of vexation. She suspected that this was going to be another of these things. Eight oâclock came and no Canon. Mrs. McCrae gave a long, exasperated sigh. Soon, no doubt, she would get a telephone call, though it was quite within the bounds of possibility that there would not be even a telephone call. He might have written to her. No doubt he had written, but he had probably omitted to post the letter.

âDear, dear!â said Mrs. McCrae.

At 9 oâclock she made herself three pancakes with the pancake batter. The sole she put carefully away in the Frigidaire. âI wonder where the good manâs got to now,â she said to herself. She knew by experience that he might be anywhere. The odds were that he would discover his mistake in time to telegraph her or telephone her before she retired to bed. âI shall sit up until 11 oâclock but no longer,â said Mrs. McCrae. Ten thirty was her bedtime, an extension to eleven she considered her duty, but if at eleven there was nothing, no word from the Canon, then Mrs. McCrae would duly lock up the house and betake herself to bed.

It cannot be said that she was worried. This sort of thing had happened before. There was nothing to be done but wait for news of some kind. The possibilities were numerous. Canon Pennyfather might have got on the wrong train and failed to discover his mistake until he was at Landâs End or John oâ Groats, or he might still be in London having made some mistake in the date, and was therefore convinced he was not returning until tomorrow. He might have met a friend or friends at this foreign conference he was going to and been induced to stay out there perhaps over the weekend. He would have meant to let her know but had entirely forgotten to do so. So, as has been already said, she was not worried. The day after tomorrow his old friend, Archdeacon Simmons, was coming to stay. That was the sort of thing the Canon did remember, so no doubt he himself or a telegram from him would arrive tomorrow and at latest he would be home on the day after, or there would be a letter.

The morning of the day after, however, arrived without a word from him. For the first time Mrs. McCrae began to be uneasy. Between 9 a.m. and 1 p.m. she eyed the telephone in a doubtful manner. Mrs. McCrae had her own fixed views about the telephone. She used it and recognized its convenience but she was not fond of the telephone. Some of her household shopping was done by telephone, though she much preferred to do it in person owing to a fixed belief that if you did not see what you were being given, a shopkeeper was sure to try and cheat you. Still, telephones were useful for domestic matters. She occasionally, though rarely, telephoned her friends or relations in the near neighbourhood. To make a call of any distance, or a London call, upset her severely. It was a shameful waste of money. Nevertheless, she began to meditate facing that problem.

Finally, when yet another day dawned without any news of him, she decided to act. She knew where the Canon was staying in London. Bertramâs Hotel. A nice old-fashioned place. It might be as well, perhaps, if she rang up and made certain inquiries. They would probably know where the Canon was. It was not an ordinary hotel. She would asked to be put through to Miss Gorringe. Miss Gorringe was always efficient and thoughtful. The Canon might, of course, return by the twelve thirty. If so he would be here any minute now.

But the minutes passed and there was no Canon. Mrs. McCrae took a deep breath, nerved herself and asked for a call to London. She waited, biting her lips and holding the receiver clamped firmly to her ear.

âBertramâs Hotel, at your service,â said a voice.

âI would like, if you please, to speak to Miss Gorringe,â said Mrs. McCrae.

âJust a moment. What name shall I say?â

âItâs Canon Pennyfatherâs housekeeper. Mrs. McCrae.â

âJust a moment please.â

Presently the calm and efficient voice of Miss Gorringe came through.

âMiss Gorringe here. Did you say Canon Pennyfatherâs housekeeper?â

âThatâs right. Mrs. McCrae.â

âOh yes. Of course. What can I do for you, Mrs. McCrae?â

âIs Canon Pennyfather staying at the hotel still?â

âIâm glad youâve rung up,â said Miss Gorringe. âWe have been rather worried as to what exactly to do.â

âDo you mean somethingâs happened to Canon Pennyfather? Has he had an accident?â

âNo, no, nothing of that kind. But we expected him back from Lucerne on Friday or Saturday.â

âEhâthatâd be right.â

âBut he didnât arrive. Well, of course that wasnât really surprising. He had booked his room onâbooked it, that is, until yesterday. He didnât come back yesterday or send any word and his things are still here. The major part of his baggage. We hadnât been quite sure what to do about it. Of course,â Miss Gorringe went on hastily, âwe know the Canon is, wellâsomewhat forgetful sometimes.â

âYou may well say that!â

âIt makes it a little difficult for us. We are so fully booked up. His room is actually booked for another guest.â She added: âYou have no idea where he is?â

With bitterness Mrs. McCrae said:

âThe man might be anywhere!â She pulled herself together. âWell, thank you, Miss Gorringe.â

âAnything I can doââ Miss Gorringe suggested helpfully.

âI dare say Iâll hear soon enough,â said Mrs. McCrae. She thanked Miss Gorringe again and rang off.

She sat by the telephone, looking upset. She did not fear for the Canonâs personal safety. If he had had an accident she would by now have been notified. She felt sure of that. On the whole the Canon was not what one could call accident prone. He was what Mrs. McCrae called to herself âone of the scatty ones,â and the scatty ones seemed always to be looked after by a special providence. Whilst taking no care or thought, they could still survive even a Panda crossing. No, she did not visualize Canon Pennyfather as lying groaning in a hospital. He was somewhere, no doubt innocently and happily prattling with some friend or other. Maybe he was abroad still. The difficulty was that Archdeacon Simmons was arriving this evening and Archdeacon Simmons would expect to find a host to receive him. She couldnât put Archdeacon Simmons off because she didnât know where he was. It was all very difficult, but it had, like most difficulties, its bright spot. Its bright spot was Archdeacon Simmons. Archdeacon Simmons would know what to do. She would place the matter in his hands.

Archdeacon Simmons was a complete contrast to her employer. He knew where he was going, and what he was doing, and was always cheerfully sure of knowing the right thing to be done and doing it. A confident cleric. Archdeacon Simmons, when he arrived, to be met by Mrs. McCraeâs explanations, apologies and perturbation, was a tower of strength. He, too, was not alarmed.

âNow donât you worry, Mrs. McCrae,â he said in his genial fashion, as he sat down to the meal she had prepared for his arrival. âWeâll hunt the absentminded fellow down. Ever heard that story about Chesterton? G. K. Chesterton, you know, the writer. Wired to his wife when heâd gone on a lecture tour âAm at Crewe Station. Where ought I to be?ââ

He laughed. Mrs. McCrae smiled dutifully. She did not think it was very funny because it was so exactly the sort of thing that Canon Pennyfather might have done.

âAh,â said Archdeacon Simmons, with appreciation, âone of your excellent veal cutlets! Youâre a marvellous cook, Mrs. McCrae. I hope my old friend appreciates you.â

Veal cutlets having been succeeded by some small castle puddings with a blackberry sauce which Mrs. McCrae had remembered was one of the Archdeaconâs favourite sweets, the good man applied himself in earnest to the tracking down of his missing friend. He addressed himself to the telephone with vigour and a complete disregard for expense, which made Mrs. McCrae purse her lips anxiously, although not really disapproving, because definitely her master had got to be tracked down.

Having first dutifully tried the Canonâs sister who took little notice of her brotherâs goings and comings and as usual had not the faintest idea where he was or might be, the Archdeacon spread his net farther afield. He addressed himself once more to Bertramâs Hotel and got details as precisely as possible. The Canon had definitely left there on the early evening of the 19th. he had with him a small BEA handbag, but his other luggage had remained behind in his room, which he had duly retained. He had mentioned that he was going to a conference of some kind at Lucerne. He had not gone direct to the airport from the hotel. The commissionaire, who knew him well by sight, had put him into a taxi and had directed it as told by the Canon, to the Athenaeum Club. That was the last time that anyone at Bertramâs Hotel had seen Canon Pennyfather. Oh yes, a small detailâhe had omitted to leave his key behind but had taken it with him. It was not the first time that that had happened.

Archdeacon Simmons paused for a few minutesâ consideration before the next call. He could ring up the air station in London. That would no doubt take some time. There might be a short cut. He rang up Dr. Weissgarten, a learned Hebrew scholar who was almost certain to have been at the conference.

Dr. Weissgarten was at his home. As soon as he heard who was speaking to him he launched out into a torrent of verbiage consisting mostly of disparaging criticism of two papers that had been read at the conference in Lucerne.

âMost unsound, that fellow Hogarov,â he said, âmost unsound. How he gets away with it I donât know! Fellow isnât a scholar at all. Do you know what he actually said?â

The Archdeacon sighed and had to be firm with him. Otherwise there was a good chance that the rest of the evening would be spent in listening to criticism of fellow scholars at the Lucerne Conference. With some reluctance Dr. Weissgarten was pinned down to more personal matters.

âPennyfather?â he said. âPennyfather? He ought to have been there. Canât think why he wasnât there. Said he was going. Told me so only a week before when I saw him in the Athenaeum.â

âYou mean he wasnât at the conference at all?â

âThatâs what Iâve just said. He ought to have been there.â

âDo you know why he wasnât there? Did he send an excuse?â

âHow should I know? He certainly talked about being there. Yes, now I remember. He was expected. Several people remarked on his absence. Thought he might have had a chill or something. Very treacherous weather.â He was about to revert to his criticisms of his fellow scholars but Archdeacon Simmons rang off.

He had got a fact but it was a fact that for the first time awoke in him an uneasy feeling. Canon Pennyfather had not been at the Lucerne Conference. He had meant to go to that conference. It seemed very extraordinary to the Archdeacon that he had not been there. He might, of course, have taken the wrong plane, though on the whole BEA were pretty careful of you and shepherded you away from such possibilities. Could Canon Pennyfather have forgotten the actual day that he was going to the conference? It was always possible, he supposed. But if so where had he gone instead?

He addressed himself now to the air terminal. It involved a great deal of patient waiting and being transferred from department to department. In the end he got a definite fact. Canon Pennyfather had booked as a passenger on the 21:40 plane to Lucerne on the 18th but he had not been on the plane.

âWeâre getting on,â said Archdeacon Simmons to Mrs. McCrae, who was hovering in the background. âNow, let me see. Who shall I try next?â

âAll this telephoning will cost a fearful lot of money,â said Mrs. McCrae.

âIâm afraid so. Iâm afraid so,â said Archdeacon Simmons. âBut weâve got to get on his track, you know. Heâs not a very young man.â

âOh, sir, you donât think thereâs anything could really have happened to him?â

âWell, I hope notâ¦I donât think so, because I think youâd have heard if so. Heâerâalways had his name and address on him, didnât he?â

âOh yes, sir, he had cards on him. Heâd have letters too, and all sorts of things in his wallet.â

âWell, I donât think heâs in a hospital then,â said the Archdeacon. âLet me see. When he left the hotel he took a taxi to the Athenaeum. Iâll ring them up next.â

Here he got some definite information. Canon Pennyfather, who was well known there, had dined there at seven thirty on the evening of the 19th. It was then that the Archdeacon was struck by something he had overlooked until then. The aeroplane ticket had been for the 18th but the Canon had left Bertramâs Hotel by taxi to the Athenaeum, having mentioned he was going to the Lucerne Conference, on the 19th. Light began to break. âSilly old ass,â thought Archdeacon Simmons to himself, but careful not to say it aloud in front of Mrs. McCrae. âGot his dates wrong. The conference was on the 19th. Iâm sure of it. He must have thought that he was leaving on the 18th. He was one day wrong.â

He went over the next bit carefully. The Canon would have gone to the Athenaeum, he would have dined, he would have gone on to Kensington Air Station. There, no doubt, it would have been pointed out to him that his ticket was for the day before and he would then have realized that the conference he was going to attend was now over.

âThatâs what happened,â said Archdeacon Simmons, âdepend upon it.â He explained it to Mrs. McCrae, who agreed that it was likely enough. âThen what would he do?â

âGo back to his hotel,â said Mrs. McCrae.

âHe wouldnât have come straight down hereâgone straight to the station, I mean.â

âNot if his luggage was at the hotel. At any rate, he would have called there for his luggage.â

âTrue enough,â said Simmons. âAll right. Weâll think of it like this. He left the airport with his little bag and he went back to the hotel, or started for the hotel at all events. He might have had dinner perhapsâno, heâd dined at the Athenaeum. All right, he went back to the hotel. But he never arrived there.â He paused a moment or two and then said doubtfully, âOr did he? Nobody seems to have seen him there. So what happened to him on the way?â

âHe could have met someone,â said Mrs. McCrae, doubtfully.

âYes. Of course thatâs perfectly possible. Some old friend he hadnât seen for a long timeâ¦He could have gone off with a friend to the friendâs hotel or the friendâs house, but he wouldnât have stayed there three days, would he? He couldnât have forgotten for three whole days that his luggage was at the hotel. Heâd have rung up about it, heâd have called for it, or in a supreme fit of absentmindedness he might have come straight home. Three daysâ silence. Thatâs whatâs so inexplicable.â

âIf he had an accidentââ

âYes, Mrs. McCrae, of course thatâs possible. We can try the hospitals. You say he had plenty of papers on him to identify him? HmâI think thereâs only one thing for it.â

Mrs. McCrae looked at him apprehensively.

âI think, you know,â said the Archdeacon gently, âthat weâve got to go to the police.â

Chapter Twelve

Miss Marple had found no difficulty in enjoying her stay in London. She did a lot of the things that she had not had the time to do in her hitherto brief visits to the capital. It has to be regretfully noted that she did not avail herself of the wide cultural activities that would have been possible to her. She visited no picture galleries and no museums. The idea of patronizing a dress show of any kind would not even have occurred to her. What she did visit were the glass and china departments of the large stores, and the household linen departments, and she also availed herself of some marked down lines in furnishing fabrics. Having spent what she considered a reasonable sum upon these household investments, she indulged in various excursions of her own. She went to places and shops she remembered from her young days, sometimes merely with the curiosity of seeing whether they were still there. It was not a pursuit that she had ever had time for before, and she enjoyed it very much. After a nice little nap after lunch, she would go out, and, avoiding the attentions of the commissionaire if possible, because he was so firmly imbued with the idea that a lady of her age and frailty should always go in a taxi, she walked towards a bus stop, or tube station. She had bought a small guide to buses and their routesâand an Underground Transport Map; and she would plan her excursion carefully. One afternoon she could be seen walking happily and nostalgically round Evelyn Gardens or Onslow Square murmuring softly, âYes, that was Mrs. Van Dylanâs house. Of course it looks quite different now. They seem to have remodelled it. Dear me, I see itâs got four bells. Four flats, I suppose. Such a nice old-fashioned square this always was.â

Rather shamefacedly she paid a visit to Madame Tussaudâs, a well-remembered delight of her childhood. In Westbourne Grove she looked in vain for Bradleyâs. Aunt Helen had always gone to Bradleyâs about her sealskin jacket.

Window shopping in the general sense did not interest Miss Marple, but she had a splendid time rounding up knitting patterns, new varieties of knitting wool, and suchlike delights. She made a special expedition to Richmond to see the house that had been occupied by Great-Uncle Thomas, the retired admiral. The handsome terrace was still there but here again each house seemed to be turned into flats. Much more painful was the house in Lowndes Square where a distant cousin, Lady Merridew, had lived in some style. Here a vast skyscraper building of modernistic design appeared to have arisen. Miss Marple shook her head sadly and said firmly to herself, âThere must be progress I suppose. If Cousin Ethel knew, sheâd turn in her grave, Iâm sure.â

It was on one particularly mild and pleasant afternoon that Miss Marple embarked on a bus that took her over Battersea Bridge. She was going to combine the double pleasure of taking a sentimental look at Princes Terrace Mansions where an old governess of hers had once lived, and visiting Battersea Park. The first part of her quest was abortive. Miss Ledburyâs former home had vanished without trace and had been replaced by a great deal of gleaming concrete. Miss Marple turned into Battersea Park. She had always been a good walker but had to admit that nowadays her walking powers were not what they were. Half a mile was quite enough to tire her. She could manage, she thought, to cross the Park and go out over Chelsea Bridge and find herself once more on a convenient bus route, but her steps grew gradually slower and slower, and she was pleased to come upon a tea enclosure situated on the edge of the lake.

Teas were still being served there in spite of the autumn chill. There were not many people today, a certain amount of mothers and prams, and a few pairs of young lovers. Miss Marple collected a tray with tea and two sponge cakes. She carried her tray carefully to a table and sat down. The tea was just what she needed. Hot, strong and very reviving. Revived, she looked round her, and, her eyes stopping suddenly at a particular table, she sat up very straight in her chair. Really, a very strange coincidence, very strange indeed! First the Army & Navy Stores and now here. Very unusual places those particular two people chose! But no! She was wrong. Miss Marple took a second and stronger pair of glasses from her bag. Yes, she had been mistaken. There was a certain similarity, of course. That long straight blonde hair; but this was not Bess Sedgwick. It was someone years younger. Of course! It was the daughter! The young girl who had come into Bertramâs with Lady Selina Hazyâs friend, Colonel Luscombe. But the man was the same man who had been lunching with Lady Sedgwick in the Army & Navy Stores. No doubt about it, the same handsome, hawklike look, the same leanness, the same predatory toughness andâyes, the same strong, virile attraction.

âBad!â said Miss Marple. âBad all through! Cruel! Unscrupulous. I donât like seeing this. First the mother, now the daughter. What does it mean?â

It meant no good. Miss Marple was sure of that. Miss Marple seldom gave anyone the benefit of the doubt; she invariably thought the worst, and nine times out of ten, so she insisted, she was right in so doing. Both these meetings, she was sure, were more or less secret meetings. She observed now the way these two bent forward over the table until their heads nearly touched; and the earnestness with which they talked. The girlâs faceâMiss Marple took off her spectacles, rubbed the lenses carefully, then put them on again. Yes, this girl was in love. Desperately in love, as only the young can be in love. But what were her guardians about to let her run about London and have these clandestine assignments in Battersea Park? A nicely brought up, well-behaved girl like that. Too nicely brought up, no doubt! Her people probably believed her to be in some quite other spot. She had to tell lies.

On the way out Miss Marple passed the table where they were sitting, slowing down as much as she could without its being too obvious. Unfortunately, their voices were so low that she could not hear what they said. The man was speaking, the girl was listening, half pleased, half afraid. âPlanning to run away together, perhaps?â thought Miss Marple. âSheâs still under age.â

Miss Marple passed through the small gate in the fence that led to the sidewalk of the park. There were cars parked along there and presently she stopped beside one particular car. Miss Marple was not particularly knowledgeable over cars but such cars as this one did not come her way very often, so she had noted and remembered it. She had acquired a little information about cars of this style from an enthusiastic great-nephew. It was a racing car. Some foreign makeâshe couldnât remember the name now. Not only that, she had seen this car, or one exactly like it, seen it only yesterday in a side street close to Bertramâs Hotel. She had noticed it not only because of its size and its powerful and unusual appearance but because the number had awakened some vague memory, some trace of association in her memory. FAN 2266. It had made her think of her cousin Fanny Godfrey. Poor Fanny who stuttered, who had said âI have got t-t-t-wo s-s-s-potzâ¦.â

She walked along and looked at the number of this car. Yes, she was quite right. FAN 2266. It was the same car. Miss Marple, her footsteps growing more painful every moment, arrived deep in thought at the other side of Chelsea Bridge and by then was so exhausted that she hailed the first taxi she saw with decision. She was worried by the feeling that there was something she ought to do about things. But what things and what to do about them? It was all so indefinite. She fixed her eyes absently on some newsboards.

âSensational developments in train robbery,â they ran. âEngine driverâs story,â said another one. Really! Miss Marple thought to herself, every day there seemed to be a bank holdup or a train robbery or a wage pay snatch.

Crime seemed to have got above itself.

Chapter Thirteen

Vaguely reminiscent of a large bumblebee, Chief-Inspector Fred Davy wandered around the confines of the Criminal Investigation Department, humming to himself. It was a well-known idiosyncrasy of his, and caused no particular notice except to give rise to the remark that âFather was on the prowl again.â

His prowling led him at last to the room where Inspector Campbell was sitting behind a desk with a bored expression. Inspector Campbell was an ambitious young man and he found much of his occupation tedious in the extreme. Nevertheless, he coped with the duties appointed to him and achieved a very fair measure of success in so doing. The powers that be approved of him, thought he should do well and doled out from time to time a few words of encouraging commendation.

âGood morning, sir,â said Inspector Campbell, respectfully, when Father entered his domain. Naturally he called Chief-Inspector Davy âFatherâ behind his back as everyone else did; but he was not yet of sufficient seniority to do such a thing to his face.

âAnything I can do for you, sir?â he inquired.

âLa, la, boom, boom,â hummed the Chief-Inspector, slightly off key. âWhy must they call me Mary when my nameâs Miss Gibbs?â After this rather unexpected resurrection of a bygone musical comedy, he drew up a chair and sat down.

âBusy?â he asked.

âModerately so.â

âGot some disappearance case or other on, havenât you, to do with some hotel or other. Whatâs the name of it now? Bertramâs. Is that it?â

âYes, thatâs right, sir. Bertramâs Hotel.â

âContravening the licensing hours? Call girls?â

âOh no, sir,â said Inspector Campbell, slightly shocked at hearing Bertramâs Hotel being referred to in such a connection. âVery nice, quiet, old-fashioned place.â

âIs it now?â said Father. âYes, is it now? Well, thatâs interesting, really.â

Inspector Campbell wondered why it was interesting. He did not like to ask, as tempers in the upper hierarchy were notoriously short since the mail train robbery, which had been a spectacular success for the criminals. He looked at Fatherâs large, heavy, bovine face and wondered, as he had once or twice wondered before, how Chief-Inspector Davy had reached his present rank and why he was so highly thought of in the department. âAll right in his day, I suppose,â thought Inspector Campbell, âbut there are plenty of go-ahead chaps about who could do with some promotion, once the dead wood is cleared away.â But the dead wood had begun another song, partly hummed, with an occasional word or two here and there.

âTell me, gentle stranger, are there anymore at home like you?â intoned Father and then in a sudden falsetto, âA few, kind sir, and nicer girls you never knew. No, letâs see, Iâve got the sexes mixed-up. Floradora. That was a good show, too.â

âI believe Iâve heard of it, sir,â said Inspector Campbell.

âYour mother sang you to sleep in the cradle with it, I expect,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âNow then, whatâs been going on at Bertramâs Hotel? Who has disappeared and how and why?â

âA Canon Pennyfather, sir. Elderly clergyman.â

âDull case, eh?â

Inspector Campbell smiled.

âYes, sir, it is rather dull in a way.â

âWhat did he look like?â

âCanon Pennyfather?â

âYesâyouâve got a description, I suppose?â

âOf course.â Campbell shuffled papers and read: âHeight 5 ft 8. Large thatch of white hairâstoopsâ¦.â

âAnd he disappeared from Bertramâs Hotelâwhen?â

âAbout a week agoâNovember 19th.â

âAnd theyâve just reported it. Took their time about it, didnât they?â

âWell, I think there was a general idea that heâd turn up.â

âAny idea whatâs behind it?â asked Father. âHas a decent God-fearing man suddenly gone off with one of the churchwardensâ wives? Or does he do a bit of secret drinking, or has he embezzled church funds? Or is he the sort of absentminded old chap who goes in for this sort of thing?â

âWell, from all I can hear, sir, I should say the latter. Heâs done it before.â

âWhatâdisappeared from a respectable West End hotel?â

âNo, not exactly that, but heâs not always returned home when he was expected. Occasionally heâs turned up to stay with friends on a day when they havenât asked him, or not turned up on the date when they had asked him. That sort of thing.â

âYes,â said Father. âYes. Well that sounds very nice and natural and according to plan, doesnât it? When exactly did you say he disappeared?â

âThursday. November 19th. He was supposed to be attending a congress atââ He bent down and studied some papers on his desk. ââoh yes, Lucerne. Society of Biblical Historical Studies. Thatâs the English translation of it. I think itâs actually a German society.â

âAnd it was held at Lucerne? The old boyâI suppose he is an old boy?â

âSixty-three, sir, I understand.â

âThe old boy didnât turn up, is that it?â

Inspector Campbell drew his papers towards him and gave Father the ascertainable facts in so far as they had been ascertained.

âDoesnât sound as if heâd gone off with a choirboy,â observed Chief-Inspector Davy.

âI expect heâll turn up all right,â said Campbell, âbut weâre looking into it, of course. Are youâerâparticularly interested in the case, sir?â He could hardly restrain his curiosity on this point.

