“He is unsuitable,” said Chief-Inspector Davy.
“Oh. Then you know who he is?”
“I can have a very good guess at it. Ladislaus Malinowski.”
“The racing motorist? Really! A handsome daredevil. Women fall for him easily. I wonder how he came across Elvira. I don’t see very well where their orbits would meet except—yes, I believe he was in Rome a couple of months ago. Possibly she met him there.”
“Very possibly. Or could she have met him through her mother?”
“What, through Bess? I wouldn’t say that was at all likely.”
Davy coughed.
“Lady Sedgwick and Malinowski are said to be close friends, sir.”
“Oh yes, yes, I know that’s the gossip. May be true, may not. They are close friends—thrown together constantly by their way of life. Bess has had her affairs, of course; though, mind you, she’s not the nymphomaniac type. People are ready enough to say that about a woman, but it’s not true in Bess’s case. Anyway, as far as I know, Bess and her daughter are practically not even acquainted with each other.”
“That’s what Lady Sedgwick told me. And you agree?” Egerton nodded.
“What other relatives has Miss Blake got?”
“For all intents and purposes, none. Her mother’s two brothers were killed in the war—and she was old Coniston’s only child. Mrs. Melford, though the girl calls her ‘Cousin Mildred,’ is actually a cousin of Colonel Luscombe’s. Luscombe’s done his best for the girl in his conscientious old-fashioned way—but it’s difficult…for a man.”
“Miss Blake brought up the subject of marriage, you say? There’s no possibility, I suppose, that she may actually already be married—”
“She’s well under age—she’d have to have the assent of her guardian and trustees.”
“Technically, yes. But they don’t always wait for that,” said Father.
“I 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.”
“And once they’re married, they’re married,” said Father. “I suppose, if she were married, and died suddenly, her husband would inherit?”
“This idea of marriage is most unlikely. She has been most carefully looked after and….” He stopped, reacting to Chief-Inspector Davy’s 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, “Her mother bolted, it’s true.”
“Her mother bolted, yes—that’s what she would do—but Miss Blake’s a different type. She’s just as set on getting her own way, but she’d go about it differently.”
“You don’t really think—”
“I don’t think anything—yet,” 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.
“It is very amusing!” he said. “You 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.”
“We think you may be able to assist us in our inquiries, Mr. Malinowski.” Chief-Inspector Davy spoke with official smoothness. “You own a car, Mercedes-Otto, registration number FAN 2266.”
“Is there any reason why I should not own such a car?”
“No reason at all, sir. There’s 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.”
“Nonsense. It must have been some other car.”
“There aren’t so many of that make. We have checked up on those there are.”
“You believe everything, I suppose, that your traffic police tell you! It is laughable! Where was all this?”
“The 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.”
“You really do amuse me,” said Ladislaus Malinowski.
“You have a revolver?”
“Certainly, I have a revolver and an automatic pistol. I have proper licences for them.”
“Quite so. They are both still in your possession?”
“Certainly.”
“I have already warned you, Mr. Malinowski.”
“The famous policeman’s warning! Anything you say will be taken down and used against you at your trial.”
“That’s not quite the wording,” said Father mildly. “Used, yes. Against, no. You don’t want to qualify that statement of yours?”
“No, I do not.”
“And you are sure you don’t want your solicitor here?”
“I do not like solicitors.”
“Some people don’t. Where are those firearms now?”
“I 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.”
“You’re quite right about the one in the drawer in your flat,” said Father, “but the other—the pistol—is not in your car.”
“Yes, it is. It is in the left-hand pocket.”
Father shook his head. “It may have been once. It isn’t now. Is this it, Mr. Malinowski?”
He passed a small automatic pistol across the table. Ladislaus Malinowski, with an air of great surprise, picked it up.
“Ah-ha, yes. This is it. So it was you who took it from my car?”
“No,” said Father, “we didn’t take it from your car. It was not in your car. We found it somewhere else.”
“Where did you find it?”
“We found it,” said Father, “in an area in Pond Street, which—as you no doubt know—is a street near Park Lane. It could have been dropped by a man walking down that street—or running perhaps.”