âNo,â said Davy thoughtfully. âNo, Iâm not interested in the case. I donât see anything to be interested about in it.â

There was a pause, a pause which clearly contained the words, âWell, then?â with a question mark after it from Inspector Campbell, which he was too well-trained to utter in audible tones.

âWhat Iâm really interested in,â said Father, âis the date. And Bertramâs Hotel, of course.â

âItâs always been very well-conducted, sir. No trouble there.â

âThatâs very nice, Iâm sure,â said Father. He added thoughtfully, âIâd rather like to have a look at the place.â

âOf course, sir,â said Inspector Campbell. âAnytime you like. I was thinking of going round there myself.â

âI might as well come along with you,â said Father. âNot to butt in, nothing like that. But Iâd just rather like to have a look at the place, and this disappearing Archdeacon of yours, or whatever he is, makes rather a good excuse. No need to call me âsirâ when weâre thereâyou throw your weight about. Iâll just be your stooge.â

Inspector Campbell became interested.

âDo you think thereâs something that might tie in there, sir, something that might tie in with something else?â

âThereâs no reason to believe so, so far,â said Father. âBut you know how it is. One getsâI donât know what to call themâwhims, do you think? Bertramâs Hotel, somehow, sounds almost too good to be true.â

He resumed his impersonation of a bumblebee with a rendering of âLetâs All Go Down the Strand.â

The two detective officers went off together, Campbell looking smart in a lounge suit (he had an excellent figure), and Chief-Inspector Davy carrying with him a tweedy air of being up from the country. They fitted in quite well. Only the astute eye of Miss Gorringe, as she raised it from her ledgers, singled out and appreciated them for what they were. Since she had reported the disappearance of Canon Pennyfather herself and had already had a word with a lesser personage in the police force, she had been expecting something of this kind.

A faint murmur to the earnest-looking girl assistant whom she kept handy in the background, enabled the latter to come forward and deal with any ordinary inquiries or services while Miss Gorringe gently shifted herself a little farther along the counter and looked up at the two men. Inspector Campbell laid down his card on the desk in front of her and she nodded. Looking past him to the large tweed-coated figure behind him, she noted that he had turned slightly sideways, and was observing the lounge and its occupants with an apparently naÃ¯ve pleasure at beholding such a well-bred, upper-class world in action.

âWould you like to come into the office?â said Miss Gorringe. âWe can talk better there perhaps.â

âYes, I think that would be best.â

âNice place youâve got here,â said the large, fat, bovine-looking man, turning his head back towards her. âComfortable,â he added, looking approvingly at the large fire. âGood old-fashioned comfort.â

Miss Gorringe smiled with an air of pleasure.

âYes, indeed. We pride ourselves on making our visitors comfortable,â she said. She turned to her assistant. âWill you carry on, Alice? There is the ledger. Lady Jocelyn will be arriving quite soon. She is sure to want to change her room as soon as she sees it but you must explain to her we are really full up. If necessary, you can show her number 340 on the third floor and offer her that instead. Itâs not a very pleasant room and Iâm sure she will be content with her present one as soon as she sees that.â

âYes, Miss Gorringe. Iâll do just that, Miss Gorringe.â

âAnd remind Colonel Mortimer that his field glasses are here. He asked me to keep them for him this morning. Donât let him go off without them.â

âNo, Miss Gorringe.â

These duties accomplished, Miss Gorringe looked at the two men, came out from behind the desk and walked along to a plain mahogany door with no legend on it. Miss Gorringe opened it and they went into a small, rather sad-looking office. All three sat down.

âThe missing man is Canon Pennyfather, I understand,â said Inspector Campbell. He looked at his notes. âIâve got Sergeant Wadellâs report. Perhaps youâll tell me in your own words just what occurred.â

âI donât think that Canon Pennyfather has really disappeared in the sense in which one would usually use that word,â said Miss Gorringe. âI think, you know, that heâs just met someone somewhere, some old friend or something like that, and has perhaps gone off with him to some scholarly meeting or reunion or something of that kind, on the Continentâhe is so very vague.â

âYouâve known him for a long time?â

âOh yes, heâs been coming here to stay forâlet me seeâoh five or six years at least, I should think.â

âYouâve been here some time yourself, maâam,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, suddenly putting in a word.

âI have been here, let me think, fourteen years,â said Miss Gorringe.

âItâs a nice place,â repeated Davy again. âAnd Canon Pennyfather usually stayed here when he was in London? Is that right?â

âYes. He always came to us. He wrote well beforehand to retain his room. He was much less vague on paper than he was in real life. He asked for a room from the 17th to the 21st. During that time he expected to be away for one or two nights, and he explained that he wished to keep his room on while he was away. He quite often did that.â

âWhen did you begin to get worried about him?â asked Campbell.

âWell, I didnât really. Of course it was awkward. You see, his room was let on from the 23rd and when I realizedâI didnât at firstâthat he hadnât come back from Luganoââ

âIâve got Lucerne here in my notes,â said Campbell.

âYes, yes, I think it was Lucerne. Some Archaeological Congress or other. Anyway, when I realized he hadnât come back here and that his baggage was still here waiting in his room, it made things rather awkward. You see, we are very booked up at this time of year and I had someone else coming into his room. The Honourable Mrs. Saunders, who lives at Lyme Regis. She always has that room. And then his housekeeper rang up. She was worried.â

âThe housekeeperâs name is Mrs. McCrae, so I understand from Archdeacon Simmons. Do you know her?â

âNot personally, no, but I have spoken to her on the telephone once or twice. She is, I think, a very reliable woman and has been with Canon Pennyfather for some years. She was worried naturally. I believe she and Archdeacon Simmons got in touch with near friends and relations but they knew nothing of Canon Pennyfatherâs movements. And since he was expecting the Archdeacon to stay with him it certainly seemed very oddâin fact it still doesâthat the Canon should not have returned home.â

âIs this Canon usually as absentminded as that?â asked Father.

Miss Gorringe ignored him. This large man, presumably the accompanying sergeant, seemed to her to be pushing himself forward a little too much.

âAnd now I understand,â continued Miss Gorringe, in an annoyed voice, âand now I understand from Archdeacon Simmons that the Canon never even went to this conference in Lucerne.â

âDid he send any message to say he wouldnât go?â

âI donât think soânot from here. No telegram or anything like that. I really know nothing about LucerneâI am really only concerned with our side of the matter. It has got into the evening papers, I seeâthe fact that he is missing, I mean. They havenât mentioned he was staying here. I hope they wonât. We donât want the Press here, our visitors wouldnât like that at all. If you can keep them off us, Inspector Campbell, we should be very grateful. I mean itâs not as if he had disappeared from here.â

âHis luggage is still here?â

âYes. In the baggage room. If he didnât go to Lucerne, have you considered the possibility of his being run over? Something like that?â

âNothing like that has happened to him.â

âIt really does seem very, very curious,â said Miss Gorringe, a faint flicker of interest appearing in her manner, to replace the annoyance. âI mean, it does make one wonder where he could have gone and why?â

Father looked at her comprehendingly.

âOf course,â he said. âYouâve only been thinking of it from the hotel angle. Very natural.â

âI understand,â said Inspector Campbell, referring once more to his notes, âthat Canon Pennyfather left here about six thirty on the evening of Thursday the 19th. He had with him a small overnight bag and he left here in a taxi, directing the commissionaire to tell the driver to drive to the Athenaeum Club.â

Miss Gorringe nodded her head.

âYes, he dined at the Athenaeum ClubâArchdeacon Simmons told me that that was the place he was last seen.â

There was a firmness in Miss Gorringeâs voice as she transferred the responsibility of seeing the Canon last from Bertramâs Hotel to the Athenaeum Club.

âWell, itâs nice to get the facts straight,â said Father in a gentle rumbling voice. âWeâve got âem straight now. He went off with his little blue BOAC bag or whatever heâd got with himâit was a blue BOAC bag, yes? He went off and he didnât come back, and thatâs that.â

âSo you see, really I cannot help you,â said Miss Gorringe, showing a disposition to rise to her feet and get back to work.

âIt doesnât seem as if you could help us,â said Father, âbut someone else might be able to,â he added.

âSomeone else?â

âWhy, yes,â said Father. âOne of the staff perhaps.â

âI donât think anyone knows anything; or they would certainly have reported it to me.â

âWell, perhaps they might. Perhaps they mightnât. What I mean is, theyâd have told you if theyâd distinctly known anything. But I was thinking more of something he might have said.â

âWhat sort of thing?â said Miss Gorringe, looking perplexed.

âOh, just some chance word that might give one a clue. Something like âIâm going to see an old friend tonight that I havenât seen since we met in Arizona.â Something like that. Or âIâm going to stay next week with a niece of mine for her daughterâs confirmation.â With absentminded people, you know, clues like that are a great help. They show what was in the personâs mind. It may be that after his dinner at the Athenaeum, he gets into a taxi and thinks âNow where am I going?â and having gotâsayâthe confirmation in his mindâthinks heâs going off there.â

âWell, I see what you mean,â said Miss Gorringe doubtfully. âIt seems a little unlikely.â

âOh, one never knows oneâs luck,â said Father cheerfully. âThen there are the various guests here. I suppose Canon Pennyfather knew some of them since he came here fairly often.â

âOh yes,â said Miss Gorringe. âLet me see now. Iâve seen him talking toâyes, Lady Selina Hazy. Then there was the Bishop of Norwich. Theyâre old friends, I believe. They were at Oxford together. And Mrs. Jameson and her daughters. They come from the same part of the world. Oh yes, quite a lot of people.â

âYou see,â said Father, âhe might have talked to one of them. He might have just mentioned some little thing that would give us a clue. Is there anyone staying here now that the Canon knew fairly well?â

Miss Gorringe frowned in thought.

âWell, I think General Radley is here still. And thereâs an old lady who came up from the countryâwho used to stay here as a girl, so she told me. Let me see, I canât remember her name at the moment, but I can find it for you. Oh yes, Miss Marple, thatâs her name. I believe she knew him.â

âWell, we could make a start with those two. And thereâd be a chambermaid, I suppose.â

âOh yes,â said Miss Gorringe. âBut she has been interviewed already by Sergeant Wadell.â

âI know. But not perhaps from this angle. What about the waiter who attended on his table. Or the headwaiter?â

âThereâs Henry, of course,â said Miss Gorringe.

âWhoâs Henry?â asked Father.

Miss Gorringe looked almost shocked. It was to her impossible that anyone should not know Henry.

âHenry has been here for more years than I can say,â she said. âYou must have noticed him serving teas as you came in.â

âKind of personality,â said Davy. âI remember noticing him.â

âI donât know what we should do without Henry,â said Miss Gorringe with feeling. âHe really is wonderful. He sets the tone of the place, you know.â

âPerhaps he might like to serve tea to me,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âMuffins, I saw heâd got there. Iâd like a good muffin again.â

âCertainly if you like,â said Miss Gorringe, rather coldly. âShall I order two teas to be served to you in the lounge?â she added, turning to Inspector Campbell.

âThat wouldââ the inspector began, when suddenly the door opened and Mr. Humfries appeared in his Olympian manner.

He looked slightly taken aback, then looked inquiringly at Miss Gorringe. Miss Gorringe explained.

âThese are two gentlemen from Scotland Yard, Mr. Humfries,â she said.

âDetective-Inspector Campbell,â said Campbell.

âOh yes. Yes, of course,â said Mr. Humfries. âThe matter of Canon Pennyfather, I suppose? Most extraordinary business. I hope nothingâs happened to him, poor old chap.â

âSo do I,â said Miss Gorringe. âSuch a dear old man.â

âOne of the old school,â said Mr. Humfries approvingly.

âYou seem to have quite a lot of the old school here,â observed Chief-Inspector Davy.

âI suppose we do, I suppose we do,â said Mr. Humfries. âYes, in many ways we are quite a survival.â

âWe have our regulars you know,â said Miss Gorringe. She spoke proudly. âThe same people come back year after year. We have a lot of Americans. People from Boston, and Washington. Very quiet, nice people.â

âThey like our English atmosphere,â said Mr. Humfries, showing his very white teeth in a smile.

Father looked at him thoughtfully. Inspector Campbell said,

âYouâre quite sure that no message came here from the Canon? I mean it might have been taken by someone who forgot to write it down or to pass it on.â

âTelephone messages are always taken down most carefully,â said Miss Gorringe with ice in her voice. âI cannot conceive it possible that a message would not have been passed on to me or to the appropriate person on duty.â

She glared at him.

Inspector Campbell looked momentarily taken aback.

âWeâve really answered all these questions before, you know,â said Mr. Humfries, also with a touch of ice in his voice. âWe gave all the information at our disposal to your sergeantâI canât remember his name for the moment.â

Father stirred a little and said, in a kind of homely way,

âWell you see, things have begun to look rather more serious. It looks like a bit more than absentmindedness. Thatâs why, I think, it would be a good thing if we could have a word or two with those two people you mentionedâGeneral Radley and Miss Marple.â

âYou want me toâto arrange an interview with them?â Mr. Humfries looked rather unhappy. âGeneral Radleyâs very deaf.â

âI donât think it will be necessary to make it too formal,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âWe donât want to worry people. You can leave it quite safely to us. Just point out those two you mentioned. There is just a chance, you know, that Canon Pennyfather might have mentioned some plan of his, or some person he was going to meet at Lucerne or who was going with him to Lucerne. Anyway, itâs worth trying.â

Mr. Humfries looked somewhat relieved.

âNothing more we can do for you?â he asked. âIâm sure you understand that we wish to help you in every way, only you do understand how we feel about any Press publicity.â

âQuite,â said Inspector Campbell.

âAnd Iâll just have a word with the chambermaid,â said Father.

âCertainly, if you like. I doubt very much whether she can tell you anything.â

âProbably not. But there might be some detailâsome remark the Canon made about a letter or an appointment. One never knows.â

Mr. Humfries glanced at his watch.

âSheâll be on duty at six,â he said. âSecond floor. Perhaps, in the meantime, youâd care for tea?â

âSuits me,â said Father promptly.

They left the office together.

Miss Gorringe said, âGeneral Radley will be in the smoking room. The first room down that passage on the left. Heâll be in front of the fire there with The Times. I think,â she added discreetly, âhe might be asleep. Youâre sure you donât want me toââ

âNo, no, Iâll see to it,â said Father. âAnd what about the other oneâthe old lady?â

âSheâs sitting over there, by the fireplace,â said Miss Gorringe.

âThe one with white fluffy hair and the knitting?â said Father, taking a look. âMight almost be on the stage, mightnât she? Everybodyâs universal great-aunt.â

âGreat-aunts arenât much like that nowadays,â said Miss Gorringe, ânor grandmothers nor great-grandmothers, if it comes to that. We had the Marchioness of Barlowe in yesterday. Sheâs a great-grandmother. Honestly, I didnât know her when she came in. Just back from Paris. Her face a mask of pink and white and her hair platinum blonde and I suppose an entirely false figure, but it looked wonderful.â

âAh,â said Father, âI prefer the old-fashioned kind myself. Well, thank you, maâam.â He turned to Campbell. âIâll look after it, shall I, sir? I know youâve got an important appointment.â

âThatâs right,â said Campbell, taking his cue. âI donât suppose anything much will come of it, but itâs worth trying.â

Mr. Humfries disappeared into his inner sanctum, saying as he did so:

âMiss Gorringeâjust a moment, please.â

Miss Gorringe followed him in and shut the door behind her.

Humfries was walking up and down. He demanded sharply:

âWhat do they want to see Rose for? Wadell asked all the necessary questions.â

âI suppose itâs just routine,â said Miss Gorringe, doubtfully.

âYouâd better have a word with her first.â

Miss Gorringe looked a little startled.

âBut surely Inspector Campbellââ

âOh, Iâm not worried about Campbell. Itâs the other one. Do you know who he is?â

âI donât think he gave his name. Sergeant of some kind, I suppose. He looks rather a yokel.â

âYokel, my foot,â said Mr. Humfries, abandoning his elegance. âThatâs Chief-Inspector Davy, an old fox if there ever was one. They think a lot of him at the Yard. Iâd like to know what heâs doing here, nosing about and playing the genial hick. I donât like it at all.â

âYou canât thinkââ

âI donât know what to think. But I tell you I donât like it. Did he ask to see anyone else besides Rose?â

âI think heâs going to have a word with Henry.â

Mr. Humfries laughed. Miss Gorringe laughed too.

âWe neednât worry about Henry.â

âNo, indeed.â

âAnd the visitors who knew Canon Pennyfather?â

Mr. Humfries laughed again.

âI wish him joy of old Radley. Heâll have to shout the place down and then he wonât get anything worth having. Heâs welcome to Radley and that funny old hen, Miss Marple. All the same, I donât much like his poking his nose inâ¦.â

Chapter Fourteen

âYou know,â said Chief-Inspector Davy thoughtfully, âI donât much like that chap Humfries.â

âThink thereâs something wrong with him?â asked Campbell.

âWellââ Father sounded apologetic, âyou know the sort of feeling one gets. Smarmy sort of chap. I wonder if heâs the owner or only the manager.â

âI could ask him.â Campbell took a step back towards the desk.

âNo, donât ask him,â said Father. âJust find outâquietly.â

Campbell looked at him curiously.

âWhatâs on your mind, sir?â

âNothing in particular,â said Father. âI just think Iâd like to have a good deal more information about this place. Iâd like to know who is behind it, what its financial status is. All that sort of thing.â

Campbell shook his head.

âI should have said if there was one place in London that was absolutely above suspicionââ

âI know, I know,â said Father. âAnd what a useful thing it is to have that reputation!â

Campbell shook his head and left. Father went down the passage to the smoking room. General Radley was just waking up. The Times had slipped from his knees and disintegrated slightly. Father picked it up and reassembled the sheets and handed it to him.

âThank ye, sir. Very kind,â said General Radley gruffly.

âGeneral Radley?â

âYes.â

âYouâll excuse me,â said Father, raising his voice, âbut I want to speak to you about Canon Pennyfather.â

âEhâwhatâs that?â The General approached a hand to his ear.

âCanon Pennyfather,â bellowed Father.

âMy father? Dead years ago.â

âCanon Pennyfather.â

âOh. What about him? Saw him the other day. He was staying here.â

âThere was an address he was going to give me. Said heâd leave it with you.â

That was rather more difficult to get over but he succeeded in the end.

âNever gave me any address. Must have mixed me up with somebody else. Muddle-headed old fool. Always was. Scholarly sort of chap, you know. Theyâre always absentminded.â

Father persevered for a little longer but soon decided that conversation with General Radley was practically impossible and almost certainly unprofitable. He went and sat down in the lounge at a table adjacent to that of Miss Jane Marple.

âTea, sir?â

Father looked up. He was impressed, as everyone was impressed, by Henryâs personality. Though such a large and portly man he had appeared, as it were, like some vast travesty of Ariel who could materialize and vanish at will. Father ordered tea.

âDid I see youâve got muffins here?â he asked.

Henry smiled benignly.

âYes, sir. Very good indeed our muffins are, if I may say so. Everyone enjoys them. Shall I order you muffins, sir? Indian or China tea?â

âIndian,â said Father. âOr Ceylon if youâve got it.â

âCertainly we have Ceylon, sir.â

Henry made the faintest gesture with a finger and the pale young man who was his minion departed in search of Ceylon tea and muffins. Henry moved graciously elsewhere.

âYouâre Someone, you are,â thought Father. âI wonder where they got hold of you and what they pay you. A packet, I bet, and youâd be worth it.â He watched Henry bending in a fatherly manner over an elderly lady. He wondered what Henry thought, if he thought anything, about Father. Father considered that he fitted into Bertramâs Hotel reasonably well. He might have been a prosperous gentleman farmer or he might have been a peer of the realm with a resemblance to a bookmaker. Father knew two peers who were very like that. On the whole, he thought, he passed muster, but he also thought it possible that he had not deceived Henry. âYes, youâre Someone you are,â Father thought again.

Tea came and the muffins. Father bit deeply. Butter ran down his chin. He wiped it off with a large handkerchief. He drank two cups of tea with plenty of sugar. Then he leaned forward and spoke to the lady sitting in the chair next to him.

âExcuse me,â he said, âbut arenât you Miss Jane Marple?â

Miss Marple transferred her gaze from her knitting to Chief Detective-Inspector Davy.

âYes,â she said, âI am Miss Marple.â

âI hope you donât mind my speaking to you. As a matter of fact I am a police officer.â

âIndeed? Nothing seriously wrong here, I hope?â

Father hastened to reassure her in his best paternal fashion.

âNow, donât you worry, Miss Marple,â he said. âItâs not the sort of thing you mean at all. No burglary or anything like that. Just a little difficulty about an absentminded clergyman, thatâs all. I think heâs a friend of yours. Canon Pennyfather.â

âOh, Canon Pennyfather. He was here only the other day. Yes, Iâve known him slightly for many years. As you say, he is very absentminded.â She added, with some interest, âWhat has he done now?â

âWell, as you might say in a manner of speaking, heâs lost himself.â

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple. âWhere ought he to be?â

âBack at home in his Cathedral Close,â said Father, âbut he isnât.â

âHe told me,â said Miss Marple, âhe was going to a conference at Lucerne. Something to do with the Dead Sea Scrolls, I believe. Heâs a great Hebrew and Aramaic scholar, you know.â

âYes,â said Father. âYouâre quite right. Thatâs where heâwell, thatâs where he was supposed to be going.â

âDo you mean he didnât turn up there?â

âNo,â said Father, âhe didnât turn up.â

âOh, well,â said Miss Marple, âI expect he got his dates wrong.â

âVery likely, very likely.â

âIâm afraid,â said Miss Marple, âthat thatâs not the first time that thatâs happened. I went to have tea with him in Chadminster once. He was actually absent from home. His housekeeper told me then how very absentminded he was.â

âHe didnât say anything to you when he was staying here that might give us a clue, I suppose?â asked Father, speaking in an easy and confidential way. âYou know the sort of thing I mean, any old friend heâd met or any plans heâd made apart from this Lucerne Conference?â

âOh no. He just mentioned the Lucerne Conference. I think he said it was on the 19th. Is that right?â

âThat was the date of the Lucerne Conference, yes.â

âI didnât notice the date particularly. I meanââ like most old ladies, Miss Marple here became slightly involvedââI thought he said the 19th and he might have said the 19th, but at the same time he might have meant the 19th and it might really have been the 20th. I mean, he may have thought the 20th was the 19th or he may have thought the 19th was the 20th.â

âWellââ said Father, slightly dazed.

âIâm putting it badly,â said Miss Marple, âbut I mean people like Canon Pennyfather, if they say theyâre going somewhere on a Thursday, one is quite prepared to find that they didnât mean Thursday, it may be Wednesday or Friday they really mean. Usually they find out in time but sometimes they just donât. I thought at the time that something like that must have happened.â

Father looked slightly puzzled.

âYou speak as though you knew already, Miss Marple, that Canon Pennyfather hadnât gone to Lucerne.â

âI knew he wasnât in Lucerne on Thursday,â said Miss Marple. âHe was here all dayâor most of the day. Thatâs why I thought, of course, that though he may have said Thursday to me, it was really Friday he meant. He certainly left here on Thursday evening carrying his BEA bag.â

âQuite so.â

âI took it he was going off to the airport then,â said Miss Marple. âThatâs why I was so surprised to see he was back again.â

âI beg your pardon, what do you mean by âback againâ?â

âWell, that he was back here again, I mean.â

âNow, letâs get this quite clear,â said Father, careful to speak in an agreeable and reminiscent voice, and not as though it was really important. âYou saw the old idioâyou saw the Canon, that is to say, leave as you thought for the airport with his overnight bag, fairly early in the evening. Is that right?â

âYes. About half past six, I would say, or quarter to seven.â

âBut you say he came back.â

âPerhaps he missed the plane. That would account for it.â

âWhen did he come back?â

âWell, I donât really know. I didnât see him come back.â

âOh,â said Father, taken aback. âI thought you said you did see him.â

âOh, I did see him later,â said Miss Marple. âI meant I didnât see him actually come into the hotel.â

âYou saw him later? When?â

Miss Marple thought.

âLet me see. It was about 3 a.m. I couldnât sleep very well. Something woke me. Some sound. There are so many queer noises in London. I looked at my little clock, it was ten minutes past three. For some reasonâIâm not quite sure whatâI felt uneasy. Footsteps, perhaps, outside my door. Living in the country, if one hears footsteps in the middle of the night it makes one nervous. So I just opened my door and looked out. There was Canon Pennyfather leaving his roomâitâs next door to mineâand going off down the stairs wearing his overcoat.â

âHe came out of his room wearing his overcoat and went down the stairs at 3 a.m. in the morning?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple and added: âI thought it odd at the time.â

Father looked at her for some moments.

âMiss Marple,â he said, âwhy havenât you told anyone this before?â

âNobody asked me,â said Miss Marple simply.

Chapter Fifteen

Father drew a deep breath.

âNo,â he said. âNo, I suppose nobody would ask you. Itâs as simple as that.â

He relapsed into silence again.

âYou think something has happened to him, donât you?â asked Miss Marple.

âItâs over a week now,â said Father. âHe didnât have a stroke and fall down in the street. Heâs not in a hospital as a result of an accident. So where is he? His disappearance has been reported in the Press, but nobodyâs come forward with any information yet.â

âThey may not have seen it. I didnât.â

âIt looksâit really looksââ Father was following out his own line of thoughtââas though he meant to disappear. Leaving this place like that in the middle of the night. Youâre quite sure about it, arenât you?â he demanded sharply. âYou didnât dream it?â

âI am absolutely sure,â said Miss Marple with finality.

Father heaved himself to his feet.

âIâd better go and see that chambermaid,â he said.

Father found Rose Sheldon on duty and ran an approving eye over her pleasant person.

âIâm sorry to bother you,â he said. âI know youâve seen our sergeant already. But itâs about that missing gentleman, Canon Pennyfather.â

âOh yes, sir, a very nice gentleman. He often stays here.â

âAbsentminded,â said Father.

Rose Sheldon permitted a discreet smile to appear on her respectful mask of a face.

âNow let me see.â Father pretended to consult some notes. âThe last time you saw Canon Pennyfatherâwasââ

âOn the Thursday morning, sir. Thursday the 19th. He told me that he would not be back that night and possibly not the next either. He was going, I think, to Geneva. Somewhere in Switzerland, anyway. He gave me two shirts he wanted washed and I said they would be ready for him on the morning of the following day.â

âAnd thatâs the last you saw of him, eh?â

âYes, sir. You see, Iâm not on duty in the afternoons. I come back again at 6 oâclock. By then he must have left, or at any rate he was downstairs. Not in his room. He had left two suitcases behind.â

âThatâs right,â said Father. The contents of the suitcases had been examined, but had given no useful lead. He went on: âDid you call him the next morning?â

âCall him? No, sir, he was away.â

âWhat did you do ordinarilyâtake him early tea? Breakfast?â

âEarly tea, sir. He breakfasted downstairs always.â

âSo you didnât go into his room at all the next day?â

âOh yes, sir.â Rose sounded shocked. âI went into his room as usual. I took his shirts in for one thing. And of course I dusted the room. We dust all the rooms every day.â

âHad the bed been slept in?â

She stared at him. âThe bed, sir? Oh no.â

âWas it rumpledâcreased in any way?â

She shook her head.

âWhat about the bathroom?â

âThere was a damp hand towel, sir, that had been used. I presume that would be the evening before. He may have washed his hands last thing before going off.â

âAnd there was nothing to show that he had come back into the roomâperhaps quite lateâafter midnight?â

She stared at him with an air of bewilderment. Father opened his mouth, then shut it again. Either she knew nothing about the Canonâs return or she was a highly accomplished actress.

âWhat about his clothesâsuits. Were they packed up in his suitcases?â

âNo, sir, they were hanging up in the cupboards. He was keeping his room on, you see, sir.â

âWho did pack them up?â

âMiss Gorringe gave orders, sir. When the room was wanted for the new lady coming in.â

A straightforward coherent account. But if that old lady was correct in stating that she saw Canon Pennyfather leaving his room at 3 a.m. on Friday morning, then he must have come back to that room sometime. Nobody had seen him enter the hotel. Had he, for some reason, deliberately avoided being seen? He had left no traces in the room. He hadnât even lain down on the bed. Had Miss Marple dreamed the whole thing? At her age it was possible enough. An idea struck him.

âWhat about the airport bag?â

âI beg your pardon, sir?â

âA small bag, dark blueâa BEA or BOAC bagâyou must have seen it?â

âOh thatâyes, sir. But of course heâd take that with him abroad.â

âBut he didnât go abroad. He never went to Switzerland after all. So he must have left it behind. Or else he came back and left it here with his other luggage.â

âYesâyesâI thinkâIâm not quite sureâI believe he did.â

Quite unsolicited, the thought raced into Fatherâs mind: They didnât brief you on that, did they?

Rose Sheldon had been calm and competent up till now. But that question had rattled her. She hadnât known the right answer to it. But she ought to have known.

The Canon had taken his bag to the airport, had been turned away from the airport. If he had come back to Bertramâs, the bag would have been with him. But Miss Marple had made no mention of it when she had described the Canon leaving his room and going down the stairs.

Presumably it was left in the bedroom, but it had not been put in the baggage room with the suitcases. Why not? Because the Canon was supposed to have gone to Switzerland?

He thanked Rose genially and went downstairs again.

Canon Pennyfather! Something of an enigma, Canon Pennyfather. Talked a lot about going to Switzerland, muddled up things so that he didnât go to Switzerland, came back to his hotel so secretly that nobody saw him, left it again in the early hours of the morning. (To go where? To do what?)

Could absentmindedness account for all this?

If not, then what was Canon Pennyfather up to? And more important, where was he?

From the staircase, Father cast a jaundiced eye over the occupants of the lounge, and wondered whether anyone was what they seemed to be. He had got to that stage! Elderly people, middle-aged people (nobody very young) nice old-fashioned people, nearly all well-to-do, all highly respectable. Service people, lawyers, clergymen; American husband and wife near the door, a French family near the fireplace. Nobody flashy, nobody out of place; most of them enjoying an old-fashioned English afternoon tea. Could there really be anything seriously wrong with a place that served old-fashioned afternoon teas?

The Frenchman made a remark to his wife that fitted in appositively enough.

âLe Five-oâ-clock,â he was saying. âCâest bien Anglais Ã§a, nâest ce pas?â He looked round him with approval.

âLe Five-oâ-clock,â thought Davy as he passed through the swing doors to the street. âThat chap doesnât know that âle Five-oâ-clockâ is as dead as the Dodo!â

Outside, various vast American wardrobe cases and suitcases were being loaded on to a taxi. It seemed that Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Cabot were on their way to the Hotel VendÃ´me, Paris.

Beside him on the kerb, Mrs. Elmer Cabot was expressing her views to her husband.

âThe Pendleburys were quite right about this place, Elmer. It just is old England. So beautifully Edwardian. I just feel Edward the Seventh could walk right in any moment and sit down there for his afternoon tea. I mean to come back here next yearâI really do.â

âIf weâve got a million dollars or so to spare,â said her husband dryly.

âNow, Elmer, it wasnât as bad as all that.â

The baggage was loaded, the tall commissionaire helped them in, murmuring âThank you, sirâ as Mr. Cabot made the expected gesture. The taxi drove off. The commissionaire transferred his attention to Father.

âTaxi, sir?â

Father looked up at him.

Over six feet. Good-looking chap. A bit run to seed. Ex-Army. Lot of medalsâgenuine, probably. A bit shifty? Drinks too much.

Aloud he said: âEx-Army man?â

âYes, sir. Irish Guards.â

âMilitary Medal, I see. Where did you get that?â

âBurma.â

âWhatâs your name?â

âMichael Gorman. Sergeant.â

âGood job here?â

âItâs a peaceful spot.â

âWouldnât you prefer the Hilton?â

âI would not. I like it here. Nice people come here, and quite a lot of racing gentlemenâfor Ascot and Newbury. Iâve had good tips from them now and again.â

âAh, so youâre an Irishman and gambler, is that it?â

âOch! Now, what would life be without a gamble?â

âPeaceful and dull,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âlike mine.â

âIndeed, sir?â

âCan you guess what my profession is?â asked Father.

The Irishman grinned.

âNo offence to you, sir, but if I may guess Iâd say you were a cop.â

âRight first time,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âYou remember Canon Pennyfather?â

âCanon Pennyfather now, I donât seem to mind the nameââ

âElderly clergyman.â

Michael Gorman laughed.

âAh now, clergyman are as thick as peas in a pod in there.â

âThis one disappeared from here.â

âOh, that one!â The commissionaire seemed slightly taken aback.

âDid you know him?â

âI wouldnât remember him if it hadnât been for people asking me questions about him. All I know is, I put him into a taxi and he went to the Athenaeum Club. Thatâs the last I saw of him. Somebody told me heâd gone to Switzerland, but I hear he never got there. Lost himself, it seems.â

âYou didnât see him later that day?â

âLaterâNo, indeed.â

âWhat time do you go off duty?â

âEleven-thirty.â

Chief-Inspector Davy nodded, refused a taxi and moved slowly away along Pond Street. A car roared past him close to the kerb, and pulled up outside Bertramâs Hotel, with a scream of brakes. Chief-Inspector Davy turned his head soberly and noted the number plate. FAN 2266. There was something reminiscent about that number, though he couldnât for the moment place it.

Slowly he retraced his steps. He had barely reached the entrance before the driver of the car, who had gone through the doors a moment or two before, came out again. He and the car matched each other. It was a racing model, white with long gleaming lines. The young man had the same eager greyhound look with a handsome face and a body with not a superfluous inch of flesh on it.

The commissionaire held the car door open, the young man jumped in, tossed a coin to the commissionaire and drove off with a burst of powerful engine.

âYou know who he is?â said Michael Gorman to Father.

âA dangerous driver, anyway.â

âLadislaus Malinowski. Won the Grand Prix two years agoâworld champion he was. Had a bad smash last year. They say heâs all right again now.â

âDonât tell me heâs staying at Bertramâs. Highly unsuitable.â

Michael Gorman grinned.

âHeâs not staying here, no. But a friend of his isââ He winked.

A porter in a striped apron came out with more American luxury travel equipment.

Father stood absentmindedly watching them being ensconced in a Daimler Hire Car whilst he tried to remember what he knew about Ladislaus Malinowski. A reckless fellowâsaid to be tied up with some well-known womanâwhat was her name now? Still staring at a smart wardrobe case, he was just turning away when he changed his mind and reentered the hotel again.

He went to the desk and asked Miss Gorringe for the hotel register. Miss Gorringe was busy with departing Americans, and pushed the book along the counter towards him. He turned the pages.

Lady Selina Hazy, Little Cottage, Merryfield, Hants.

Mr. and Mrs. Hennessey King, Elderberries, Essex.

Sir John Woodstock, 5 Beaumont Crescent, Cheltenham.

Lady Sedgwick, Hurstings House, Northumberland.

Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Cabot, Connecticut.

General Radley, 14, The Green, Chichester.

Mr. and Mrs. Woolmer Pickington, Marble Head, Connecticut.

La Comtesse de Beauville, Les Sapins, St. Germain en Laye.

Miss Jane Marple, St. Mary Mead, Much Benham.

Colonel Luscombe, Little Green, Suffolk.

Mrs. Carpenter, The Hon. Elvira Blake.

Canon Pennyfather, The Close, Chadminster.

Mrs. Holding, Mr. Holding, Miss Audrey Holding, The Manor House, Carmanton.

Mr. and Mrs. Ryesville, Valley Forge, Pennsylvania.

The Duke of Barnstable, Doone Castle, N. Devonâ¦.

A cross section of the kind of people who stayed at Bertramâs Hotel. They formed, he thought, a kind of patternâ¦.

As he shut the book, a name on an earlier page caught his eye. Sir William Ludgrove.

Mr. Justice Ludgrove who had been recognized by a probation officer near the scene of a bank robbery. Mr. Justice LudgroveâCanon Pennyfatherâboth patrons of Bertramâs Hotelâ¦.

âI hope you enjoyed your tea, sir?â It was Henry, standing at his elbow. He spoke courteously, and with the slight anxiety of the perfect host.

âThe best tea Iâve had for years,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

He remembered he hadnât paid for it. He attempted to do so; but Henry raised a deprecating hand.

âOh no, sir. I was given to understand that your tea was on the house. Mr. Humfriesâ orders.â

Henry moved away. Father was left uncertain whether he ought to have offered Henry a tip or not. It was galling to think that Henry knew the answer to that social problem much better than he did!

As he moved away along the street, he stopped suddenly. He took out his notebook and put down a name and an addressâno time to lose. He went into a telephone box. He was going to stick out his neck. Come hell or high water, he was going all out on a hunch.

Chapter Sixteen

It was the wardrobe that worried Canon Pennyfather. It worried him before he was quite awake. Then he forgot it and he fell asleep again. But when his eyes opened once more, there the wardrobe still was in the wrong place. He was lying on his left side facing the window and the wardrobe ought to have been there between him and the window on the left wall. But it wasnât. It was on the right. It worried him. It worried him so much that it made him feel tired. He was conscious of his head aching badly, and on top of that, to have the wardrobe in the wrong place. At this point once more his eyes closed.

There was rather more light in the room the next time he woke. It was not daylight yet. Only the faint light of dawn. âDear me,â said Canon Pennyfather to himself, suddenly solving the problem of the wardrobe. âHow stupid I am! Of course, Iâm not at home.â

He moved gingerly. No, this wasnât his own bed. He was away from home. He wasâwhere was he? Oh, of course. Heâd gone to London, hadnât he? He was in Bertramâs Hotel andâbut no, he wasnât in Bertramâs Hotel. In Bertramâs Hotel his bed was facing the window. So that was wrong, too.

âDear me, where can I be?â said Canon Pennyfather.

Then he remembered that he was going to Lucerne. âOf course,â he said to himself, âIâm in Lucerne.â He began thinking about the paper he was going to read. He didnât think about it long. Thinking about his paper seemed to make his head ache so he went to sleep again.

The next time he woke his head was a great deal clearer. Also there was a good deal more light in the room. He was not at home, he was not at Bertramâs Hotel and he was fairly sure that he was not in Lucerne. This wasnât a hotel bedroom at all. He studied it fairly closely. It was an entirely strange room with very little furniture in it. A kind of cupboard (what heâd taken for the wardrobe) and a window with flowered curtains through which the light came. A chair and a table and a chest of drawers. Really, that was about all.

âDear me,â said Canon Pennyfather, âthis is most odd. Where am I?â

He was thinking of getting up to investigate but when he sat up in bed his headache began again so he lay down.

âI must have been ill,â decided Canon Pennyfather. âYes, definitely I must have been ill.â He thought a minute or two and then said to himself, âAs a matter of fact, I think perhaps Iâm still ill. Influenza, perhaps?â Influenza, people often said, came on very suddenly. Perhapsâperhaps it had come on at dinner at the Athenaeum. Yes, that was right. He remembered that he had dined at the Athenaeum.

There were sounds of moving about in the house. Perhaps theyâd taken him to a nursing home. But no, he didnât think this was a nursing home. With the increased light it showed itself as a rather shabby and ill-furnished small bedroom. Sounds of movement went on. From downstairs a voice called out, âGood-bye, ducks. Sausage and mash this evening.â

Canon Pennyfather considered this. Sausage and mash. The words had a faintly agreeable quality.

âI believe,â he said to himself, âIâm hungry.â

The door opened. A middle-aged woman came in, went across to the curtains, pulled them back a little and turned towards the bed.

âAh, youâre awake now,â she said. âAnd how are you feeling?â

âReally,â said Canon Pennyfather, rather feebly, âIâm not quite sure.â

âAh, I expect not. Youâve been quite bad, you know. Something hit you a nasty crack, so the doctor said. These motorists! Not even stopping after theyâd knocked you down.â

âHave I had an accident?â said Canon Pennyfather. âA motor accident?â

âThatâs right,â said the woman. âFound you by the side of the road when we come home. Thought you was drunk at first.â She chuckled pleasantly at the reminiscence. âThen my husband said heâd better take a look. It may have been an accident, he said. There wasnât no smell of drink or anything. No blood or anything neither. Anyway, there you was, out like a log. So my husband said, âWe canât leave him here lying like that,â and he carried you in here. See?â

âAh,â said Canon Pennyfather, faintly, somewhat overcome by all these revelations. âA good Samaritan.â

âAnd he saw you were a clergyman so my husband said, âItâs all quite respectable.â Then he said heâd better not call the police because being a clergyman and all that you mightnât like it. Thatâs if you was drunk, in spite of there being no smell of drink. So then we hit upon getting Dr. Stokes to come and have a look at you. We still call him Dr. Stokes although heâs been struck off. A very nice man he is, embittered a bit, of course, by being struck off. It was only his kind heart really, helping a lot of girls who were no better than they should be. Anyway, heâs a good enough doctor and we got him to come and take a look at you. He says youâve come to no real harm, says itâs mild concussion. All weâd got to do was to keep you lying flat and quiet in a dark room. âMind you,â he said, âIâm not giving an opinion or anything like that. This is unofficial. Iâve no right to prescribe or to say anything. By rights I dare say you ought to report it to the police, but if you donât want to, why should you?â Give the poor old geezer a chance, thatâs what he said. Excuse me if Iâm speaking disrespectful. Heâs a rough and ready speaker, the doctor is. Now what about a drop of soup or some hot bread and milk?â

âEither,â said Canon Pennyfather faintly, âwould be very welcome.â

He relapsed on to his pillows. An accident? So that was it. An accident, and he couldnât remember a thing about it! A few minutes later the good woman returned bearing a tray with a steaming bowl on it.

âYouâll feel better after this,â she said. âIâd like to have put a drop of whisky or a drop of brandy in it but the doctor said you wasnât to have nothing like that.â

âCertainly not,â said Canon Pennyfather, ânot with concussion. No. It would have been unadvisable.â

âIâll put another pillow behind your back, shall I, ducks? There, is that all right?â

Canon Pennyfather was a little startled by being addressed as âducks.â He told himself that it was kindly meant.

âUpsydaisy,â said the woman, âthere we are.â

âYes, but where are we?â said Canon Pennyfather. âI mean, where am I? Where is this place?â

âMilton St. John,â said the woman. âDidnât you know?â

âMilton St. John?â said Canon Pennyfather. He shook his head. âI never heard the name before.â

âOh well, itâs not much of a place. Only a village.â

âYou have been very kind,â said Canon Pennyfather. âMay I ask your name?â

âMrs. Wheeling. Emma Wheeling.â

âYou are most kind,â said Canon Pennyfather again. âBut this accident now. I simply cannot rememberââ

âYou put yourself outside that, luv, and youâll feel better and up to remembering things.â

âMilton St. John,â said Canon Pennyfather to himself, in a tone of wonder. âThe name means nothing to me at all. How very extraordinary!â

Chapter Seventeen

Sir Ronald Graves drew a cat upon his blotting pad. He looked at the large portly figure of Chief-Inspector Davy sitting opposite him and drew a bulldog.

âLadislaus Malinowski?â he said. âCould be. Got any evidence?â

âNo. Heâd fit the bill, would he?â

âA daredevil. No nerves. Won the World Championship. Bad crash about a year ago. Bad reputation with women. Sources of income doubtful. Spends money here and abroad freely. Always going to and fro to the Continent. Have you got some idea that heâs the man behind these organized robberies and holdups?â

âI donât think heâs the planner. But I think heâs in with them.â

âWhy?â

âFor one thing, he runs a Mercedes-Otto car. Racing model. A car answering to that description was seen near Bedhampton on the morning of the mail robbery. Different number platesâbut weâre used to that. And itâs the same stuntâunlike, but not too unlike. FAN 2299 instead of 2266. There arenât so many Mercedes-Otto models of that type about. Lady Sedgwick has one and young Lord Merrivale.â

âYou donât think Malinowski runs the show?â

âNoâI think there are better brains than his at the top. But heâs in it. Iâve looked back over the files. Take the holdup at the Midland and West London. Three vans happenedâjust happenedâto block a certain street. A Mercedes-Otto that was on the scene got clear away owing to that block.â

âIt was stopped later.â

âYes. And given a clean bill of health. Especially as the people whoâd reported it werenât sure of the correct number. It was reported as FAM 3366âMalinowskiâs registration number is FAN 2266âItâs all the same picture.â

âAnd you persist in tying it up with Bertramâs Hotel. They dug up some stuff about Bertramâs for youââ

Father tapped his pocket.

âGot it here. Properly registered company. Balanceâpaid up capitalâdirectorsâetcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Doesnât mean a thing! These financial shows are all the sameâjust a lot of snakes swallowing each other! Companies, and holding companiesâmakes your brain reel!â

âCome now, Father. Thatâs just a way they have in the City. Has to do with taxationââ

âWhat I want is the real dope. If youâll give me a chit, sir, Iâd like to go and see some top brass.â

The AC stared at him.

âAnd what exactly do you mean by top brass?â

Father mentioned a name.

The AC looked upset. âI donât know about that. I hardly think we dare approach him.â

âIt might be very helpful.â

There was a pause. The two men looked at each other. Father looked bovine, placid, and patient. The AC gave in.

âYouâre a stubborn old devil, Fred,â he said. âHave it your own way. Go and worry the top brains behind the international financiers of Europe.â

âHeâll know,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âHeâll know. And if he doesnât, he can find out by pressing one buzzer on his desk or making one telephone call.â

âI donât know that heâll be pleased.â

âProbably not,â said Father, âbut it wonât take much of his time. Iâve got to have authority behind me, though.â

âYouâre really serious about this place, Bertramâs, arenât you? But what have you got to go on? Itâs well run, has a good respectable clienteleâno trouble with the licensing laws.â

âI knowâI know. No drinks, no drugs, no gambling, no accommodation for criminals. All pure as the driven snow. No beatniks, no thugs, no juvenile delinquents. Just sober Victorian-Edwardian old ladies, county families, visiting travellers from Boston and the more respectable parts of the USA. All the same, a respectable Canon of the church is seen to leave it at 3 a.m. in the morning in a somewhat surreptitious mannerââ

âWho saw that?â

âAn old lady.â

âHow did she manage to see him. Why wasnât she in bed and asleep?â

âOld ladies are like that, sir.â

âYouâre not talking ofâwhatâs his nameâCanon Pennyfather?â

âThatâs right, sir. His disappearance was reported and Campbell has been looking into it.â

âFunny coincidenceâhis nameâs just come up in connection with the mail robbery at Bedhampton.â

âIndeed? In what way, sir?â

âAnother old ladyâor middle-aged anyway. When the train was stopped by that signal that had been tampered with, a good many people woke up and looked out into the corridor. This woman, who lives in Chadminster and knows Canon Pennyfather by sight, says she saw him entering the train by one of the doors. She thought heâd got out to see what was wrong and was getting in again. We were going to follow it up because of his disappearance being reportedââ

âLetâs seeâthe train was stopped at 5.30 a.m. Canon Pennyfather left Bertramâs Hotel not long after 3 a.m. Yes, it could be done. If he were driven thereâsayâin a racing carâ¦.â

âSo weâre back again to Ladislaus Malinowski!â

The AC looked at his blotting pad doodles. âWhat a bulldog you are, Fred,â he said.

Half an hour later Chief-Inspector Davy was entering a quiet and rather shabby office.

The large man behind the desk rose and put forward a hand.

âChief-Inspector Davy? Do sit down,â he said. âDo you care for a cigar?â

Chief-Inspector Davy shook his head.

âI must apologize,â he said, in his deep countrymanâs voice, âfor wasting your valuable time.â

Mr. Robinson smiled. He was a fat man and very well dressed. He had a yellow face, his eyes were dark and sad looking and his mouth was large and generous. He frequently smiled to display overlarge teeth. âThe better to eat you with,â thought Chief-Inspector Davy irrelevantly. His English was perfect and without accent but he was not an Englishman. Father wondered, as many others had wondered before him, what nationality Mr. Robinson really was.

âWell, what can I do for you?â

âIâd like to know,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âwho owns Bertramâs Hotel.â

The expression on Mr. Robinsonâs face did not change. He showed no surprise at hearing the name nor did he show recognition. He said thoughtfully:

âYou want to know who owns Bertramâs Hotel. That, I think, is in Pond Street, off Piccadilly.â

âQuite right, sir.â

âI have occasionally stayed there myself. A quiet place. Well run.â

âYes,â said Father, âparticularly well run.â

âAnd you want to know who owns it? Surely that is easy to ascertain?â

There was a faint irony behind his smile.