Ladislaus Malinowski shrugged his shoulders. “That is nothing to do with me—I 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.”
“Do you know, Mr. Malinowski, that this is the pistol which was used to shoot Michael Gorman on the night of November 26th?”
“Michael Gorman? I do not know a Michael Gorman.”
“The commissionaire from Bertram’s Hotel.”
“Ah yes, the one who was shot. I read about it. And you say my pistol shot him? Nonsense!”
“It’s not nonsense. The ballistic experts have examined it. You know enough of firearms to be aware that their evidence is reliable.”
“You are trying to frame me. I know what you police do!”
“I think you know the police of this country better than that, Mr. Malinowski.”
“Are you suggesting that I shot Michael Gorman?”
“So far we are only asking for a statement. No charge has been made.”
“But that is what you think—that I shot that ridiculous dressed-up military figure. Why should I? I didn’t owe him money, I had no grudge against him.”
“It was a young lady who was shot at. Gorman ran to protect her and received the second bullet in his chest.”
“A young lady?”
“A young lady whom I think you know. Miss Elvira Blake.”
“Do you say someone tried to shoot Elvira with my pistol?”
He sounded incredulous.
“It could be that you had had a disagreement.”
“You mean that I quarrelled with Elvira and shot her? What madness! Why should I shoot the girl I am going to marry?”
“Is that part of your statement? That you are going to marry Miss Elvira Blake?”
Just for a moment or two Ladislaus hesitated. Then he said, shrugging his shoulders:
“She is still very young. It remains to be discussed.”
<
br /> “Perhaps she had promised to marry you, and then—she changed her mind. There was someone she was afraid of. Was it you, Mr. Malinowski?”
“Why 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?”
“There aren’t many people close enough to her to want to kill her.” Davy waited a moment and then said, almost casually: “There’s her mother, of course.”
“What!” Malinowski sprang up. “Bess? Bess kill her own daughter? You are mad! Why should Bess kill Elvira?”
“Possibly because, as next of kin, she might inherit an enormous fortune.”
“Bess? You mean Bess would kill for money? She has plenty of money from her American husband. Enough, anyway.”
“Enough is not the same as a great fortune,” said Father. “People do do murder for a large fortune, mothers have been known to kill their children, and children have killed their mothers.”
“I tell you, you are mad!”
“You 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.”
“What 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 fun—but that is all. No more, do you understand?”
“Indeed? Just now, Mr. Malinowski, you said quite definitely that she was the girl you were going to marry.”
“Oh that.”
“Yes—that. Was it true?”
“I said it because—it sounded more respectable that way. You are so—prudish in this country—”
“That seems to me an unlikely explanation.”
“You do not understand anything at all. The mother and I—we are lovers—I did not wish to say so—I suggest instead that the daughter and I—we are engaged to be married. That sounds very English and proper.”
“It sounds to me even more far-fetched. You’re rather badly in need of money, aren’t you, Mr. Malinowski?”
“My dear Chief-Inspector, I am always in need of money. It is very sad.”
“And yet a few months ago I understand you were flinging money about in a very carefree way.”
“Ah. I had had a lucky flutter. I am a gambler. I admit it.”
“I find that quite easy to believe. Where did you have this ‘flutter’?”
“That I do not tell. You can hardly expect it.”
“I don’t expect it.”
“Is that all you have to ask me?”
“For the moment, yes. You have identified the pistol as yours. That will be very helpful.”
“I don’t understand—I can’t conceive—” He broke off and stretched out his hand. “Give it me please.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to keep it for the present, so I’ll write you out a receipt for it.”
He did so and handed it to Malinowski.
The latter went out slamming the door.
“Temperamental chap,” said Father.
“You didn’t press him on the matter of the false number plate and Bedhampton?”
“No. I wanted him rattled. But not too badly rattled. We’ll give him one thing to worry about at a time—And he is worried.”
“The Old Man wanted to see you, sir, as soon as you were through.”
Chief-Inspector Davy nodded and made his way to Sir Ronald’s room.