âThrough the usual channels, you mean? Oh yes.â Father took a small piece of paper from his pocket and read out three or four names and addresses.

âI see,â said Mr. Robinson, âsomeone has taken quite a lot of trouble. Interesting. And you come to me?â

âIf anyone knows, you would, sir.â

âActually I do not know. But it is true that I have ways of obtaining information. One hasââ he shrugged his very large, fat shouldersââone has contacts.â

âYes, sir,â said Father with an impassive face.

Mr. Robinson looked at him, then he picked up the telephone on his desk.

âSonia? Get me Carlos.â He waited a minute or two then spoke again. âCarlos?â He spoke rapidly half a dozen sentences in a foreign language. It was not a language that Father could even recognize.

Father could converse in good British French. He had a smattering of Italian and he could make a guess at plain travellersâ German. He knew the sounds of Spanish, Russian and Arabic, though he could not understand them. This language was none of those. At a faint guess he hazarded it might be Turkish or Persian or Armenian, but even of that he was by no means sure. Mr. Robinson replaced the receiver.

âI do not think,â he said genially, âthat we shall have long to wait. I am interested, you know. Very much interested. I have occasionally wondered myselfââ

Father looked inquiring.

âAbout Bertramâs Hotel,â said Mr. Robinson. âFinancially, you know. One wonders how it can pay. However, it has never been any of my business. And one appreciatesââ he shrugged his shouldersââa comfortable hostelry with an unusually talented personnel and staffâ¦Yes, I have wondered.â He looked at Father. âYou know how and why?â

âNot yet,â said Father, âbut I mean to.â

âThere are several possibilities,â said Mr. Robinson, thoughtfully. âIt is like music, you know. Only so many notes to the octave, yet one can combine them inâwhat is itâseveral million different ways? A musician told me once that you do not get the same tune twice. Most interesting.â

There was a slight buzz on his desk and he picked up the receiver once more.

âYes? Yes, you have been very prompt. I am pleased. I see. Oh! Amsterdam yesâ¦Ahâ¦Thank youâ¦Yes. You will spell that? Good.â

He wrote rapidly on a pad at his elbow.

âI hope this will be useful to you,â he said, as he tore off the sheet and passed it across the table to Father, who read the name out loud. âWilhelm Hoffman.â

âNationality Swiss,â said Mr. Robinson. âThough not, I would say, born in Switzerland. Has a good deal of influence in Banking circles and though keeping strictly on the right side of the law, he has been behind a great manyâquestionable deals. He operates solely on the Continent, not in this country.â

âOh.â

âBut he has a brother,â said Mr. Robinson. âRobert Hoffman. Living in Londonâa diamond merchantâmost respectable businessâHis wife is DutchâHe also has offices in AmsterdamâYour people may know about him. As I say, he deals mainly in diamonds, but he is a very rich man, and he owns a lot of property, not usually in his own name. Yes, he is behind quite a lot of enterprises. He and his brother are the real owners of Bertramâs Hotel.â

âThank you, sir,â Chief-Inspector Davy rose to his feet. âI neednât tell you that Iâm much obliged to you. Itâs wonderful,â he added, allowing himself to show more enthusiasm than was normal.

âThat I should know?â inquired Mr. Robinson, giving one of his larger smiles. âBut this is one of my specialities. Information. I like to know. That is why you came to me, is it not?â

âWell,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âwe do know about you. The Home Office. The Special Branch and all the rest of it.â He added almost naÃ¯vely, âIt took a bit of nerve on my part to approach you.â

Again Mr. Robinson smiled.

âI find you an interesting personality, Chief-Inspector Davy,â he said. âI wish you success in whatever you are undertaking.â

âThank you, sir. I think I shall need it. By the way, these two brothers, would you say they were violent men?â

âCertainly not,â said Mr. Robinson. âIt would be quite against their policy. The brothers Hoffman do not apply violence in business matters. They have other methods that serve them better. Year by year, I would say, they get steadily richer, or so my information from Swiss Banking circles tells me.â

âItâs a useful place, Switzerland,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

âYes, indeed. What we should all do without it I do not know! So much rectitude. Such a fine business sense! Yes, we businessmen must all be very grateful to Switzerland. I myself,â he added, âhave also a high opinion of Amsterdam.â He looked hard at Davy, then smiled again, and the Chief-Inspector left.

When he got back to headquarters again, he found a note awaiting him.

Canon Pennyfather has turned upâsafe if not sound.

Apparently was knocked down by a car at Milton St. John and has concussion.

Chapter Eighteen

Canon Pennyfather looked at Chief-Inspector Davy and Inspector Campbell, and Chief-Inspector Davy and Inspector Campbell looked at him. Canon Pennyfather was at home again. Sitting in the big armchair in his library, a pillow behind his head and his feet up on a pouffe, with a rug over his knees to emphasize his invalid status.

âIâm afraid,â he was saying politely, âthat I simply cannot remember anything at all.â

âYou canât remember the accident when the car hit you?â

âIâm really afraid not.â

âThen how did you know a car did hit you?â demanded Inspector Campbell acutely.

âThe woman there, MrsâMrsâwas her name Wheeling?âtold me about it.â

âAnd how did she know?â

Canon Pennyfather looked puzzled.

âDear me, you are quite right. She couldnât have known, could she? I suppose she thought it was what must have happened.â

âAnd you really cannot remember anything? How did you come to be in Milton St. John?â

âIâve no idea,â said Canon Pennyfather. âEven the name is quite unfamiliar to me.â

Inspector Campbellâs exasperation was mounting, but Chief-Inspector Davy said in his soothing, homely voice:

âJust tell us again the last thing you do remember, sir.â

Canon Pennyfather turned to him with relief. The inspectorâs dry scepticism had made him uncomfortable.

âI was going to Lucerne to a congress. I took a taxi to the airportâat least to Kensington Air Station.â

âYes. And then?â

âThatâs all. I canât remember anymore. The next thing I remember is the wardrobe.â

âWhat wardrobe?â demanded Inspector Campbell.

âIt was in the wrong place.â

Inspector Campbell was tempted to go into this question of a wardrobe in the wrong place. Chief-Inspector Davy cut in.

âDo you remember arriving at the air station, sir?â

âI suppose so,â said Canon Pennyfather, with the air of one who has a great deal of doubt on the matter.

âAnd you duly flew to Lucerne.â

âDid I? I donât remember anything about it if so.â

âDo you remember arriving back at Bertramâs Hotel that night?â

âNo.â

âYou do remember Bertramâs Hotel?â

âOf course. I was staying there. Very comfortable. I kept my room on.â

âDo you remember travelling in a train?â

âA train? No, I canât recall a train.â

âThere was a holdup. The train was robbed. Surely, Canon Pennyfather, you can remember that.â

âI ought to, oughtnât I?â said Canon Pennyfather. âBut somehowââ he spoke apologeticallyââI donât.â He looked from one to the other of the officers with a bland gentle smile.

âThen your story is that you remember nothing after going in a taxi to the air station until you woke up in the Wheelingsâ cottage at Milton St. John.â

âThere is nothing unusual in that,â the Canon assured him. âIt happens quite often in cases of concussion.â

âWhat did you think had happened to you when you woke up?â

âI had such a headache I really couldnât think. Then of course I began to wonder where I was and Mrs. Wheeling explained and brought me some excellent soup. She called me âloveâ and âdearieâ and âducks,ââ said the Canon with slight distaste, âbut she was very kind. Very kind indeed.â

âShe ought to have reported the accident to the police. Then you would have been taken to hospital and properly looked after,â said Campbell.

âShe looked after me very well,â the Canon protested, with spirit, âand I understand that with concussion there is very little you can do except keep the patient quiet.â

âIf you should remember anything more, Canon Pennyfatherââ

The Canon interrupted him.

âFour whole days I seem to have lost out of my life,â he said. âVery curious. Really very curious indeed. I wonder so much where I was and what I was doing. The doctor tells me it may all come back to me. On the other hand it may not. Possibly I shall never know what happened to me during those days.â His eyelids flickered. âYouâll excuse me. I think I am rather tired.â

âThatâs quite enough now,â said Mrs. McCrae, who had been hovering by the door, ready to intervene if she thought it necessary. She advanced upon them. âDoctor says he wasnât to be worried,â she said firmly.

The policemen rose and moved towards the door. Mrs. McCrae shepherded them out into the hall rather in the manner of a conscientious sheepdog. The Canon murmured something and Chief-Inspector Davy, who was the last to pass through the door, wheeled round at once.

âWhat was that?â he asked, but the Canonâs eyes were now closed.

âWhat did you think he said?â said Campbell as they left the house after refusing Mrs. McCraeâs lukewarm offer of refreshment.

Father said thoughtfully:

âI thought he said âthe Walls of Jericho.ââ

âWhat could he mean by that?â

âIt sounds biblical,â said Father.

âDo you think weâll ever know,â asked Campbell, âhow that old boy got from the Cromwell Road to Milton St. John?â

âIt doesnât seem as if we shall get much help from him,â agreed Davy.

âThat woman who says she saw him on the train after the holdup. Can she possibly be right? Can he be mixed-up in some way with these robberies? It seems impossible. Heâs such a thoroughly respectable old boy. Canât very well suspect a Canon of Chadminster Cathedral of being mixed-up with a train robbery, can one?â

âNo,â said Father thoughtfully, âno. No more than one can imagine Mr. Justice Ludgrove being mixed-up with a bank holdup.â

Inspector Campbell looked at his superior officer curiously.

The expedition to Chadminster concluded with a short and unprofitable interview with Dr. Stokes.

Dr. Stokes was aggressive, uncooperative and rude.

âIâve known the Wheelings quite a while. Theyâre by way of being neighbours of mine. Theyâd picked some old chap off the road. Didnât know whether he was dead drunk, or ill. Asked me in to have a look. I told them he wasnât drunkâthat it was concussionââ

âAnd you treated him after that.â

âNot at all. I didnât treat him, or prescribe for him or attend him. Iâm not a doctorâI was once, but Iâm not nowâI told them what they ought to do was ring up the police. Whether they did or not I donât know. Not my business. Theyâre a bit dumb, both of themâbut kindly folk.â

âYou didnât think of ringing up the police yourself?â

âNo, I did not. Iâm not a doctor. Nothing to do with me. As a human being I told them not to pour whisky down his throat and keep him quiet and flat until the police came.â

He glared at them and, reluctantly, they had to leave it at that.

Chapter Nineteen

Mr. Hoffman was a big solid-looking man. He gave the appearance of being carved out of woodâpreferably teak.

His face was so expressionless as to give rise to surmiseâcould such a man be capable of thinkingâof feeling emotion? It seemed impossible.

His manner was highly correct.

He rose, bowed, and held out a wedge-like hand.

âChief-Inspector Davy? It is some years since I had the pleasureâyou may not even rememberââ

âOh yes I do, Mr. Hoffman. The Aaronberg Diamond Case. You were a witness for the Crownâa most excellent witness, let me say. The defence was quite unable to shake you.â

âI am not easily shaken,â said Mr. Hoffman gravely.

He did not look a man who would easily be shaken.

âWhat can I do for you?â he went on. âNo trouble, I hopeâI always want to agree well with the police. I have the greatest admiration for your superb police force.â

âOh! There is no trouble. It is just that we wanted you to confirm a little information.â

âI shall be delighted to help you in any way I can. As I say, I have the highest opinion of your London Police Force. You have such a splendid class of men. So full of integrity, so fair, so just.â

âYouâll make me embarrassed,â said Father.

âI am at your service. What is it that you want to know?â

âI was just going to ask you to give me a little dope about Bertramâs Hotel.â

Mr. Hoffmanâs face did not change. It was possible that his entire attitude became for a moment or two even more static than it had been beforeâthat was all.

âBertramâs Hotel?â he said. His voice was inquiring, slightly puzzled. It might have been that he had never heard of Bertramâs Hotel or that he could not quite remember whether he knew Bertramâs Hotel or not.

âYou have a connection with it, have you not, Mr. Hoffman?â

Mr. Hoffman moved his shoulders.

âThere are so many things,â he said. âOne cannot remember them all. So much businessâso muchâit keeps me very busy.â

âYou have your fingers in a lot of pies, I know that.â

âYes.â Mr. Hoffman smiled a wooden smile. âI pull out many plums, that is what you think? And so you believe I have a connection with thisâBertramâs Hotel?â

âI shouldnât have said a connection. As a matter of fact, you own it, donât you?â said Father genially.

This time, Mr. Hoffman definitely did stiffen.

âNow who told you that, I wonder?â he said softly.

âWell, itâs true, isnât it?â said Chief-Inspector Davy, cheerfully. âVery nice place to own, I should say. In fact, you must be quite proud of it.â

âOh yes,â said Hoffman. âFor the momentâI could not quite rememberâyou seeââ he smiled deprecatinglyââI own quite a lot of property in London. It is a good investmentâproperty. If something comes on the market in what I think is a good position, and there is a chance of snapping it up cheap, I invest.â

âAnd was Bertramâs Hotel going cheap?â

âAs a running concern, it had gone down the hill,â said Mr. Hoffman, shaking his head.

âWell, itâs on its feet now,â said Father. âI was in there just the other day. I was very much struck with the atmosphere there. Nice old-fashioned clientele, comfortable, old-fashioned premises, nothing rackety about it, a lot of luxury without looking luxurious.â

âI know very little about it personally,â explained Mr. Hoffman. âIt is just one of my investmentsâbut I believe it is doing well.â

âYes, you seem to have a first-class fellow running it. What is his name? Humfries? Yes, Humfries.â

âAn excellent man,â said Mr. Hoffman. âI leave everything to him. I look at the balance sheet once a year to see that all is well.â

âThe place was thick with titles,â said Father. âRich travelling Americans too.â He shook his head thoughtfully. âWonderful combination.â

âYou say you were in there the other day?â Mr. Hoffman inquired. âNotânot officially, I hope?â

âNothing serious. Just trying to clear up a little mystery.â

âA mystery? In Bertramâs Hotel?â

âSo it seems. The Case of the Disappearing Clergyman, you might label it.â

âThat is a joke,â Mr. Hoffman said. âThat is your Sherlock Holmes language.â

âThis clergyman walked out of the place one evening and was never seen again.â

âPeculiar,â said Mr. Hoffman, âbut such things happen. I remember many, many years ago now, a great sensation. Colonelânow let me think of his nameâColonel Fergusson I think, one of the equerries of Queen Mary. He walked out of his club one night and he, too, was never seen again.â

âOf course,â said Father, with a sigh, âa lot of these disappearances are voluntary.â

âYou know more about that than I do, my dear Chief-Inspector,â said Mr. Hoffman. He added, âI hope they gave you every assistance at Bertramâs Hotel?â

âThey couldnât have been nicer,â Father assured him. âThat Miss Gorringe, she has been with you some time, I believe?â

âPossibly. I really know so very little about it. I take no personal interest, you understand. In factââ he smiled disarminglyââI was surprised that you even knew it belonged to me.â

It was not quite a question; but once more there was a slight uneasiness in his eyes. Father noted it without seeming to.

âThe ramifications that go on in the City are like a gigantic jigsaw,â he said. âIt would make my head ache if I had to deal with that side of things. I gather that a companyâMayfair Holding Trust or some name like thatâis the registered owner. Theyâre owned by another company and so on and so on. The real truth of the matter is that it belongs to you. Simple as that. Iâm right, arenât I?â

âI and my fellow directors are what I dare say youâd call behind it, yes,â admitted Mr. Hoffman rather reluctantly.

âYour fellow directors. And who might they be? Yourself and, I believe, a brother of yours?â

âMy brother Wilhelm is associated with me in this venture. You must understand that Bertramâs is only a part of a chain of various hotels, offices, clubs and other London properties.â

âAny other directors?â

âLord Pomfret, Abel Isaacstein.â Hoffmanâs voice was suddenly edged. âDo you really need to know all these things? Just because you are looking into the Case of the Disappearing Clergyman?â

Father shook his head and looked apologetic.

âI suppose itâs really curiosity. Looking for my disappearing clergyman was what took me to Bertramâs, but then I gotâwell, interested if you understand what I mean. One thing leads to another sometimes, doesnât it?â

âI suppose that could be so, yes. And now?â He smiled. âYour curiosity is satisfied?â

âNothing like coming to the horseâs mouth when you want information, is there?â said Father, genially. He rose to his feet. âThereâs only one thing Iâd really like to knowâand I donât suppose youâll tell me that.â

âYes, Chief-Inspector?â Hoffmanâs voice was wary.

âWhere do Bertramâs get hold of their staff? Wonderful! That fellow whatâs-his-nameâHenry. The one that looks like an Archduke or an Archbishop, Iâm not sure which. Anyway, he serves you tea and muffinsâmost wonderful muffins! An unforgettable experience.â

âYou like muffins with much butter, yes?â Mr. Hoffmanâs eyes rested for a moment on the rotundity of Fatherâs figure with disapprobation.

âI expect you can see I do,â said Father. âWell, I mustnât be keeping you. I expect youâre pretty busy taking over take-over bids, or something like that.â

âAh. It amuses you to pretend to be ignorant of all these things. No, I am not busy. I do not let business absorb me too much. My tastes are simple. I live simply, with leisure, with growing of roses, and my family to whom I am much devoted.â

âSounds ideal,â said Father. âWish I could live like that.â

Mr. Hoffman smiled and rose ponderously to shake hands with him.

âI hope you will find your disappearing clergyman very soon.â

âOh! Thatâs all right. Iâm sorry I didnât make myself clear. Heâs foundâdisappointing case, really. Had a car accident and got concussionâsimple as that.â

Father went to the door, then turned and asked:

âBy the way, is Lady Sedgwick a director of your company?â

âLady Sedgwick?â Hoffman took a moment or two. âNo. Why should she be?â

âOh well, one hears thingsâJust a shareholder?â

âIâyes.â

âWell, good-bye, Mr. Hoffman. Thanks very much.â

Father went back to the Yard and straight to the AC.

âThe two Hoffman brothers are the ones behind Bertramâs Hotelâfinancially.â

âWhat? Those scoundrels?â demanded Sir Ronald.

âYes.â

âTheyâve kept it very dark.â

âYesâand Robert Hoffman didnât half like our finding it out. It was a shock to him.â

âWhat did he say?â

âOh, we kept it all very formal and polite. He tried, not too obviously, to learn how I had found out about it.â

âAnd you didnât oblige him with that information, I suppose.â

âI certainly did not.â

âWhat excuse did you give for going to see him?â

âI didnât give any,â said Father.

âDidnât he think that a bit odd?â

âI expect he did. On the whole I thought that was a good way to play it, sir.â

âIf the Hoffmans are behind all this, it accounts for a lot. Theyâre never concerned in anything crooked themselvesâoh no! They donât organize crimeâthey finance it though!

âWilhelm deals with the banking side from Switzerland. He was behind those foreign currency rackets just after the warâwe knew itâbut we couldnât prove it. Those two brothers control a great deal of money and they use it for backing all kinds of enterprisesâsome legitimateâsome not. But theyâre carefulâthey know every trick of the trade. Robertâs diamond broking is straightforward enoughâbut it makes a suggestive pictureâdiamondsâbanking interests, and propertyâclubs, cultural foundations, office buildings, restaurants, hotelsâall apparently owned by somebody else.â

âDo you think Hoffman is the planner of these organized robberies?â

âNo, I think those two deal only with finance. No, youâll have to look elsewhere for your planner. Somewhere thereâs a first-class brain at work.â

Chapter Twenty

I

The fog had come down over London suddenly that evening. Chief-Inspector Davy pulled up his coat collar and turned into Pond Street. Walking slowly, like a man who was thinking of something else, he did not look particularly purposeful but anyone who knew him well would realize that his mind was wholly alert. He was prowling as a cat prowls before the moment comes for it to pounce on its prey.

Pond Street was quiet tonight. There were few cars about. The fog had been patchy to begin with, had almost cleared, then had deepened again. The noise of the traffic from Park Lane was muted to the level of a suburban side road. Most of the buses had given up. Only from time to time individual cars went on their way with determined optimism. Chief-Inspector Davy turned up a cul-de-sac, went to the end of it and came back again. He turned again, aimlessly as it seemed, first one way, then the other, but he was not aimless. Actually his cat prowl was taking him in a circle round one particular building. Bertramâs Hotel. He was appraising carefully just what lay to the east of it, to the west of it, to the north of it and to the south of it. He examined the cars that were parked by the pavement, he examined the cars that were in the cul-de-sac. He examined a mews with special care. One car in particular interested him and he stopped. He pursed his lips and said softly, âSo youâre here again, you beauty.â He checked the number and nodded to himself. âFAN 2266 tonight, are you?â He bent down and ran his fingers over the number plate delicately, then nodded approval. âGood job they made of it,â he said under his breath.

He went on, came out at the other end of the mews, turned right and right again and came out in Pond Street once more, fifty yards from the entrance of Bertramâs Hotel. Once again he paused, admiring the handsome lines of yet another racing car.

âYouâre a beauty, too,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âYour number plateâs the same as the last time I saw you. I rather fancy your number plate always is the same. And that should meanââ he broke offââor should it?â he muttered. He looked up towards what could have been the sky. âFogâs getting thicker,â he said to himself.

Outside the door to Bertramâs, the Irish commissionaire was standing swinging his arms backwards and forwards with some violence to keep himself warm. Chief-Inspector Davy said good evening to him.

âGood evening, sir. Nasty night.â

âYes. I shouldnât think anyone would want to go out tonight who hadnât got to.â

The swing doors were pushed open and a middle-aged lady came out and paused uncertainly on the step.

âWant a taxi, maâam?â

âOh dear. I meant to walk.â

âI wouldnât if I were you, maâam. Itâs very nasty, this fog. Even in a taxi it wonât be too easy.â

âDo you think you could find me a taxi?â asked the lady doubtfully.

âIâll do my best. You go inside now and keep warm, and Iâll come in and tell you if Iâve got one.â His voice changed, modulated to a persuasive tone. âUnless you have to, maâam, I wouldnât go out tonight at all.â

âOh dear. Perhaps youâre right. But Iâm expected at some friends in Chelsea. I donât know. It might be very difficult getting back here. What do you think?â

Michael Gorman took charge.

âIf I were you, maâam,â he said firmly, âIâd go in and telephone to your friends. Itâs not nice for a lady like you to be out on a foggy night like this.â

âWellâreallyâyes, well, perhaps youâre right.â

She went back in again.

âI have to look after them,â said Micky Gorman, turning in an explanatory manner to Father. âThat kind would get her bag snatched, she would. Going out this time of night in a fog and wandering about Chelsea or West Kensington or wherever sheâs trying to go.â

âI suppose youâve had a good deal of experience of dealing with elderly ladies?â said Davy.

âAh yes, indeed. This place is a home from home to them, bless their ageing hearts. How about you, sir? Were you wanting a taxi?â

âDonât suppose you could get me one if I did,â said Father. âThere donât seem to be many about in this. And I donât blame them.â

âAh, no, I might lay my hand on one for you. Thereâs a place round the corner where thereâs usually a taxi driver got his cab parked, having a warm up and a drop of something to keep the cold out.â

âA taxiâs no good to me,â said Father with a sigh.

He jerked his thumb towards Bertramâs Hotel.

âIâve got to go inside. Iâve got a job to do.â

âIndeed now? Would it be still the missing Canon?â

âNot exactly. Heâs been found.â

âFound?â The man stared at him. âFound where?â

âWandering about with concussion after an accident.â

âAh, thatâs just what one might expect of him. Crossed the road without looking, I expect.â

âThat seems to be the idea,â said Father.

He nodded, and pushed through the doors into the hotel. There were not very many people in the lounge this evening. He saw Miss Marple sitting in a chair near the fire and Miss Marple saw him. She made, however, no sign of recognition. He went towards the desk. Miss Gorringe, as usual, was behind her books. She was, he thought, faintly discomposed to see him. It was a very slight reaction, but he noted the fact.

âYou remember me, Miss Gorringe,â he said. âI came here the other day.â

âYes, of course I remember you, Chief-Inspector. Is there anything more you want to know? Do you want to see Mr. Humfries?â

âNo thank you. I donât think thatâll be necessary. Iâd just like one more look at your register if I may.â

âOf course.â She pushed it along to him.

He opened it and looked slowly down the pages. To Miss Gorringe he gave the appearance of a man looking for one particular entry. In actuality this was not the case. Father had an accomplishment which he had learnt early in life and had developed into a highly skilled art. He could remember names and addresses with a perfect and photographic memory. That memory would remain with him for twenty-four or even forty-eight hours. He shook his head as he shut the book and returned it to her.

âCanon Pennyfather hasnât been in, I suppose?â he said in a light voice.

âCanon Pennyfather?â

âYou know heâs turned up again?â

âNo indeed. Nobody has told me. Where?â

âSome place in the country. Car accident it seems. Wasnât reported to us. Some good Samaritan just picked him up and looked after him.â

âOh! I am pleased. Yes, I really am very pleased. I was worried about him.â

âSo were his friends,â said Father. âActually I was looking to see if one of them might be staying here now. ArchdeaconâArchdeaconâI canât remember his name now, but Iâd know it if I saw it.â

âTomlinson?â said Miss Gorringe helpfully. âHe is due next week. From Salisbury.â

âNo, not Tomlinson. Well, it doesnât matter.â He turned away.

It was quiet in the lounge tonight.

An ascetic-looking middle-aged man was reading through a badly typed thesis, occasionally writing a comment in the margin in such small crabbed handwriting as to be almost illegible. Every time he did this, he smiled in vinegary satisfaction.

There were one or two married couples of long-standing who had little need to talk to each other. Occasionally two or three people were gathered together in the name of the weather conditions, discussing anxiously how they or their families were going to get where they wanted to be.

ââI rang up and begged Susan not to come by carâ¦it means the M1 and always so dangerous in fogââ

âThey say itâs clearer in the Midlandsâ¦.â

Chief-Inspector Davy noted them as he passed. Without haste, and with no seeming purpose, he arrived at his objective.

Miss Marple was sitting near the fire and observing his approach.

âSo youâre still here, Miss Marple. Iâm glad.â

âI go tomorrow,â said Miss Marple.

That fact had, somehow, been implicit in her attitude. She had sat, not relaxed, but upright, as one sits in an airport lounge, or a railway waiting room. Her luggage, he was sure, would be packed, only toilet things and night wear to be added.

âIt is the end of my fortnightâs holiday,â she explained.

âYouâve enjoyed it, I hope?â

Miss Marple did not answer at once.

âIn a wayâyesâ¦.â She stopped.

âAnd in another way, no?â

âItâs difficult to explain what I meanââ

âArenât you, perhaps, a little too near the fire? Rather hot, here. Wouldnât you like to moveâinto that corner perhaps?â

Miss Marple looked at the corner indicated, then she looked at Chief-Inspector Davy.

âI think you are quite right,â she said.

He gave her a hand up, carried her handbag and her book for her and established her in the quiet corner he had indicated.

âAll right?â

âQuite all right.â

âYou know why I suggested it?â

âYou thoughtâvery kindlyâthat it was too hot for me by the fire. Besides,â she added, âour conversation cannot be overheard here.â

âHave you got something you want to tell me, Miss Marple?â

âNow why should you think that?â

âYou looked as though you had,â said Davy.

âIâm sorry I showed it so plainly,â said Miss Marple. âI didnât mean to.â

âWell, what about it?â

âI donât know if I ought to do so. I would like you to believe, Inspector, that I am not really fond of interfering. I am against interference. Though often well-meant, it can cause a great deal of harm.â

âItâs like that, is it? I see. Yes, itâs quite a problem for you.â

âSometimes one sees people doing things that seem to one unwiseâeven dangerous. But has one any right to interfere? Usually not, I think.â

âIs this Canon Pennyfather youâre talking about?â

âCanon Pennyfather?â Miss Marple sounded very surprised. âOh no. Oh dear me no, nothing whatever to do with him. It concernsâa girl.â

âA girl, indeed? And you thought I could help?â

âI donât know,â said Miss Marple. âI simply donât know. But Iâm worried, very worried.â

Father did not press her. He sat there looking large and comfortable and rather stupid. He let her take her time. She had been willing to do her best to help him, and he was quite prepared to do anything he could to help her. He was not, perhaps, particularly interested. On the other hand, one never knew.

âOne reads in the papers,â said Miss Marple in a low clear voice, âaccounts of proceedings in court; of young people, children or girls âin need of care and protection.â Itâs just a sort of legal phrase, I suppose, but it could mean something real.â

âThis girl you mentioned, you feel she is in need of care and protection?â

âYes. Yes I do.â

âAlone in the world?â

âOh no,â said Miss Marple. âVery much not so, if I may put it that way. She is to all outward appearances very heavily protected and very well cared for.â

âSounds interesting,â said Father.

âShe was staying in this hotel,â said Miss Marple, âwith a Mrs. Carpenter, I think. I looked in the register to see the name. The girlâs name is Elvira Blake.â

Father looked up with a quick air of interest.

âShe was a lovely girl. Very young, very much, as I say, sheltered and protected. Her guardian was a Colonel Luscombe, a very nice man. Quite charming. Elderly of course, and I am afraid terribly innocent.â

âThe guardian or the girl?â

âI meant the guardian,â said Miss Marple. âI donât know about the girl. But I do think she is in danger. I came across her quite by chance in Battersea Park. She was sitting at a refreshment place there with a young man.â

âOh, thatâs it, is it?â said Father. âUndesirable, I suppose. Beatnikâspivâthugââ

âA very handsome man,â said Miss Marple. âNot so very young. Thirty-odd, the kind of man that I should say is very attractive to women, but his face is a bad face. Cruel, hawklike, predatory.â

âHe maynât be as bad as he looks,â said Father soothingly.

âIf anything he is worse than he looks,â said Miss Marple. âI am convinced of it. He drives a large racing car.â

Father looked up quickly.

âRacing car?â

âYes. Once or twice Iâve seen it standing near this hotel.â

âYou donât remember the number, do you?â

âYes, indeed I do. FAN 2266. I had a cousin who stuttered,â Miss Marple explained. âThatâs how I remember it.â

Father looked puzzled.

âDo you know who he is?â demanded Miss Marple.

âAs a matter of fact I do,â said Father slowly. âHalf French, half Polish. Very well-known racing driver, he was world champion three years ago. His name is Ladislaus Malinowski. Youâre quite right in some of your views about him. He has a bad reputation where women are concerned. That is to say, he is not a suitable friend for a young girl. But itâs not easy to do anything about that sort of thing. I suppose she is meeting him on the sly, is that it?â

âAlmost certainly,â said Miss Marple.

âDid you approach her guardian?â

âI donât know him,â said Miss Marple. âIâve only just been introduced to him once by a mutual friend. I donât like the idea of going to him in a tale-bearing way. I wondered if perhaps in some way you could do something about it.â

âI can try,â said Father. âBy the way, I thought you might like to know that your friend, Canon Pennyfather, has turned up all right.â

âIndeed!â Miss Marple looked animated. âWhere?â

âA place called Milton St. John.â

âHow very odd. What was he doing there? Did he know?â

âApparentlyââ Chief-Inspector Davy stressed the wordââhe had had an accident.â

âWhat kind of an accident?â

âKnocked down by a carâconcussedâor else, of course, he might have been conked on the head.â

âOh! I see.â Miss Marple considered the point. âDoesnât he know himself?â

âHe saysââ again the Chief-Inspector stressed the wordââthat he does not know anything.â

âVery remarkable.â

âIsnât it? The last thing he remembers is driving in a taxi to Kensington Air Station.â

Miss Marple shook her head perplexedly.

âI know it does happen that way in concussion,â she murmured. âDidnât he say anythingâuseful?â

âHe murmured something about the Walls of Jericho.â

âJoshua?â hazarded Miss Marple, âor Archaeologyâexcavations?âor I remember, long ago, a playâby Mr. Sutro, I think.â

âAnd all this week north of the Thames, Gaumont CinemasâThe Walls of Jericho, featuring Olga Radbourne and Bart Levinne,â said Father.

Miss Marple looked at him suspiciously.

âHe could have gone to that film in the Cromwell Road. He could have come out about eleven and come back hereâthough if so, someone ought to have seen himâit would be well before midnightââ

âTook the wrong bus,â Miss Marple suggested. âSomething like thatââ

âSay he got back here after midnight,â Father saidââhe could have walked up to his room without anyone seeing himâBut if so, what happened thenâand why did he go out again three hours later?â

Miss Marple groped for a word.

âThe only idea that occurs to me isâoh!â

She jumped as a report sounded from the street outside.

âCar backfiring,â said Father soothingly.

âIâm sorry to be so jumpyâI am nervous tonightâthat feeling one hasââ

âThat somethingâs going to happen? I donât think you need worry.â

âI have never liked fog.â

âI wanted to tell you,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âthat youâve given me a lot of help. The things youâve noticed hereâjust little thingsâtheyâve added up.â

âSo there was something wrong with this place?â

âThere was and is everything wrong with it.â

Miss Marple sighed.

âIt seemed wonderful at firstâunchanged you knowâlike stepping back into the pastâto the part of the past that one had loved and enjoyed.â

She paused.

âBut of course, it wasnât really like that. I learned (what I suppose I really knew already) that one can never go back, that one should not ever try to go backâthat the essence of life is going forward. Life is really a One Way Street, isnât it?â

âSomething of the sort,â agreed Father.

âI remember,â said Miss Marple, diverging from her main topic in a characteristic way, âI remember being in Paris with my mother and my grandmother, and we went to have tea at the ElysÃ©e Hotel. And my grandmother looked round, and she said suddenly, âClara, I do believe I am the only woman here in a bonnet!â And she was, too! When she got home she packed up all her bonnets, and her headed mantles tooâand sent them offââ

âTo the Jumble Sale?â inquired Father, sympathetically.

âOh no. Nobody would have wanted them at a jumble sale. She sent them to a theatrical Repertory Company. They appreciated them very much. But let me seeââ Miss Marple recovered her direction. ââWhere was I?â

âSumming up this place.â

âYes. It seemed all rightâbut it wasnât. It was mixed-upâreal people and people who werenât real. One couldnât always tell them apart.â

âWhat do you mean by not real?â

âThere were retired military men, but there were also what seemed to be military men but who had never been in the Army. And clergymen who werenât clergymen. And admirals and sea captains whoâve never been in the Navy. My friend, Selina Hazyâit amused me at first how she was always so anxious to recognize people she knew (quite natural, of course) and how often she was mistaken and they werenât the people she thought they were. But it happened too often. And soâI began to wonder. Even Rose, the chambermaidâso niceâbut I began to think that perhaps she wasnât real, either.â

âIf it interests you to know, sheâs an ex-actress. A good one. Gets a better salary here than she ever drew on the stage.â

âButâwhy?â

âMainly, as part of the dÃ©cor. Perhaps thereâs more than that to it.â

âIâm glad to be leaving here,â said Miss Marple. She gave a little shiver. âBefore anything happens.â

Chief-Inspector Davy looked at her curiously.

âWhat do you expect to happen?â he asked.

âEvil of some kind,â said Miss Marple.

âEvil is rather a big wordââ

âYou think it is too melodramatic? But I have some experienceâseem to have beenâso oftenâin contact with murder.â

âMurder?â Chief-Inspector Davy shook his head. âIâm not suspecting murder. Just a nice cosy round-up of some remarkably clever criminalsââ

âThatâs not the same thing. Murderâthe wish to do murderâis something quite different. Itâhow shall I say?âit defies God.â

He looked at her and shook his head gently and reassuringly.

âThere wonât be any murders,â he said.

A sharp report, louder than the former one, came from outside. It was followed by a scream and another report.

Chief-Inspector Davy was on his feet, moving with a speed surprising in such a bulky man. In a few seconds he was through the swing doors and out in the street.

II

The screamingâa womanâsâwas piercing the mist with a note of terror. Chief-Inspector Davy raced down Pond Street in the direction of the screams. He could dimly visualize a womanâs figure backed against a railing. In a dozen strides he had reached her. She wore a long pale fur coat, and her shining blonde hair hung down each side of her face. He thought for a moment that he knew who she was, then he realized that this only a slip of a girl. Sprawled on the pavement at her feet was the body of a man in uniform. Chief-Inspector Davy recognized him. It was Michael Gorman.

As Davy came up to the girl, she clutched at him, shivering all over, stammering out broken phrases.

âSomeone tried to kill meâ¦Someoneâ¦they shot at meâ¦If it hadnât been for himââ She pointed down at the motionless figure at her feet. âHe pushed me back and got in front of meâand then the second shot cameâ¦and he fellâ¦He saved my life. I think heâs hurtâbadly hurtâ¦.â

Chief-Inspector Davy went down on one knee. His torch came out. The tall Irish commissionaire had fallen like a soldier. The left-hand side of his tunic showed a wet patch that was growing wetter as the blood oozed out into the cloth. Davy rolled up an eyelid, touched a wrist. He rose to his feet again.

âHeâs had it all right,â he said.

The girl gave a sharp cry. âDo you mean heâs dead? Oh no, no! He canât be dead.â

âWho was it shot at you?â

âI donât knowâ¦Iâd left my car just round the corner and was feeling my way along by the railingsâI was going to Bertramâs Hotel. And then suddenly there was a shotâand a bullet went past my cheek and thenâheâthe porter from Bertramâsâcame running down the street towards me, and shoved me behind him, and then another shot cameâ¦I thinkâI think whoever it was must have been hiding in that area there.â

Chief-Inspector Davy looked where she pointed. At this end of Bertramâs Hotel there was an old-fashioned area below the level of the street, with a gate and some steps down to it. Since it gave only on some storerooms it was not much used. But a man could have hidden there easily enough.

âYou didnât see him?â

âNot properly. He rushed past me like a shadow. It was all thick fog.â

Davy nodded.

The girl began to sob hysterically.

âBut who could possibly want to kill me? Why should anyone want to kill me? Thatâs the second time. I donât understandâ¦whyâ¦.â

One arm round the girl, Chief-Inspector Davy fumbled in his pocket with the other hand.

The shrill notes of a police whistle penetrated the mist.

III

In the lounge of Bertramâs Hotel, Miss Gorringe had looked up sharply from the desk.

One or two of the visitors had looked up also. The older and deafer did not look up.

Henry, about to lower a glass of old brandy to a table, stopped poised with it still in his hand.

Miss Marple sat forward, clutching the arms of her chair. A retired admiral said derisively:

âAccident! Cars collided in the fog, I expect.â

The swing doors from the street were pushed open. Through them came what seemed like an outsize policeman, looking a good deal larger than life.

He was supporting a girl in a pale fur coat. She seemed hardly able to walk. The policeman looked round for help with some embarrassment.

Miss Gorringe came out from behind the desk, prepared to cope. But at that moment the lift came down. A tall figure emerged, and the girl shook herself free from the policemanâs support, and ran frantically across the lounge.

âMother,â she cried. âOh Mother, Motherâ¦â and threw herself, sobbing, into Bess Sedgwickâs arms.

Chapter Twenty-one

Chief-Inspector Davy settled himself back in his chair and looked at the two women sitting opposite him. It was past midnight. Police officials had come and gone. There had been doctors, fingerprint men, an ambulance to remove the body; and now everything had narrowed to this one room dedicated for the purposes of the law by Bertramâs Hotel. Chief-Inspector Davy sat one side of the table. Bess Sedgwick and Elvira sat the other side. Against the wall a policeman sat unobtrusively writing. Detective-Sergeant Wadell sat near the door.

Father looked thoughtfully at the two women facing him. Mother and daughter. There was, he noted, a strong superficial likeness between them. He could understand how for one moment in the fog he had taken Elvira Blake for Bess Sedgwick. But now, looking at them, he was more struck by the points of difference than the points of resemblance. They were not really alike save in colouring, yet the impression persisted that here he had a positive and a negative version of the same personality. Everything about Bess Sedgwick was positive. Her vitality, her energy, her magnetic attraction. He admired Lady Sedgwick. He always had admired her. He had admired her courage and had always been excited over her exploits; had said, reading his Sunday papers: âSheâll never get away with that,â and invariably she had got away with it! He had not thought it possible that she would reach journeyâs end and she had reached journeyâs end. He admired particularly the indestructible quality of her. She had had one air crash, several car crashes, had been thrown badly twice from her horse, but at the end of it here she was. Vibrant, alive, a personality one could not ignore for a moment. He took off his hat to her mentally. Some day, of course, she would come a cropper. You could only bear a charmed life for so long. His eyes went from mother to daughter. He wondered. He wondered very much.

In Elvira Blake, he thought, everything had been driven inward. Bess Sedgwick had got through life by imposing her will on it. Elvira, he guessed, had a different way of getting through life. She submitted, he thought. She obeyed. She smiled in compliance and behind that, he thought, she slipped away through your fingers. âSly,â he said to himself, appraising that fact. âThatâs the only way she can manage, I expect. She can never brazen things out or impose herself. Thatâs why, I expect, the people whoâve looked after her have never had the least idea of what she might be up to.â

He wondered what she had been doing slipping along the street to Bertramâs Hotel on a late foggy evening. He was going to ask her presently. He thought it highly probable that the answer he would get would not be the true one. âThatâs the way,â he thought, âthat the poor child defends herself.â Had she come here to meet her mother or to find her mother? It was perfectly possible, but he didnât think so. Not for a moment. Instead he thought of the big sports car tucked away round the cornerâthe car with the number plate FAN 2266. Ladislaus Malinowski must be somewhere in the neighbourhood since his car was there.

âWell,â said Father, addressing Elvira in his most kindly and fatherlike manner, âwell, and how are you feeling now?â

âIâm quite all right,â said Elvira.

âGood. Iâd like you to answer a few questions if you feel up to it; because, you see, time is usually the essence of these things. You were shot at twice and a man was killed. We want as many clues as we can get to the person who killed him.â

âIâll tell you everything I can, but it all came so suddenly. And you canât see anything in a fog. Iâve no idea myself who it could have beenâor even what he looked like. Thatâs what was so frightening.â

âYou said this was the second time somebody had tried to kill you. Does that mean there was an attempt on your life before?â

âDid I say that? I canât remember.â Her eyes moved uneasily. âI donât think I said that.â

âOh, but you did, you know,â said Father.

âI expect I was just beingâhysterical.â

âNo,â said Father, âI donât think you were. I think you meant just what you said.â

âI might have been imagining things,â said Elvira. Her eyes shifted again.

Bess Sedgwick moved. She said quietly:

âYouâd better tell him, Elvira.â

Elvira shot a quick, uneasy look at her mother.

âYou neednât worry,â said Father, reassuringly. âWe know quite well in the police force that girls donât tell their mothers or their guardians everything. We donât take those things too seriously, but weâve got to know about them, because, you see, it all helps.â

Bess Sedgwick said:

âWas it in Italy?â

âYes,â said Elvira.

Father said: âThatâs where youâve been at school, isnât it, or a finishing place or whatever they call it nowadays?â

âYes. I was at Contessa Martinelliâs. There were about eighteen or twenty of us.â

âAnd you thought that somebody tried to kill you. How was that?â

âWell, a big box of chocolates and sweets and things came for me. There was a card with it written in Italian in a flowery hand. The sort of thing they say, you know, âTo the bellissima Signorina.â Something like that. And my friends and Iâwellâwe laughed about it a bit, and wondered whoâd sent it.â

âDid it come by post?â

âNo. No, it couldnât have come by post. It was just there in my room. Someone must have put it there.â

âI see. Bribed one of the servants, I suppose. I am to take it that you didnât let the Contessa whoever-it-was in on this?â

A faint smile appeared on Elviraâs face. âNo. No. We certainly didnât. Anyway we opened the box and they were lovely chocolates. Different kinds, you know, but there were some violet creams. Thatâs the sort of chocolate that has a crystallized violet on top. My favourite. So of course I ate one or two of those first. And then afterwards, in the night, I felt terribly ill. I didnât think it was the chocolates, I just thought it was something perhaps that Iâd eaten at dinner.â

âAnybody else ill?â

âNo. Only me. Well, I was very sick and all that, but I felt all right by the end of the next day. Then a day or two later I ate another of the same chocolates, and the same thing happened. So I talked to Bridget about it. Bridget was my special friend. And we looked at the chocolates, and we found that the violet creams had got a sort of hole in the bottom that had been filled up again, so we thought that someone had put some poison in and theyâd only put it in the violet creams so that I would be the one who ate them.â

âNobody else was ill?â

âNo.â

âSo presumably nobody else ate the violet creams?â

âNo. I donât think they could have. You see, it was my present and they knew I liked the violet ones, so theyâd leave them for me.â

âThe chap took a risk, whoever he was,â said Father. âThe whole place might have been poisoned.â

âItâs absurd,â said Lady Sedgwick sharply. âUtterly absurd! I never heard of anything so crude.â

Chief-Inspector Davy made a slight gesture with his hand. âPlease,â he said, then he went on to Elvira: âNow I find that very interesting, Miss Blake. And you still didnât tell the Contessa?â

âOh no, we didnât. Sheâd have made a terrible fuss.â

âWhat did you do with the chocolates?â

âWe threw them away,â said Elvira. âThey were lovely chocolates,â she added, with a tone of slight grief.

âYou didnât try and find out who sent them?â Elvira looked embarrassed.

âWell, you see, I thought it might have been Guido.â

âYes?â said Chief-Inspector Davy, cheerfully. âAnd who is Guido?â

âOh, Guidoâ¦â Elvira paused. She looked at her mother.

âDonât be stupid,â said Bess Sedgwick. âTell Chief-Inspector Davy about Guido, whoever he is. Every girl of your age has a Guido in her life. You met him out there, I suppose?â

âYes. When we were taken to the opera. He spoke to me there. He was nice. Very attractive. I used to see him sometimes when we went to classes. He used to pass me notes.â

âAnd I suppose,â said Bess Sedgwick, âthat you told a lot of lies, and made plans with some friends and you managed to get out and meet him? Is that it?â

Elvira looked relieved by this short cut to confession. âSometimes Guido managed toââ

âWhat was Guidoâs other name?â

âI donât know,â said Elvira. âHe never told me.â

Chief-Inspector Davy smiled at her.

âYou mean youâre not going to tell? Never mind. I dare say weâll be able to find out quite all right without your help, if it should really matter. But why should you think that this young man, who was presumably fond of you, should want to kill you?â

âOh, because he used to threaten things like that. I mean, we used to have rows now and then. Heâd bring some of his friends with him, and Iâd pretend to like them better than him, and then heâd get very, very wild and angry. He said Iâd better be careful what I did. I couldnât give him up just like that! That if I wasnât faithful to him heâd kill me! I just thought he was being melodramatic and theatrical.â Elvira smiled suddenly and unexpectedly. âBut it was all rather fun. I didnât think it was real or serious.â

âWell,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âI donât think it does seem very likely that a young man such as you describe would really poison chocolates and send them to you.â

âWell, I donât think so really either,â said Elvira, âbut it must have been him because I canât see that thereâs anyone else. It worried me. And then, when I came back here, I got a noteââ She stopped.

âWhat sort of a note?â

âIt just came in an envelope and was printed. It said âBe on your guard. Somebody wants to kill you.ââ

Chief-Inspector Davyâs eyebrows went up.

âIndeed? Very curious. Yes, very curious. And it worried you. You were frightened?â

âYes. I began toâto wonder who could possibly want me out of the way. Thatâs why I tried to find out if I was really very rich.â

âGo on.â

âAnd the other day in London something else happened. I was in the tube and there were a lot of people on the platform. I thought someone tried to push me onto the line.â

âMy dear child!â said Bess Sedgwick. âDonât romance.â

Again Father made that slight gesture of his hand.

âYes,â said Elvira apologetically. âI expect I have been imagining it all butâI donât knowâI mean, after what happened this evening it seems, doesnât it, as though it might all be true?â She turned suddenly to Bess Sedgwick, speaking with urgency, âMother! You might know. Does anyone want to kill me? Could there be anyone? Have I got an enemy?â

âOf course youâve not got an enemy,â said Bess Sedgwick, impatiently. âDonât be an idiot. Nobody wants to kill you. Why should they?â

âThen who shot at me tonight?â

âIn that fog,â said Bess Sedgwick, âyou might have been mistaken for someone else. Thatâs possible, donât you think?â she said, turning to Father.