“Ah! Father. Making progress?”
“Yes. Getting along nicely—quite a lot of fish in the net. Small-fry mostly. But we’re closing in on the big fellows. Everything’s in train—”
“Good show, Fred,” 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, “Very good of you, Miss Marple,” 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.
“Where are you taking me, Chief-Inspector Davy?”
“To Bertram’s Hotel.”
“Dear me, Bertram’s Hotel again. Why?”
“The official reply is: because the police think you can assist them in their inquiries.”
“That sounds familiar, but surely rather sinister? So often the prelude to an arrest, is it not?”
“I am not going to arrest you, Miss Marple.” Father smiled. “You have an alibi.”
Miss Marple digested this in silence. Then she said, “I see.”
They drove to Bertram’s Hotel in silence. Miss Gorringe looked up from the desk as they entered, but Chief-Inspector Davy piloted Miss Marple to the lift.
“Second floor.”
The lift ascended, stopped, and Father led the way along the corridor.
As he opened the door of No. 18 Miss Marple said:
“This is the same room I had when I was staying here before.”
“Yes,” said Father.
Miss Marple sat down in the armchair.
“A very comfortable room,” she observed, looking round with a slight sigh.
“They certainly know what comfort is here,” Father agreed.
“You look tired, Chief-Inspector,” said Miss Marple unexpectedly.
“I’ve had to get around a bit. As a matter of fact I’ve just got back from Ireland.”
“Indeed. From Ballygowlan?”
“Now how the devil did you know about Ballygowlan? I’m sorry—I beg your pardon.”
Miss Marple smiled forgiveness.
“I suppose Michael Gorman happened to tell you he came from there—was that it?”
“No, not exactly,” said Miss Marple.
“Then how, if you’ll excuse me asking you, did you know?”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Marple, “it’s really very embarrassing. It was just something I—happened to overhear.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping. It was in a public room—at least technically a public room. Quite frankly, I enjoy listening to people talking. One does. Especially when one is old and doesn’t get about very much. I mean, if people are talking near you, you listen.”
“Well, that seems to me quite natural,” said Father.
“Up to a point, yes,” said Miss Marple. “If 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 won’t realize you’ve been there. Either way is embarrassing.”
Chief-Inspector Davy glanced at his watch.
“Look here,” he said, “I want to hear more about this—but I’ve got Canon Pennyfather arriving at any moment. I must go and collect him. You don’t mind?”
Miss Marple said she didn’t mind. Chief-Inspector Davy left the room.
II
Canon Pennyfather came through the swing doors into the hall of Bertram’s Hotel. He frowned slightly, wondering what it was that seemed a little different about Bertram’s 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 commissionaire’s 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.
“Canon Pennyfather. How nice to see you. Have you come to fetch your baggage? It’s all ready for you. If you’d only let us know we co
uld have sent it to you to any address you like.”
“Thank you,” said Canon Pennyfather, “thank you very much. You’re 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.”
“We were so worried about you,” said Miss Gorringe. “Being missing, you know. Nobody able to find you. You had a car accident, I hear?”
“Yes,” said Canon Pennyfather. “Yes. 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, one’s memory—” He shook his head sadly. “And how are you, Miss Gorringe?”
“Oh, I’m very well,” 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 it—yes, 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.
“You’ve not been ill, I hope?” he asked solicitously. “You look a little thinner.”
“Well, we’ve had a good deal of worry, Canon Pennyfather.”
“Indeed. Indeed. I’m sorry to hear it. Not due to my disappearance, I hope?”
“Oh no,” said Miss Gorringe. “We were worried, of course, about that, but as soon as we heard that you were all right—” She broke off and said, “No. No—it’s this—well, perhaps you haven’t read about it in the papers. Gorman, our outside porter, got killed.”
“Oh yes,” said Canon Pennyfather. “I remember now. I did see it mentioned in the paper—that you had had a murder here.”
Miss Gorringe shuddered at this blunt mention of the word murder. The shudder went all up her black dress.
At Bertram's Hotel Page 18