âYes, I think it might be quite possible,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

Bess Sedgwick was looking at him very intently. He almost fancied the motion of her lips saying âlater.â

âWell,â he said cheerfully, âweâd better get down to some more facts now. Where had you come from tonight? What were you doing walking along Pond Street on such a foggy evening?â

âI came up for an Art class at the Tate this morning. Then I went to lunch with my friend Bridget. She lives in Onslow Square. We went to a film and when we came out, there was this fogâquite thick and getting worse, and I thought perhaps Iâd better not drive home.â

âYou drive a car, do you?â

âYes. I took my driving test last summer. Only, Iâm not a very good driver and I hate driving in fog. So Bridgetâs mother said I could stay the night, so I rang up Cousin Mildredâthatâs where I live in Kentââ

Father nodded.

ââand I said I was going to stay up overnight. She said that was very wise.â

âAnd what happened next?â asked Father.

âAnd then the fog seemed lighter suddenly. You know how patchy fogs are. So I said I would drive down to Kent after all. I said good-bye to Bridget and started off. But then it began to come down again. I didnât like it very much. I ran into a very thick patch of it and I lost my way and I didnât know where I was. Then after a bit I realized I was at Hyde Park Corner and I thought âI really canât go down to Kent in this.â At first, I thought Iâd go back to Bridgetâs but then I remembered how Iâd lost my way already. And then I realized that I was quite close to this nice hotel where Uncle Derek took me when I came back from Italy and I thought, âIâll go there and Iâm sure they can find me a room.â That was fairly easy, I found a place to leave the car and then I walked back up the street towards the hotel.â

âDid you meet anyone or did you hear anyone walking near you?â

âItâs funny you saying that, because I did think I heard someone walking behind me. Of course, there must be lots of people walking about in London. Only in a fog like this, it gives you a nervous feeling. I waited and listened but I didnât hear any footsteps and I thought Iâd imagined them. I was quite close to the hotel by then.â

âAnd then?â

âAnd then quite suddenly there was a shot. As I told you, it seemed to go right past my ear. The commissionaire man who stands outside the hotel came running down towards me and he pushed me behind him and thenâthenâthe other shot cameâ¦Heâhe fell down and I screamed.â She was shaking now. Her mother spoke to her.

âSteady, girl,â said Bess in a low, firm voice. âSteady now.â It was the voice Bess Sedgwick used for her horses and it was quite as efficacious when used on her daughter. Elvira blinked at her, drew herself up a little, and became calm again.

âGood girl,â said Bess.

âAnd then you came,â said Elvira to Father. âYou blew your whistle, you told the policeman to take me into the hotel. And as soon as I got in, I sawâI saw Mother.â She turned and looked at Bess Sedgwick.

âAnd that brings us more or less up-to-date,â said Father. He shifted his bulk a little in the chair.

âDo you know a man called Ladislaus Malinowski?â he asked. His tone was even, casual, without any direct inflection. He did not look at the girl, but he was aware, since his ears were functioning at full attention, of a quick little gasp she gave. His eyes were not on the daughter but on the mother.

âNo,â said Elvira, having waited just a shade too long to say it. âNo, I donât.â

âOh,â said Father. âI thought you might. I thought he might have been here this evening.â

âOh? Why should he be here?â

âWell, his car is here,â said Father. âThatâs why I thought he might be.â

âI donât know him,â said Elvira.

âMy mistake,â said Father. âYou do, of course?â He turned his head towards Bess Sedgwick.

âNaturally,â said Bess Sedgwick. âKnown him for many years.â She added, smiling slightly, âHeâs a madman, you know. Drives like an angel or a devilâheâll break his neck one of these days. Had a bad smash eighteen months ago.â

âYes, I remember reading about it,â said Father. âNot racing again yet, is he?â

âNo, not yet. Perhaps he never will.â

âDo you think I could go to bed now?â asked Elvira, plaintively. âIâmâreally terribly tired.â

âOf course. You must be,â said Father. âYouâve told us all you can remember?â

âOh. Yes.â

âIâll go up with you,â said Bess.

Mother and daughter went out together.

âShe knows him all right,â said Father.

âDo you really think so?â asked Sergeant Wadell.

âI know it. She had tea with him in Battersea Park only a day or two ago.â

âHow did you find that out?â

âOld lady told meâdistressed. Didnât think he was a nice friend for a young girl. He isnât of course.â

âEspecially if he and the motherââ Waddell broke off delicately. âItâs pretty general gossipââ

âYes. May be true, may not. Probably is.â

âIn that case which one is he really after?â

Father ignored that point. He said:

âI want him picked up. I want him badly. His carâs hereâjust round the corner.â

âDo you think he might be actually staying in this hotel?â

âDonât think so. It wouldnât fit into the picture. Heâs not supposed to be here. If he came here, he came to meet the girl. She definitely came to meet him, Iâd say.â

The door opened and Bess Sedgwick reappeared.

âI came back,â she said, âbecause I wanted to speak to you.â

She looked from him to the other two men.

âI wonder if I could speak to you alone? Iâve given you all the information I have, such as it is; but I would like a word or two with you in private.â

âI donât see any reason why not,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. He motioned with his head, and the young detective-constable took his notebook and went out. Wadell went with him. âWell?â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

Lady Sedgwick sat down again opposite him.

âThat silly story about poisoned chocolates,â she said. âItâs nonsense. Absolutely ridiculous. I donât believe anything of the kind ever happened.â

âYou donât, eh?â

âDo you?â

Father shook his head doubtfully. âYou think your daughter cooked it up?â

âYes. But why?â

âWell, if you donât know why,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âhow should I know? Sheâs your daughter. Presumably you know her better than I do.â

âI donât know her at all,â said Bess Sedgwick bitterly. âIâve not seen her or had anything to do with her since she was two years old, when I ran away from my husband.â

âOh yes. I know all that. I find it curious. You see, Lady Sedgwick, courts usually give the mother, even if she is a guilty party in a divorce, custody of a young child if she asks for it. Presumably then you didnât ask for it? You didnât want it.â

âI thought itâbetter not.â

âWhy?â

âI didnât think it wasâsafe for her.â

âOn moral grounds?â

âNo. Not on moral grounds. Plenty of adultery nowadays. Children have to learn about it, have to grow up with it. No. Itâs just that I am not really a safe person to be with. The life Iâd lead wouldnât be a safe life. You canât help the way youâre born. I was born to live dangerously. Iâm not law-abiding or conventional. I thought it would be better for Elvira, happier, to have a proper English conventional bringing-up. Shielded, looked afterâ¦.â

âBut minus a motherâs love?â

âI thought if she learned to love me it might bring sorrow to her. Oh, you maynât believe me, but thatâs what I felt.â

âI see. Do you still think you were right?â

âNo,â said Bess. âI donât. I think now I may have been entirely wrong.â

âDoes your daughter know Ladislaus Malinowski?â

âIâm sure she doesnât. She said so. You heard her.â

âI heard her, yes.â

âWell, then?â

âShe was afraid, you know, when she was sitting here. In our profession we get to know fear when we meet up with it. She was afraidâwhy? Chocolates or no chocolates, her life has been attempted. That tube story may be true enoughââ

âIt was ridiculous. Like a thrillerââ

âPerhaps. But that sort of thing does happen, Lady Sedgwick. Oftener than youâd think. Can you give me any idea who might want to kill your daughter?â

âNobodyânobody at all!â

She spoke vehemently.

Chief-Inspector Davy sighed and shook his head.

Chapter Twenty-two

Chief-Inspector Davy waited patiently until Mrs. Melford had finished talking. It had been a singularly unprofitable interview. Cousin Mildred had been incoherent, unbelieving and generally featherheaded. Or that was Fatherâs private view. Accounts of Elviraâs sweet manners, nice nature, troubles with her teeth, odd excuses told through the telephone, had led on to serious doubts whether Elviraâs friend Bridget was really a suitable friend for her. All these matters had been presented to the Chief-Inspector in a kind of general hasty pudding. Mrs. Melford knew nothing, had heard nothing, had seen nothing and had apparently deduced very little.

A short telephone call to Elviraâs guardian, Colonel Luscombe, had been even more unproductive, though fortunately less wordy. âMore Chinese monkeys,â he muttered to his sergeant as he put down the receiver. âSee no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

âThe trouble is that everyone whoâs had anything to do with this girl has been far too niceâif you get my meaning. Too many nice people who donât know anything about evil. Not like my old lady.â

âThe Bertramâs Hotel one?â

âYes, thatâs the one. Sheâs had a long life of experience in noticing evil, fancying evil, suspecting evil and going forth to do battle with evil. Letâs see what we can get out of girlfriend Bridget.â

The difficulties in this interview were represented first, last, and most of the time by Bridgetâs mamma. To talk to Bridget without the assistance of her mother took all Chief-Inspector Davyâs adroitness and cajolery. He was, it must be admitted, ably seconded by Bridget. After a certain amount of stereotyped questions and answers and expressions of horror on the part of Bridgetâs mother at hearing of Elviraâs narrow escape from death, Bridget said, âYou know itâs time for that committee meeting, Mum. You said it was very important.â

âOh dear, dear,â said Bridgetâs mother.

âYou know theyâll get into a frightful mess without you, Mummy.â

âOh they will, they certainly will. But perhaps I oughtââ

âNow thatâs quite all right, Madam,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, putting on his kindly old father look. âYou donât want to worry. Just you get off. Iâve finished all the important things. Youâve told me really everything I wanted to know. Iâve just one or two routine inquiries about people in Italy which I think your daughter, Miss Bridget, might be able to help me with.â

âWell, if you think you can manage, Bridgetââ

âOh, I can manage, Mummy,â said Bridget.

Finally, with a great deal of fuss, Bridgetâs mother went off to her committee.

âOh, dear,â said Bridget, sighing, as she came back after closing the front door. âReally! I do think mothers are difficult.â

âSo they tell me,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âA lot of young ladies I come across have a lot of trouble with their mothers.â

âIâd have thought youâd put it the other way round,â said Bridget.

âOh I do, I do,â said Davy. âBut thatâs not how the young ladies see it. Now you can tell me a little more.â

âI couldnât really speak frankly in front of Mummy,â explained Bridget. âBut I do feel, of course, that it is really important that you should know as much as possible about all this. I do know Elvira was terribly worried about something and afraid. She wouldnât exactly admit she was in danger, but she was.â

âI thought that might have been so. Of course I didnât like to ask you too much in front of your mother.â

âOh no,â said Bridget, âwe donât want Mummy to hear about it. She gets in such a frightful state about things and sheâd go and tell everyone. I mean, if Elvira doesnât want things like this to be knownâ¦.â

âFirst of all,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âI want to know about a box of chocolates in Italy. I gather there was some idea that a box was sent to her which might have been poisoned.â

Bridgetâs eyes opened wide. âPoisoned,â she said. âOh no. I donât think so. At leastâ¦.â

âThere was something?â

âOh yes. A box of chocolates came and Elvira did eat a lot of them and she was rather sick that night. Quite ill.â

âBut she didnât suspect poison?â

âNo. At leastâoh yes, she did say that someone was trying to poison one of us and we looked at the chocolates to see, you know, if anything had been injected into them.â

âAnd had it?â

âNo, it hadnât,â said Bridget. âAt least, not as far as we could see.â

âBut perhaps your friend, Miss Elvira, might still have thought so?â

âWell, she mightâbut she didnât say anymore.â

âBut you think she was afraid of someone?â

âI didnât think so at the time or notice anything. It was only here, later.â

âWhat about this man, Guido?â

Bridget giggled.

âHe had a terrific crush on Elvira,â she said.

âAnd you and your friend used to meet him places?â

âWell, I donât mind telling you,â said Bridget. âAfter all youâre the police. It isnât important to you, that sort of thing and I expect you understand. Countess Martinelli was frightfully strictâor thought she was. And of course we had all sorts of dodges and things. We all stood in with each other. You know.â

âAnd told the right lies, I suppose?â

âWell, Iâm afraid so,â said Bridget. âBut what can one do when anyone is so suspicious?â

âSo you did meet Guido and all that. And used he to threaten Elvira?â

âOh, not seriously, I donât think.â

âThen perhaps there was someone else she used to meet?â

âOhâthatâwell, I donât know.â

âPlease tell me, Miss Bridget. It might beâvital, you know.â

âYes. Yes I can see that. Well there was someone. I donât know who it was, but there was someone elseâshe really minded about. She was deadly serious. I mean it was a really important thing.â

âShe used to meet him?â

âI think so. I mean sheâd say she was meeting Guido but it wasnât Guido. It was this other man.â

âAny idea who it was?â

âNo.â Bridget sounded a little uncertain.

âIt wouldnât be a racing motorist called Ladislaus Malinowski?â

Bridget gaped at him.

âSo you know?â

âAm I right?â

âYesâI think so. Sheâd got a photograph of him torn out of a paper. She kept it under her stockings.â

âThat might have been just a pin-up hero, mightnât it?â

âWell it might, of course, but I donât think it was.â

âDid she meet him here in this country, do you know?â

âI donât know. You see I donât know really what sheâs been doing since she came back from Italy.â

âShe came up to London to the dentist,â Davy prompted her. âOr so she said. Instead she came to you. She rang up Mrs. Melford with some story about an old governess.â

A faint giggle came from Bridget.

âThat wasnât true, was it?â said the Chief-Inspector, smiling. âWhere did she really go?â

Bridget hesitated and then said, âShe went to Ireland.â

âShe went to Ireland, did she? Why?â

âShe wouldnât tell me. She said there was something she had to find out.â

âDo you know where she went in Ireland?â

âNot exactly. She mentioned a name. Bally something. Ballygowlan, I think it was.â

âI see. Youâre sure she went to Ireland?â

âI saw her off at Kensington Airport. She went by Aer Lingus.â

âShe came back when?â

âThe following day.â

âAlso by air?â

âYes.â

âYouâre quite sure, are you, that she came back by air?â

âWellâI suppose she did!â

âHad she taken a return ticket?â

âNo. No, she didnât. I remember.â

âShe might have come back another way, mightnât she?â

âYes, I suppose so.â

âShe might have come back for instance by the Irish Mail?â

âShe didnât say she had.â

âBut she didnât say sheâd come by air, did she?â

âNo,â Bridget agreed. âBut why should she come back by boat and train instead of by air?â

âWell, if she had found out what she wanted to know and had had nowhere to stay, she might think it would be easier to come back by the Night Mail.â

âWhy, I suppose she might.â

Davy smiled faintly.

âI donât suppose you young ladies,â he said, âthink of going anywhere except in terms of flying, do you, nowadays?â

âI suppose we donât really,â agreed Bridget.

âAnyway, she came back to England. Then what happened? Did she come to you or ring you up?â

âShe rang up.â

âWhat time of day?â

âOh, in the morning sometime. Yes, it must have been about eleven or twelve oâclock, I think.â

âAnd she said, what?â

âWell, she just asked if everything was all right.â

âAnd was it?â

âNo, it wasnât, because, you see, Mrs. Melford had rung up and Mummy had answered the phone and things had been very difficult and I hadnât known what to say. So Elvira said she would not come to Onslow Square, but that sheâd ring up her cousin Mildred and try to fix up some story or other.â

âAnd thatâs all that you can remember?â

âThatâs all,â said Bridget, making certain reservations. She thought of Mr. Bollard and the bracelet. That was certainly a thing she was not going to tell Chief-Inspector Davy. Father knew quite well that something was being kept from him. He could only hope that it was not something pertinent to his inquiry. He asked again:

âYou think your friend was really frightened of someone or something?â

âYes I do.â

âDid she mention it to you or did you mention it to her?â

âOh, I asked her outright. At first she said no and then she admitted that she was frightened. And I know she was,â went on Bridget violently. âShe was in danger. She was quite sure of it. But I donât know why or how or anything about it.â

âYour surety on this point relates to that particular morning, does it, the morning she had come back from Ireland?â

âYes. Yes, thatâs when I was so sure about it.â

âOn the morning when she might have come back on the Irish Mail?â

âI donât think itâs very likely that she did. Why donât you ask her?â

âI probably shall do in the end. But I donât want to call attention to that point. Not at the moment. It might just possibly make things more dangerous for her.â

Bridget opened round eyes.

âWhat do you mean?â

âYou may not remember it, Miss Bridget, but that was the night, or rather the early morning, of the Irish Mail robbery.â

âDo you mean that Elvira was in that and never told me a thing about it?â

âI agree itâs unlikely,â said Father. âBut it just occurred to me that she might have seen something or someone, or some incident might have occurred connected with the Irish Mail. She might have seen someone she knew, for instance, and that might have put her in danger.â

âOh!â said Bridget. She thought it over. âYou meanâsomeone she knew was mixed-up in the robbery.â

Chief-Inspector Davy got up.

âI think thatâs all,â he said. âSure thereâs nothing more you can tell me? Nowhere where your friend went that day? Or the day before?â

Again visions of Mr. Bollard and the Bond Street shop rose before Bridgetâs eyes.

âNo,â she said.

âI think there is something you havenât told me,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

Bridget grasped thankfully at a straw.

âOh, I forgot,â she said. âYes. I mean she did go to some lawyers. Lawyers who were trustees, to find out something.â

âOh, she went to some lawyers who were her trustees. I donât suppose you know their name?â

âTheir name was EgertonâForbes Egerton and Something,â said Bridget. âLots of names. I think thatâs more or less right.â

âI see. And she wanted to find out something, did she?â

âShe wanted to know how much money sheâd got,â said Bridget.

Inspector Davyâs eyebrows rose.

âIndeed!â he said. âInteresting. Why didnât she know herself?â

âOh, because people never told her anything about money,â said Bridget. âThey seem to think itâs bad for you to know actually how much money you have.â

âAnd she wanted to know badly, did she?â

âYes,â said Bridget. âI think she thought it was important.â

âWell, thank you,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âYouâve helped me a good deal.â

Chapter Twenty-three

Richard Egerton looked again at the official card in front of him, then up into the Chief-Inspectorâs face.

âCurious business,â he said.

âYes, sir,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âa very curious business.â

âBertramâs Hotel,â said Egerton, âin the fog. Yes it was a bad fog last night. I suppose you get a lot of that sort of thing in fogs, donât you? Snatch and grabâhandbagsâthat sort of thing?â

âIt wasnât quite like that,â said Father. âNobody attempted to snatch anything from Miss Blake.â

âWhere did the shot come from?â

âOwing to the fog we canât be sure. She wasnât sure herself. But we thinkâit seems the best ideaâthat the man may have been standing in the area.â

âHe shot at her twice, you say?â

âYes. The first shot missed. The commissionaire rushed along from where he was standing outside the hotel door and shoved her behind him just before the second shot.â

âSo that he got hit instead, eh?â

âYes.â

âQuite a brave chap.â

âYes. He was brave,â said the Chief-Inspector. âHis military record was very good. An Irishman.â

âWhatâs his name?â

âGorman. Michael Gorman.â

âMichael Gorman.â Egerton frowned for a minute. âNo,â he said. âFor a moment I thought the name meant something.â

âItâs a very common name, of course. Anyway, he saved the girlâs life.â

âAnd why exactly have you come to me, Chief-Inspector?â

âI hoped for a little information. We always like full information, you know, about the victim of a murderous assault.â

âOh, naturally, naturally. But really, Iâve only seen Elvira twice since she was a child.â

âYou saw her when she came to call upon you about a week ago, didnât you?â

âYes, thatâs quite right. What exactly do you want to know? If itâs anything about her personality, who her friends were or about boyfriends, or loversâ quarrelsâall that sort of thingâyouâd do better to go to one of the women. Thereâs a Mrs. Carpenter who brought her back from Italy, I believe, and thereâs Mrs. Melford with whom she lives in Kent.â

âIâve seen Mrs. Melford.â

âOh.â

âNo good. Absolutely no good at all, sir. And I donât so much want to know about the girl personallyâafter all, Iâve seen her for myself and Iâve heard what she can tell meâor rather what sheâs willing to tell meââ

At a quick movement of Egertonâs eyebrows he saw that the other had appreciated the point of the word âwilling.â

âIâve been told that she was worried, upset, afraid about something, and convinced that her life was in danger. Was that your impression when she came to see you?â

âNo,â said Egerton, slowly, âno, I wouldnât go as far as that; though she did say one or two things that struck me as curious.â

âSuch as?â

âWell, she wanted to know who would benefit if she were to die suddenly.â

âAh,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âso she had that possibility in her mind, did she? That she might die suddenly. Interesting.â

âSheâd got something in her head but I didnât know what it was. She also wanted to know how much money she hadâor would have when she was twenty-one. That, perhaps, is more understandable.â

âItâs a lot of money I believe.â

âItâs a very large fortune, Chief-Inspector.â

âWhy do you think she wanted to know?â

âAbout the money?â

âYes, and about who would inherit it.â

âI donât know,â said Egerton. âI donât know at all. She also brought up the subject of marriageââ

âDid you form the impression that there was a man in the case?â

âIâve no evidenceâbutâyes, I did think just that. I felt sure there was a boyfriend somewhere in the offing. There usually is! Luscombeâthatâs Colonel Luscombe, her guardian, doesnât seem to know anything about a boyfriend. But then dear old Derek Luscombe wouldnât. He was quite upset when I suggested that there was such a thing in the background and probably an unsuitable one at that.â

âHe is unsuitable,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

âOh. Then you know who he is?â

âI can have a very good guess at it. Ladislaus Malinowski.â

âThe racing motorist? Really! A handsome daredevil. Women fall for him easily. I wonder how he came across Elvira. I donât see very well where their orbits would meet exceptâyes, I believe he was in Rome a couple of months ago. Possibly she met him there.â

âVery possibly. Or could she have met him through her mother?â

âWhat, through Bess? I wouldnât say that was at all likely.â

Davy coughed.

âLady Sedgwick and Malinowski are said to be close friends, sir.â

âOh yes, yes, I know thatâs the gossip. May be true, may not. They are close friendsâthrown together constantly by their way of life. Bess has had her affairs, of course; though, mind you, sheâs not the nymphomaniac type. People are ready enough to say that about a woman, but itâs not true in Bessâs case. Anyway, as far as I know, Bess and her daughter are practically not even acquainted with each other.â

âThatâs what Lady Sedgwick told me. And you agree?â Egerton nodded.

âWhat other relatives has Miss Blake got?â

âFor all intents and purposes, none. Her motherâs two brothers were killed in the warâand she was old Conistonâs only child. Mrs. Melford, though the girl calls her âCousin Mildred,â is actually a cousin of Colonel Luscombeâs. Luscombeâs done his best for the girl in his conscientious old-fashioned wayâbut itâs difficultâ¦for a man.â

âMiss Blake brought up the subject of marriage, you say? Thereâs no possibility, I suppose, that she may actually already be marriedââ

âSheâs well under ageâsheâd have to have the assent of her guardian and trustees.â

âTechnically, yes. But they donât always wait for that,â said Father.

âI know. Most regrettable. One has to go through all the machinery of making them Wards of Court, and all the rest of it. And even that has its difficulties.â

âAnd once theyâre married, theyâre married,â said Father. âI suppose, if she were married, and died suddenly, her husband would inherit?â

âThis idea of marriage is most unlikely. She has been most carefully looked after andâ¦.â He stopped, reacting to Chief-Inspector Davyâs cynical smile.

However carefully Elvira had been looked after, she seemed to have succeeded in making the acquaintance of the highly unsuitable Ladislaus Malinowski.

He said dubiously, âHer mother bolted, itâs true.â

âHer mother bolted, yesâthatâs what she would doâbut Miss Blakeâs a different type. Sheâs just as set on getting her own way, but sheâd go about it differently.â

âYou donât really thinkââ

âI donât think anythingâyet,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

Chapter Twenty-four

Ladislaus Malinowski looked from one to the other of the two police officers and flung back his head and laughed.

âIt is very amusing!â he said. âYou look solemn as owls. It is ridiculous that you should ask me to come here and wish to ask me questions. You have nothing against me, nothing.â

âWe think you may be able to assist us in our inquiries, Mr. Malinowski.â Chief-Inspector Davy spoke with official smoothness. âYou own a car, Mercedes-Otto, registration number FAN 2266.â

âIs there any reason why I should not own such a car?â

âNo reason at all, sir. Thereâs just a little uncertainty as to the correct number. Your car was on a motor road, M7, and the registration plate on that occasion was a different one.â

âNonsense. It must have been some other car.â

âThere arenât so many of that make. We have checked up on those there are.â

âYou believe everything, I suppose, that your traffic police tell you! It is laughable! Where was all this?â

âThe place where the police stopped you and asked to see your licence is not very far from Bedhampton. It was on the night of the Irish Mail robbery.â

âYou really do amuse me,â said Ladislaus Malinowski.

âYou have a revolver?â

âCertainly, I have a revolver and an automatic pistol. I have proper licences for them.â

âQuite so. They are both still in your possession?â

âCertainly.â

âI have already warned you, Mr. Malinowski.â

âThe famous policemanâs warning! Anything you say will be taken down and used against you at your trial.â

âThatâs not quite the wording,â said Father mildly. âUsed, yes. Against, no. You donât want to qualify that statement of yours?â

âNo, I do not.â

âAnd you are sure you donât want your solicitor here?â

âI do not like solicitors.â

âSome people donât. Where are those firearms now?â

âI think you know very well where they are, Chief-Inspector. The small pistol is in the pocket of my car, the Mercedes-Otto whose registered number is, as I have said, FAN 2266. The revolver is in a drawer in my flat.â

âYouâre quite right about the one in the drawer in your flat,â said Father, âbut the otherâthe pistolâis not in your car.â

âYes, it is. It is in the left-hand pocket.â

Father shook his head. âIt may have been once. It isnât now. Is this it, Mr. Malinowski?â

He passed a small automatic pistol across the table. Ladislaus Malinowski, with an air of great surprise, picked it up.

âAh-ha, yes. This is it. So it was you who took it from my car?â

âNo,â said Father, âwe didnât take it from your car. It was not in your car. We found it somewhere else.â

âWhere did you find it?â

âWe found it,â said Father, âin an area in Pond Street, whichâas you no doubt knowâis a street near Park Lane. It could have been dropped by a man walking down that streetâor running perhaps.â

Ladislaus Malinowski shrugged his shoulders. âThat is nothing to do with meâI did not put it there. It was in my car a day or two ago. One does not continually look to see if a thing is still where one has put it. One assumes it will be.â

âDo you know, Mr. Malinowski, that this is the pistol which was used to shoot Michael Gorman on the night of November 26th?â

âMichael Gorman? I do not know a Michael Gorman.â

âThe commissionaire from Bertramâs Hotel.â

âAh yes, the one who was shot. I read about it. And you say my pistol shot him? Nonsense!â

âItâs not nonsense. The ballistic experts have examined it. You know enough of firearms to be aware that their evidence is reliable.â

âYou are trying to frame me. I know what you police do!â

âI think you know the police of this country better than that, Mr. Malinowski.â

âAre you suggesting that I shot Michael Gorman?â

âSo far we are only asking for a statement. No charge has been made.â

âBut that is what you thinkâthat I shot that ridiculous dressed-up military figure. Why should I? I didnât owe him money, I had no grudge against him.â

âIt was a young lady who was shot at. Gorman ran to protect her and received the second bullet in his chest.â

âA young lady?â

âA young lady whom I think you know. Miss Elvira Blake.â

âDo you say someone tried to shoot Elvira with my pistol?â

He sounded incredulous.

âIt could be that you had had a disagreement.â

âYou mean that I quarrelled with Elvira and shot her? What madness! Why should I shoot the girl I am going to marry?â

âIs that part of your statement? That you are going to marry Miss Elvira Blake?â

Just for a moment or two Ladislaus hesitated. Then he said, shrugging his shoulders:

âShe is still very young. It remains to be discussed.â

âPerhaps she had promised to marry you, and thenâshe changed her mind. There was someone she was afraid of. Was it you, Mr. Malinowski?â

âWhy should I want her to die? Either I am in love with her and want to marry her or if I do not want to marry her I need not marry her. It is as simple as that. So why should I kill her?â

âThere arenât many people close enough to her to want to kill her.â Davy waited a moment and then said, almost casually: âThereâs her mother, of course.â

âWhat!â Malinowski sprang up. âBess? Bess kill her own daughter? You are mad! Why should Bess kill Elvira?â

âPossibly because, as next of kin, she might inherit an enormous fortune.â

âBess? You mean Bess would kill for money? She has plenty of money from her American husband. Enough, anyway.â

âEnough is not the same as a great fortune,â said Father. âPeople do do murder for a large fortune, mothers have been known to kill their children, and children have killed their mothers.â

âI tell you, you are mad!â

âYou say that you may be going to marry Miss Blake. Perhaps you have already married her? If so, then you would be the one to inherit a vast fortune.â

âWhat more crazy, stupid things can you say! No, I am not married to Elvira. She is a pretty girl. I like her, and she is in love with me. Yes, I admit it. I met her in Italy. We had funâbut that is all. No more, do you understand?â

âIndeed? Just now, Mr. Malinowski, you said quite definitely that she was the girl you were going to marry.â

âOh that.â

âYesâthat. Was it true?â

âI said it becauseâit sounded more respectable that way. You are soâprudish in this countryââ

âThat seems to me an unlikely explanation.â

âYou do not understand anything at all. The mother and Iâwe are loversâI did not wish to say soâI suggest instead that the daughter and Iâwe are engaged to be married. That sounds very English and proper.â

âIt sounds to me even more far-fetched. Youâre rather badly in need of money, arenât you, Mr. Malinowski?â

âMy dear Chief-Inspector, I am always in need of money. It is very sad.â

âAnd yet a few months ago I understand you were flinging money about in a very carefree way.â

âAh. I had had a lucky flutter. I am a gambler. I admit it.â

âI find that quite easy to believe. Where did you have this âflutterâ?â

âThat I do not tell. You can hardly expect it.â

âI donât expect it.â

âIs that all you have to ask me?â

âFor the moment, yes. You have identified the pistol as yours. That will be very helpful.â

âI donât understandâI canât conceiveââ He broke off and stretched out his hand. âGive it me please.â

âIâm afraid weâll have to keep it for the present, so Iâll write you out a receipt for it.â

He did so and handed it to Malinowski.

The latter went out slamming the door.

âTemperamental chap,â said Father.

âYou didnât press him on the matter of the false number plate and Bedhampton?â

âNo. I wanted him rattled. But not too badly rattled. Weâll give him one thing to worry about at a timeâAnd he is worried.â

âThe Old Man wanted to see you, sir, as soon as you were through.â

Chief-Inspector Davy nodded and made his way to Sir Ronaldâs room.

âAh! Father. Making progress?â

âYes. Getting along nicelyâquite a lot of fish in the net. Small-fry mostly. But weâre closing in on the big fellows. Everythingâs in trainââ

âGood show, Fred,â said the AC.

Chapter Twenty-five

I

Miss Marple got out of her train at Paddington and saw the burly figure of Chief-Inspector Davy standing on the platform waiting for her.

He said, âVery good of you, Miss Marple,â put his hand under her elbow and piloted her through the barrier to where a car was waiting. The driver opened the door, Miss Marple got in, Chief-Inspector Davy followed her and the car drove off.

âWhere are you taking me, Chief-Inspector Davy?â

âTo Bertramâs Hotel.â

âDear me, Bertramâs Hotel again. Why?â

âThe official reply is: because the police think you can assist them in their inquiries.â

âThat sounds familiar, but surely rather sinister? So often the prelude to an arrest, is it not?â

âI am not going to arrest you, Miss Marple.â Father smiled. âYou have an alibi.â

Miss Marple digested this in silence. Then she said, âI see.â

They drove to Bertramâs Hotel in silence. Miss Gorringe looked up from the desk as they entered, but Chief-Inspector Davy piloted Miss Marple to the lift.

âSecond floor.â

The lift ascended, stopped, and Father led the way along the corridor.

As he opened the door of No. 18 Miss Marple said:

âThis is the same room I had when I was staying here before.â

âYes,â said Father.

Miss Marple sat down in the armchair.

âA very comfortable room,â she observed, looking round with a slight sigh.

âThey certainly know what comfort is here,â Father agreed.

âYou look tired, Chief-Inspector,â said Miss Marple unexpectedly.

âIâve had to get around a bit. As a matter of fact Iâve just got back from Ireland.â

âIndeed. From Ballygowlan?â

âNow how the devil did you know about Ballygowlan? Iâm sorryâI beg your pardon.â

Miss Marple smiled forgiveness.

âI suppose Michael Gorman happened to tell you he came from thereâwas that it?â

âNo, not exactly,â said Miss Marple.

âThen how, if youâll excuse me asking you, did you know?â

âOh dear,â said Miss Marple, âitâs really very embarrassing. It was just something Iâhappened to overhear.â

âOh, I see.â

âI wasnât eavesdropping. It was in a public roomâat least technically a public room. Quite frankly, I enjoy listening to people talking. One does. Especially when one is old and doesnât get about very much. I mean, if people are talking near you, you listen.â

âWell, that seems to me quite natural,â said Father.

âUp to a point, yes,â said Miss Marple. âIf people do not choose to lower their voices, one must assume that they are prepared to be overheard. But of course matters may develop. The situation sometimes arises when you realize that though it is a public room, other people talking do not realize that there is anyone else in it. And then one has to decide what to do about it. Get up and cough, or just stay quite quiet and hope they wonât realize youâve been there. Either way is embarrassing.â

Chief-Inspector Davy glanced at his watch.

âLook here,â he said, âI want to hear more about thisâbut Iâve got Canon Pennyfather arriving at any moment. I must go and collect him. You donât mind?â

Miss Marple said she didnât mind. Chief-Inspector Davy left the room.

II

Canon Pennyfather came through the swing doors into the hall of Bertramâs Hotel. He frowned slightly, wondering what it was that seemed a little different about Bertramâs today. Perhaps it had been painted or done up in some way? He shook his head. That was not it, but there was something. It did not occur to him that it was the difference between a six foot commissionaire with blue eyes and dark hair and a five foot seven commissionaire with sloping shoulders, freckles and a sandy thatch of hair bulging out under his commissionaireâs cap. He just knew something was different. In his usual vague way he wandered up to the desk. Miss Gorringe was there and greeted him.

âCanon Pennyfather. How nice to see you. Have you come to fetch your baggage? Itâs all ready for you. If youâd only let us know we could have sent it to you to any address you like.â

âThank you,â said Canon Pennyfather, âthank you very much. Youâre always most kind, Miss Gorringe. But as I had to come up to London anyway today I thought I might as well call for it.â

âWe were so worried about you,â said Miss Gorringe. âBeing missing, you know. Nobody able to find you. You had a car accident, I hear?â

âYes,â said Canon Pennyfather. âYes. People drive much too fast nowadays. Most dangerous. Not that I can remember much about it. It affected my head. Concussion, the doctor says. Oh well, as one is getting on in life, oneâs memoryââ He shook his head sadly. âAnd how are you, Miss Gorringe?â

âOh, Iâm very well,â said Miss Gorringe.

At that moment it struck Canon Pennyfather that Miss Gorringe also was different. He peeered at her, trying to analyse where the difference lay. Her hair? That was the same as usual. Perhaps even a little frizzier. Black dress, large locket, cameo brooch. All there as usual. But there was a difference. Was she perhaps a little thinner? Or was itâyes, surely, she looked worried. It was not often that Canon Pennyfather noticed whether people looked worried, he was not the kind of man who noticed emotion in the faces of others, but it struck him today, perhaps because Miss Gorringe had so invariably presented exactly the same countenance to guests for so many years.

âYouâve not been ill, I hope?â he asked solicitously. âYou look a little thinner.â

âWell, weâve had a good deal of worry, Canon Pennyfather.â

âIndeed. Indeed. Iâm sorry to hear it. Not due to my disappearance, I hope?â

âOh no,â said Miss Gorringe. âWe were worried, of course, about that, but as soon as we heard that you were all rightââ She broke off and said, âNo. Noâitâs thisâwell, perhaps you havenât read about it in the papers. Gorman, our outside porter, got killed.â

âOh yes,â said Canon Pennyfather. âI remember now. I did see it mentioned in the paperâthat you had had a murder here.â

Miss Gorringe shuddered at this blunt mention of the word murder. The shudder went all up her black dress.

âTerrible,â she said, âterrible. Such a thing has never happened at Bertramâs. I mean, weâre not the sort of hotel where murders happen.â

âNo, no, indeed,â said Canon Pennyfather quickly. âIâm sure youâre not. I mean it would never have occurred to me that anything like that could happen here.â

âOf course it wasnât inside the hotel,â said Miss Gorringe, cheering up a little as this aspect of the affair struck her. âIt was outside in the street.â

âSo really nothing to do with you at all,â said the Canon, helpfully.

That apparently was not quite the right thing to say.

âBut it was connected with Bertramâs. We had to have the police here questioning people, since it was our commissionaire who was shot.â

âSo thatâs a new man you have outside. Dâyou know, I thought somehow things looked a little strange.â

âYes, I donât know that heâs very satisfactory. I mean, not quite the style weâre used to here. But of course we had to get someone quickly.â

âI remember all about it now,â said Canon Pennyfather, assembling some rather dim memories of what he had read in the paper a week ago. âBut I thought it was a girl who was shot.â

âYou mean Lady Sedgwickâs daughter? I expect you remember seeing her here with her guardian, Colonel Luscombe. Apparently she was attacked by someone in the fog. I expect they wanted to snatch her bag. Anyway they fired a shot at her and then Gorman, who of course had been a soldier and was a man with a lot of presence of mind, rushed down, got in front of her and got shot himself, poor fellow.â

âVery sad, very sad,â said the Canon, shaking his head.

âIt makes everything terribly difficult,â complained Miss Gorringe. âI mean, the police constantly in and out. I suppose thatâs to be expected, but we donât like it here, though I must say Chief-Inspector Davy and Sergeant Wadell are very respectable-looking. Plain clothes, and very good style, not the sort with boots and mackintoshes like one sees on films. Almost like one of us.â

âErâyes,â said Canon Pennyfather.

âDid you have to go to hospital?â inquired Miss Gorringe.

âNo,â said the Canon, âsome very nice people, really good Samaritansâa market gardener, I believeâpicked me up and his wife nursed me back to health. Iâm most grateful, most grateful. It is refreshing to find that there is still human kindness in the world. Donât you think so?â

Miss Gorringe said she thought it was very refreshing. âAfter all one reads about the increase in crime,â she added, âall those dreadful young men and girls holding up banks and robbing trains and ambushing people.â She looked up and said, âThereâs Chief-Inspector Davy coming down the stairs now. I think he wants to speak to you.â

âI donât know why he should want to speak to me,â said Canon Pennyfather, puzzled. âHeâs already been to see me, you know,â he said, âat Chadminster. He was very disappointed, I think, that I couldnât tell him anything useful.â

âYou couldnât?â

The Canon shook his head sorrowfully.

âI couldnât remember. The accident took place somewhere near a place called Bedhampton and really I donât understand what I can have been doing there. The Chief-Inspector kept asking me why I was there and I couldnât tell him. Very odd, isnât it? He seemed to think Iâd been driving a car from somewhere near a railway station to a vicarage.â

âThat sounds very possible,â said Miss Gorringe.

âIt doesnât seem possible at all,â said Canon Pennyfather. âI mean, why should I be driving about in a part of the world that I donât really know?â

Chief-Inspector Davy had come up to them.

âSo here you are, Canon Pennyfather,â he said. âFeeling quite yourself again?â

âOh, I feel quite well now,â said the Canon, âbut rather inclined to have headaches still. And Iâve been told not to do too much. But I still donât seem to remember what I ought to remember and the doctor says it may never come back.â

âOh well,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âwe mustnât give up hope.â He led the Canon away from the desk. âThereâs a little experiment I want you to try,â he said. âYou donât mind helping me, do you?â

III

When Chief-Inspector Davy opened the door of No. 18, Miss Marple was still sitting in the armchair by the window.

âA good many people in the street today,â she observed. âMore than usual.â

âOh wellâthis is a way through to Berkeley Square and Shepherd Market.â

âI didnât mean only passersby. Men doing thingsâroad repairs, a telephone repair vanâmeat trolleyâa couple of private carsââ

âAnd whatâmay I askâdo you deduce from that?â

âI didnât say that I deduced anything.â

Father gave her a look. Then he said:

âI want you to help me.â

âOf course. That is why I am here. What do you want me to do?â

âI want you to do exactly what you did on the night of November 19th. You were asleepâyou woke upâpossibly awakened by some unusual noise. You switched on the light, looked at the time, got out of bed, opened the door and looked out. Can you repeat those actions?â

âCertainly,â said Miss Marple. She got up and went across to the bed.

âJust a moment.â

Chief-Inspector Davy went and tapped on the connecting walls of the next room.

âYouâll have to do that louder,â said Miss Marple. âThis place is very well built.â

The Chief-Inspector redoubled the force of his knuckles.

âI told Canon Pennyfather to count ten,â he said, looking at his watch. âNow then, off you go.â

Miss Marple touched the electric lamp, looked at an imaginary clock, got up, walked to the door, opened it and looked out. To her right, just leaving his room, walking to the top of the stairs, was Canon Pennyfather. He arrived at the top of the stairs and started down them. Miss Marple gave a slight catch of her breath. She turned back.

âWell?â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

âThe man I saw that night canât have been Canon Pennyfather,â said Miss Marple. âNot if thatâs Canon Pennyfather now.â

âI thought you saidââ

âI know. He looked like Canon Pennyfather. His hair and his clothes and everything. But he didnât walk the same way. I thinkâI think he must have been a younger man. Iâm sorry, very sorry, to have misled you, but it wasnât Canon Pennyfather that I saw that night. Iâm quite sure of it.â

âYou really are quite sure this time, Miss Marple?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âIâm sorry,â she added again, âto have misled you.â

âYou were very nearly right. Canon Pennyfather did come back to the hotel that night. Nobody saw him come inâbut that wasnât remarkable. He came in after midnight. He came up the stairs, he opened the door of his room next door and he went in. What he saw or what happened next we donât know, because he canât or wonât tell us. If there was only some way we could jog his memoryâ¦.â

âThereâs that German word of course,â said Miss Marple, thoughtfully.

âWhat German word?â

âDear me, Iâve forgotten it now, butââ

There was a knock at the door.

âMay I come in?â said Canon Pennyfather. He entered. âWas it satisfactory?â

âMost satisfactory,â said Father. âI was just telling Miss Marpleâyou know Miss Marple?â

âOh yes,â said Canon Pennyfather, really slightly uncertain as to whether he did or not.

âI was just telling Miss Marple how we have traced your movements. You came back to the hotel that night after midnight. You came upstairs and you opened the door of your room and went inââ He paused.

Miss Marple gave an exclamation.

âI remember now,â she said, âwhat the German word is. DoppelgÃ¤nger!â

Canon Pennyfather uttered an exclamation. âBut of course,â he said, âof course! How could I have forgotten? Youâre quite right, you know. After that film, The Walls of Jericho, I came back here and I came upstairs and I opened my room and I sawâextraordinary, I distinctly saw myself sitting in a chair facing me. As you say, dear lady, a doppelgÃ¤nger. How very remarkable! And thenâlet me seeââ He raised his eyes, trying to think.

âAnd then,â said Father, âstartled out of their lives to see you, when they thought you were safely in Lucerne, somebody hit you on the head.â

Chapter Twenty-six

Canon Pennyfather had been sent on his way in a taxi to the British Museum. Miss Marple had been ensconced in the lounge by the Chief-Inspector. Would she mind waiting for him there for about ten minutes? Miss Marple had not minded. She welcomed the opportunity to sit and look around her and think.

Bertramâs Hotel. So many memoriesâ¦The past fused itself with the present. A French phrase came back to her. Plus Ã§a change, plus câest la mÃªme chose. She reversed the wording. Plus câest la mÃªme chose, plus Ã§a change. Both true, she thought.

She felt sadâfor Bertramâs Hotel and for herself. She wondered what Chief-Inspector Davy wanted of her next. She sensed in him the excitement of purpose. He was a man whose plans were at last coming to fruition. It was Chief-Inspector Davyâs D-Day.

The life of Bertramâs went on as usual. No, Miss Marple decided, not as usual. There was a difference, though she could not have defined where the difference lay. An underlying uneasiness, perhaps?

âAll set?â he inquired genially.

âWhere are you taking me now?â

âWeâre going to pay a call on Lady Sedgwick.â

âIs she staying here?â

âYes. With her daughter.â

Miss Marple rose to her feet. She cast a glance round her and murmured: âPoor Bertramâs.â

âWhat do you meanâpoor Bertramâs?â

âI think you know quite well what I mean.â

âWellâlooking at it from your point of view, perhaps I do.â

âIt is always sad when a work of art has to be destroyed.â

âYou call this place a work of art?â

âCertainly I do. So do you.â

âI see what you mean,â admitted Father.

âIt is like when you get ground elder really badly in a border. Thereâs nothing else you can about itâexcept dig the whole thing up.â

âI donât know much about gardens. But change the metaphor to dry rot and Iâd agree.â

They went up in the lift and along a passage to where Lady Sedgwick and her daughter had a corner suite.

Chief-Inspector Davy knocked on the door, a voice said, âCome in,â and he entered with Miss Marple behind him.

Bess Sedgwick was sitting in a high-backed chair near the window. She had a book on her knee which she was not reading.

âSo itâs you again, Chief-Inspector.â Her eyes went past him towards Miss Marple, and she looked slightly surprised.

âThis is Miss Marple,â explained Chief-Inspector Davy. âMiss MarpleâLady Sedgwick.â

âIâve met you before,â said Bess Sedgwick. âYou were with Selina Hazy the other day, werenât you? Do sit down,â she added. Then she turned towards Chief-Inspector Davy again. âHave you any news of the man who shot at Elvira?â

âNot actually what youâd call news.â

âI doubt if you ever will have. In a fog like that, predatory creatures come out and prowl around looking for women walking alone.â

âTrue up to a point,â said Father. âHow is your daughter?â

âOh, Elvira is quite all right again.â

âYouâve got her here with you?â

âYes. I rang up Colonel Luscombeâher guardian. He was delighted that I was willing to take charge.â She gave a sudden laugh. âDear old boy. Heâs always been urging a mother-and-daughter reunion act!â

âHe may be right at that,â said Father.

âOh no, he isnât. Just at the moment, yes, I think it is the best thing.â She turned her head to look out of the window and spoke in a changed voice. âI hear youâve arrested a friend of mineâLadislaus Malinowski. On what charge?â

âNot arrested,â Chief-Inspector Davy corrected her. âHeâs just assisting us with our inquiries.â

âIâve sent my solicitor to look after him.â

âVery wise,â said Father approvingly. âAnyone whoâs having a little difficulty with the police is very wise to have a solicitor. Otherwise they may so easily say the wrong thing.â

âEven if completely innocent?â

âPossibly itâs even more necessary in that case,â said Father.

âYouâre quite a cynic, arenât you? What are you questioning him about, may I ask? Or maynât I?â

âFor one thing weâd like to know just exactly what his movements were on the night when Michael Gorman died.â

Bess Sedgwick sat up sharply in her chair.

âHave you got some ridiculous idea that Ladislaus fired those shots at Elvira? They didnât even know each other.â

âHe could have done it. His car was just round the corner.â

âRubbish,â said Lady Sedgwick robustly.

âHow much did that shooting business the other night upset you, Lady Sedgwick?â

She looked faintly surprised.

âNaturally I was upset when my daughter had a narrow escape of her life. What do you expect?â

âI didnât mean that. I mean how much did the death of Michael Gorman upset you?â

âI was very sorry about it. He was a brave man.â

âIs that all?â

âWhat more would you expect me to say?â

âYou knew him, didnât you?â

âOf course. He worked here.â

âYou knew him a little better than that, though, didnât you?â

âWhat do you mean?â

âCome, Lady Sedgwick. He was your husband, wasnât he?â

She did not answer for a moment or two, though she displayed no signs of agitation or surprise.

âYou know a good deal, donât you, Chief-Inspector?â She sighed and sat back in her chair. âI hadnât seen him forâlet me seeâa great many years. Twentyâmore than twenty. And then I looked out of the window one day, and suddenly recognized Micky.â

âAnd he recognized you?â

âQuite surprising that we did recognize each other,â said Bess Sedgwick. âWe were only together for about a week. Then my family caught up with us, paid Micky off, and took me home in disgrace.â

She sighed.

âI was very young when I ran away with him. I knew very little. Just a fool of a girl with a head full of romantic notions. He was a hero to me, mainly because of the way he rode a horse. He didnât know what fear was. And he was handsome and gay with an Irishmanâs tongue! I suppose really I ran away with him! I doubt if heâd have thought of it himself! But I was wild and headstrong and madly in love!â She shook her head. âIt didnât last longâ¦The first twenty-four hours were enough to disillusion me. He drank and he was coarse and brutal. When my family turned up and took me back with them, I was thankful. I never wanted to see him or hear of him again.â

âDid your family know that you were married to him?â

âNo.â

âYou didnât tell them?â

âI didnât think I was married.â

âHow did that come about?â

âWe were married in Ballygowlan, but when my people turned up, Micky came to me and told me the marriage had been a fake. He and his friends had cooked it up between them, he said. By that time it seemed to me quite a natural thing for him to have done. Whether he wanted the money that was being offered him, or whether he was afraid heâd committed a breach of the law by marrying me when I wasnât of age, I donât know. Anyway, I didnât doubt for a moment that what he said was trueânot then.â

âAnd later?â

She seemed lost in her thoughts. âIt wasnât untilâoh, quite a number of years afterwards, when I knew a little more of life, and of legal matters, that it suddenly occurred to me that probably I was married to Micky Gorman after all!â

âIn actual fact, then, when you married Lord Coniston, you committed bigamy.â

âAnd when I married Johnnie Sedgwick, and again when I married my American husband, Ridgway Becker.â She looked at Chief-Inspector Davy and laughed with what seemed like genuine amusement.

âSo much bigamy,â she said. âIt really does seem very ridiculous.â

âDid you never think of getting a divorce?â

She shrugged her shoulders. âIt all seemed like a silly dream. Why rake it up? I told Johnnie, of course.â Her voice softened and mellowed as she said his name.

âAnd what did he say?â

âHe didnât care. Neither Johnnie nor I were ever very law-abiding.â

âBigamy carries certain penalties, Lady Sedgwick.â

She looked at him and laughed.

âWho was ever going to worry about something that had happened in Ireland years ago? The whole thing was over and done with. Micky had taken his money and gone off. Oh, donât you understand? It seemed just a silly little incident. An incident I wanted to forget. I put it aside with the thingsâthe very many thingsâthat donât matter in life.â

âAnd then,â said Father, in a tranquil voice, âone day in November, Michael Gorman turned up again and blackmailed you?â

âNonsense! Who said he blackmailed me?â

Slowly Fatherâs eyes went round to the old lady sitting quietly, very upright in her chair.

âYou.â Bess Sedgwick stared at Miss Marple. âWhat can you know about it?â

Her voice was more curious than accusing.

âThe armchairs in this hotel have very high backs,â said Miss Marple. âVery comfortable they are. I was sitting in one in front of the fire in the writing room. Just resting before I went out one morning. You came in to write a letter. I suppose you didnât realize there was anyone else in the room. And soâI heard your conversation with this man Gorman.â

âYou listened?â

âNaturally,â said Miss Marple. âWhy not? It was a public room. When you threw up the window and called to the man outside, I had no idea that it was going to be a private conversation.â

Bess stared at her for a moment, then she nodded her head slowly.

âFair enough,â she said. âYes, I see. But all the same you misunderstood what you heard. Micky didnât blackmail me. He might have thought of itâbut I warned him off before he could try!â Her lips curled up again in that wide generous smile that made her face so attractive. âI frightened him off.â

âYes,â agreed Miss Marple. âI think you probably did. You threatened to shoot him. You handled itâif you wonât think it impertinent of me to say soâvery well indeed.â

Bess Sedgwickâs eyebrows rose in some amusement.

âBut I wasnât the only person to hear you,â Miss Marple went on.

âGood gracious! Was the whole hotel listening?â

âThe other armchair was also occupied.â

âBy whom?â

Miss Marple closed her lips. She looked at Chief-Inspector Davy, and it was almost a pleading glance. âIf it must be done, you do it,â the glance said, âbut I canâtâ¦.â

âYour daughter was in the other chair,â said Chief-Inspector Davy.

âOh no!â The cry came out sharply. âOh no. Not Elvira! I seeâyes, I see. She must have thoughtââ

âShe thought seriously enough of what she had overheard to go to Ireland and search for the truth. It wasnât difficult to discover.â

Again Bess Sedgwick said softly: âOh noâ¦â And then: âPoor childâ¦Even now, sheâs never asked me a thing. Sheâs kept it all to herself. Bottled it up inside herself. If sheâd only told me I could have explained it all to herâshowed her how it didnât matter.â

âShe mightnât have agreed with you there,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âItâs a funny thing, you know,â he went on, in a reminiscent, almost gossipy manner, looking like an old farmer discussing his stock and his land, âIâve learnt after a great many yearsâ trial and errorâIâve learned to distrust a pattern when itâs simple. Simple patterns are often too good to be true. The pattern of this murder the other night was like that. Girl says someone shot at her and missed. The commissionaire came running to save her, and copped it with a second bullet. That may be all true enough. That may be the way the girl saw it. But actually behind the appearances, things might be rather different.

âYou said pretty vehemently just now, Lady Sedgwick, that there could be no reason for Ladislaus Malinowski to attempt your daughterâs life. Well, Iâll agree with you. I donât think there was. Heâs the sort of young man who might have a row with a woman, pull out a knife and stick it into her. But I donât think heâd hide in an area, and wait cold-bloodedly to shoot her. But supposing he wanted to shoot someone else. Screams and shotsâbut what actually has happened is that Michael Gorman is dead. Suppose that was actually what was meant to happen. Malinowski plans it very carefully. He chooses a foggy night, hides in the area and waits until your daughter comes up the street. He knows sheâs coming because he has managed to arrange it that way. He fires a shot. Itâs not meant to hit the girl. Heâs careful not to let the bullet go anywhere near her, but she thinks itâs aimed at her all right. She screams. The porter from the hotel, hearing the shot and the scream, comes rushing down the street and then Malinowski shoots the person heâs come to shoot. Michael Gorman.â

âI donât believe a word of it! Why on earth should Ladislaus want to shoot Micky Gorman?â

âA little matter of blackmail, perhaps,â said Father.

âDo you mean that Micky was blackmailing Ladislaus? What about?â

âPerhaps,â said Father, âabout the things that go on at Bertramâs Hotel. Michael Gorman might have found out quite a lot about that.â

âThings that go on at Bertramâs Hotel? What do you mean?â

âItâs been a good racket,â said Father. âWell planned, beautifully executed. But nothing lasts forever. Miss Marple here asked me the other day what was wrong with this place. Well, Iâll answer that question now. Bertramâs Hotel is to all intents and purposes the headquarters of one of the best and biggest crime syndicates thatâs been known for years.â

Chapter Twenty-seven

There was silence for about a minute and a half. Then Miss Marple spoke.

âHow very interesting,â she said conversationally.

Bess Sedgwick turned on her. âYou donât seem surprised, Miss Marple.â

âIâm not. Not really. There were so many curious things that didnât seem quite to fit in. It was all too good to be trueâif you know what I mean. What they call in theatrical circles, a beautiful performance. But it was a performanceânot real.

âAnd there were a lot of little things, people claiming a friend or an acquaintanceâand turning out to be wrong.â

âThese things happen,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âbut they happened too often. Is that right, Miss Marple?â

âYes,â agreed Miss Marple. âPeople like Selina Hazy do make that kind of mistake. But there were so many other people doing it too. One couldnât help noticing it.â

âShe notices a lot,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, speaking to Bess Sedgwick as though Miss Marple was his pet performing dog.

Bess Sedgwick turned on him sharply.

âWhat did you mean when you said this place was the headquarters of a Crime Syndicate? I should have said that Bertramâs Hotel was the most respectable place in the world.â

âNaturally,â said Father. âIt would have to be. A lot of money, time, and thought has been spent on making it just what it is. The genuine and the phony are mixed-up very cleverly. Youâve got a superb actor manager running the show in Henry. Youâve got that chap, Humfries, wonderfully plausible. He hasnât got a record in this country but heâs been mixed-up in some rather curious hotel dealings abroad. There are some very good character actors playing various parts here. Iâll admit, if you like, that I canât help feeling a good deal of admiration for the whole setup. It has cost this country a mint of money. Itâs given the CID and the provincial police forces constant headaches. Every time we seemed to be getting somewhere, and put our finger on some particular incidentâit turned out to be the kind of incident that had nothing to do with anything else. But weâve gone on working on it, a piece there, a piece here. A garage where stacks of number plates were kept, transferable at a momentâs notice to certain cars. A firm of furniture vans, a butcherâs van, a grocerâs van, even one or two phony postal vans. A racing driver with a racing car covering incredible distances in incredibly few minutes, and at the other end of the scale an old clergyman jogging along in his old Morris Oxford. A cottage with a market gardener in it who lends first aid if necessary and who is in touch with a useful doctor. I neednât go into it all. The ramifications seem unending. Thatâs one half of it. The foreign visitors who come to Bertramâs are the other half. Mostly from America, or from the Dominions. Rich people above suspicion, coming here with a good lot of luxury luggage, leaving here with a good lot of luxury luggage which looks the same but isnât. Rich tourists arriving in France and not worried unduly by the Customs because the Customs donât worry tourists when theyâre bringing money into the country. Not the same tourists too many times. The pitcher mustnât go to the well too often. None of itâs going to be easy to prove or to tie up, but it will all tie up in the end. Weâve made a beginning. The Cabots, for instanceââ

âWhat about the Cabots?â asked Bess sharply.

âYou remember them? Very nice Americans. Very nice indeed. They stayed here last year and theyâve been here again this year. They wouldnât have come a third time. Nobody ever comes here more than twice on the same racket. Yes, we arrested them when they arrived at Calais. Very well-made job, that wardrobe case they had with them. It had over three hundred thousand pounds neatly stashed. Proceeds of the Bedhampton train robbery. Of course, thatâs only a drop in the ocean.

âBertramâs Hotel, let me tell you, is the headquarters of the whole thing! Half the staff are in on it. Some of the guests are in on it. Some of the guests are who they say they areâsome are not. The real Cabots, for instance, are in Yucatan just now. Then there was the identification racket. Take Mr. Justice Ludgrove. A familiar face, bulbous nose and a wart. Quite easy to impersonate. Canon Pennyfather. A mild country clergyman, with a great white thatch of hair and notable absentminded behaviour. His mannerisms, his way of peering over his spectaclesâall very easily imitated by a good character actor.â

âBut what was the use of all that?â asked Bess.

âAre you really asking me? Isnât it obvious? Mr. Justice Ludgrove is seen near the scene of a bank holdup. Someone recognizes him, mentions it. We go into it. Itâs all a mistake. He was somewhere else at the time. But it wasnât for a while that we realized that these were all what is sometimes called âdeliberate mistakes.â Nobodyâs bothered about the man who had looked so like him. And doesnât look particularly like him really. He takes off his makeup and stops acting his part. The whole thing brings about confusion. At one time we had a High Court judge, an Archdeacon, an Admiral, a Major-General, all seen near the scene of a crime.

âAfter the Bedhampton train robbery at least four vehicles were concerned before the loot arrived in London. A racing car driven by Malinowski took part in it, a false Metal Box lorry, an old-fashioned Daimler with an admiral in it, and an old clergyman with a thatch of white hair in a Morris Oxford. The whole thing was a splendid operation, beautifully planned.

âAnd then one day the gang had a bit of bad luck. That muddle-headed old ecclesiastic, Canon Pennyfather, went off to catch his plane on the wrong day, they turned him away from the air station, he wandered out into Cromwell Road, went to a film, arrived back here after midnight, came up to his room, of which he had the key in his pocket, opened the door, and walked in to get the shock of his life when he saw what appeared to be himself sitting in a chair facing him! The last thing the gang expected was to see the real Canon Pennyfather, supposed to be safely in Lucerne, walk in! His double was just getting ready to start off to play his part at Bedhampton when in walked the real man. They didnât know what to do but there was a quick reflex action from one member of the party. Humfries, I suspect. He hit the old man on the head, and he went down unconscious. Somebody, I think, was angry over that. Very angry. However, they examined the old boy, decided he was only knocked out, and would probably come round later and they went on with their plans. The false Canon Pennyfather left his room, went out of the hotel and drove to the scene of activities where he was to play his part in the relay race. What they did with the real Canon Pennyfather I donât know. I can only guess. I presume he too was moved later that night, driven down in a car, taken to the market gardenerâs cottage which was at a spot not too far from where the train was to be held up and where a doctor could attend to him. Then, if reports came through about Canon Pennyfather having been seen in the neighbourhood, it would all fit in. It must have been an anxious moment for all concerned until he regained consciousness and they found that at least three days had been knocked out of his remembrance.â

âWould they have killed him otherwise?â asked Miss Marple.

âNo,â said Father. âI donât think they would have killed him. Someone wouldnât have let that happen. It had seemed very clear all along that whoever ran this show had an objection to murder.â

âIt sounds fantastic,â said Bess Sedgwick. âUtterly fantastic! And I donât believe you have any evidence whatever to link Ladislaus Malinowski with this rigmarole.â

âIâve got plenty of evidence against Ladislaus Malinowski,â said Father. âHeâs careless, you know. He hung around here when he shouldnât have. On the first occasion he came to establish connection with your daughter. They had a code arranged.â

âNonsense. She told you herself that she didnât know him.â

âShe may have told me that but it wasnât true. Sheâs in love with him. She wants the fellow to marry her.â

âI donât believe it!â

âYouâre not in a position to know,â Chief-Inspector Davy pointed out. âMalinowski isnât the sort of person who tells all his secrets and your daughter you donât know at all. You admitted as much. You were angry, werenât you, when you found out Malinowski had come to Bertramâs Hotel.â

âWhy should I be angry?â

âBecause youâre the brains of the show,â said Father. âYou and Henry. The financial side was run by the Hoffman brothers. They made all the arrangements with the Continental banks and accounts and that sort of thing, but the boss of the syndicate, the brains that run it, and plan it, are your brains, Lady Sedgwick.â

Bess looked at him and laughed. âI never heard anything so ridiculous!â she said.

âOh no, itâs not ridiculous at all. Youâve got brains, courage and daring. Youâve tried most things; you thought youâd turn your hand to crime. Plenty of excitement in it, plenty of risk. It wasnât the money that attracted you, Iâd say, it was the fun of the whole thing. But you wouldnât stand for murder, or for undue violence. There were no killings, no brutal assaults, only nice quiet scientific taps on the head if necessary. Youâre a very interesting woman, you know. One of the few really interesting great criminals.â

There was silence for some few minutes. Then Bess Sedgwick rose to her feet.

âI think you must be mad.â She put her hand out to the telephone.

âGoing to ring up your solicitor? Quite the right thing to do before you say too much.â

With a sharp gesture she slammed the receiver back on the hook.

âOn second thoughts I hate solicitorsâ¦All right. Have it your own way. Yes, I ran this show. Youâre quite correct when you say it was fun. I loved every minute of it. It was fun scooping money from banks, trains and post offices and so-called security vans! It was fun planning and deciding; glorious fun and Iâm glad I had it. The pitcher goes to the well once too often? Thatâs what you said just now, wasnât it? I suppose itâs true. Well, Iâve had a good run for my money! But youâre wrong about Ladislaus Malinowski shooting Michael Gorman! He didnât. I did.â She laughed a sudden high, excited laugh. âNever mind what it was he did, what he threatenedâ¦I told him Iâd shoot himâMiss Marple heard meâand I did shoot him. I did very much what you suggested Ladislaus did. I hid in that area. When Elvira passed, I fired one shot wild, and when she screamed and Micky came running down the street, Iâd got him where I wanted him, and I let him have it! Iâve got keys to all the hotel entrances, of course. I just slipped in through the area door and up to my room. It never occurred to me youâd trace the pistol to Ladislausâor would even suspect him. Iâd pinched it from his car without his knowing. But not, I can assure you, with any idea of throwing suspicion on him.â

She swept round on Miss Marple. âYouâre a witness to what Iâve said, remember. I killed Gorman.â

âOr perhaps you are saying so because youâre in love with Malinowski,â suggested Davy.

âIâm not.â Her retort came sharply. âIâm his good friend, thatâs all. Oh yes, weâve been lovers in a casual kind of way, but Iâm not in love with him. In all my life, Iâve only loved one personâJohn Sedgwick.â her voice changed and softened as she pronounced the name.

âBut Ladislaus is my friend. I donât want him railroaded for something he didnât do. I killed Michael Gorman. Iâve said so, and Miss Marple has heard meâ¦And now, dear Chief-Inspector Davyââ her voice rose excitedly, and her laughter rang outââcatch me if you can.â

With a sweep of her arm, she smashed the window with the heavy telephone set, and before Father could get to his feet, she was out of the window and edging her way rapidly along the narrow parapet. With surprising quickness in spite of his bulk, Davy had moved to the other window and flung up the sash. At the same time he blew the whistle he had taken from his pocket.

Miss Marple, getting to her feet with rather more difficulty a moment or two later, joined him. Together they stared out along the faÃ§ade of Bertramâs Hotel.

âSheâll fall. Sheâs climbing up a drainpipe,â Miss Marple exclaimed. âBut why up?â

âGoing to the roof. Itâs her only chance and she knows it. Good God, look at her. Climbs like a cat. She looks like a fly on the side of the wall. The risks sheâs taking!â

Miss Marple murmured, her eyes half closing, âSheâll fall. She canât do itâ¦.â

The woman they were watching disappeared from sight. Father drew back a little into the room.

Miss Marple asked:

âDonât you want to go andââ

Father shook his head. âWhat good am I with my bulk? Iâve got my men posted ready for something like this. They know what to do. In a few minutes we shall knowâ¦I wouldnât put it past her to beat the lot of them! Sheâs a woman in a thousand, you know.â He sighed. âOne of the wild ones. Oh, weâve some of them in every generation. You canât tame them, you canât bring them into the community and make them live in law and order. They go their own way. If theyâre saints they go and tend lepers or something, or get themselves martyred in jungles. If theyâre bad lots they commit the atrocities that you donât like hearing about: and sometimesâtheyâre just wild! Theyâd have been all right, I suppose, born in another age when it was everyoneâs hand for himself, everyone fighting to keep life in their veins. Hazards at every turn, danger all round them, and they themselves perforce dangerous to others. That world would have suited them; theyâd have been at home in it. This one doesnât.â

âDid you know what she was going to do?â

âNot really. Thatâs one of her gifts. The unexpected. She must have thought this out, you know. She knew what was coming. So she sat looking at usâkeeping the ball rollingâand thinking. Thinking and planning hard. I expectâahââ He broke off as there came the sudden roar of a carâs exhaust, the screaming of wheels, and the sound of a big racing engine. He leaned out. âSheâs made it, sheâs got to her car.â

There was more screaming as the car came round the corner on two wheels, a great roar, and the beautiful white monster came tearing up the street.

âSheâll kill someone,â said Father, âsheâll kill a lot of peopleâ¦even if she doesnât kill herself.â

âI wonder,â said Miss Marple.

âSheâs a good driver, of course. A damn good driver. Whoof, that was a near one!â

They heard the roar of the car racing away with the horn blaring, heard it grow fainter. Heard cries, shouts, the sound of brakes, cars hooting and pulling up and finally a great scream of tyres and a roaring exhaust andâ

âSheâs crashed,â said Father.

He stood there very quietly waiting with the patience that was characteristic of his whole big patient form. Miss Marple stood silent beside him. Then, like a relay race, word came down along the street. A man on the pavement opposite looked up at Chief-Inspector Davy and made rapid signs with his hands.

âSheâs had it,â said Father heavily. âDead! Went about ninety miles an hour into the park railings. No other casualties bar a few slight collisions. Magnificent driving. Yes, sheâs dead.â He turned back into the room and said heavily, âWell, she told her story first. You heard her.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âI heard her.â There was a pause. âIt wasnât true, of course,â said Miss Marple quietly.

Father looked at her. âYou didnât believe her, eh?â

âDid you?â

âNo,â said Father. âNo, it wasnât the right story. She thought it out so that it would meet the case exactly, but it wasnât true. She didnât shoot Michael Gorman. Dâyou happen to know who did?â

âOf course I know,â said Miss Marple. âThe girl.â

âAh! When did you begin to think that?â

âI always wondered,â said Miss Marple.

âSo did I,â said Father. âShe was full of fear that night. And the lies she told were poor lies. But I couldnât see a motive at first.â

âThat puzzled me,â said Miss Marple. âShe had found out her motherâs marriage was bigamous, but would a girl do murder for that? Not nowadays! I suppose there was a money side to it?â

âYes, it was money,â said Chief-Inspector Davy. âHer father left her a colossal fortune. When she found out that her mother was married to Michael Gorman she realized that the marriage to Coniston hadnât been legal. She thought that meant that the money wouldnât come to her because, though she was his daughter, she wasnât legitimate. She was wrong, you know. We had a case something like that before. Depends on the terms of a will. Coniston left it quite clearly to her, naming her by name. Sheâd get it all right, but she didnât know that. And she wasnât going to let go of the cash.â

âWhy did she need it so badly?â

Chief-Inspector Davy said grimly, âTo buy Ladislaus Malinowski. He would have married her for her money. He wouldnât have married her without it. She wasnât a fool, that girl. She knew that. But she wanted him on any terms. She was desperately in love with him.â

âI know,â said Miss Marple. She explained: âI saw her face that day in Battersea Parkâ¦.â

âShe knew that with the money sheâd get him, and without the money sheâd lose him,â said Father. âAnd so she planned a cold-blooded murder. She didnât hide in the area, of course. There was nobody in the area. She just stood by the railings and fired a shot and screamed, and when Michael Gorman came racing down the street from the hotel, she shot him at close quarters. Then she went on screaming. She was a cool hand. Sheâd no idea of incriminating young Ladislaus. She pinched his pistol because it was the only way she could get hold of one easily; and she never dreamed that he would be suspected of the crime, or that he would be anywhere in the neighbourhood that night. She thought it would be put down to some thug taking advantage of the fog. Yes, she was a cool hand. But she was afraid that nightâafterwards! And her mother was afraid for herâ¦.â

âAnd nowâwhat will you do?â

âI know she did it,â said Father, âbut Iâve no evidence. Maybe sheâll have beginnerâs luckâ¦Even the law seems to go on the principle now of allowing a dog to have one biteâtranslated into human terms. An experienced counsel could make great play with the sob stuffâso young a girl, unfortunate upbringingâand sheâs beautiful, you know.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âThe children of Lucifer are often beautifulâAnd as we know, they flourish like the green bay tree.â

âBut as I tell you, it probably wonât even come to thatâthereâs no evidenceâtake yourselfâyouâll be called as a witnessâa witness to what her mother saidâto her motherâs confession of the crime.â

âI know,â said Miss Marple. âShe impressed it on me, didnât she? She chose death for herself, at the price of her daughter going free. She forced it on me as a dying requestâ¦.â

The connecting door to the bedroom opened. Elvira Blake came through. She was wearing a straight shift dress of pale blue. Her fair hair fell down each side of her face. She looked like one of the angels in an early primitive Italian painting. She looked from one to the other of them. She said:

âI heard a car and a crash and people shoutingâ¦Has there been an accident?â

âIâm sorry to tell you, Miss Blake,â said Chief-Inspector Davy formally, âthat your mother is dead.â

Elvira gave a little gasp. âOh no,â she said. It was a faint uncertain protest.

âBefore she made her escape,â said Chief-Inspector Davy, âbecause it was an escapeâshe confessed to the murder of Michael Gorman.â

âYou meanâshe saidâthat it was sheââ

âYes,â said Father. âThat is what she said. Have you anything to add?â

Elvira looked for a long time at him. Very faintly she shook her head.

âNo,â she said, âI havenât anything to add.â

Then she turned and went out of the room.

âWell,â said Miss Marple. âAre you going to let her get away with it?â

There was a pause, then Father brought down his fist with a crash on the table.

âNo,â he roaredââNo, by God Iâm not!â

Miss Marple nodded her head slowly and gravely.

âMay God have mercy on her soul,â she said.

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

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The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

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THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

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The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

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Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

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About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

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THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews and Other Stories

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Credits

Cover illustration and design by Sara Wood

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® MARPLEÂ® MISS MARPLEÂ® AT BERTRAMâ€™S HOTELâ„¢. Copyright Â© 2011 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved. At Bertramâ€™s Hotel was first published in 1965.

AT BERTRAMâ€™S HOTEL Â© 1966. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207369-3

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-176016-7

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