The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “Dear me,” said Canon Pennyfather, “this is most odd. Where am I?”

  He was thinking of getting up to investigate but when he sat up in bed his headache began again so he lay down.

  “I must have been ill,” decided Canon Pennyfather. “Yes, definitely I must have been ill.” He thought a minute or two and then said to himself, “As a matter of fact, I think perhaps I’m still ill. Influenza, perhaps?” Influenza, people often said, came on very suddenly. Perhaps—perhaps 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 they’d taken him to a nursing home. But no, he didn’t 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, “Good-bye, ducks. Sausage and mash this evening.”

  Canon Pennyfather considered this. Sausage and mash. The words had a faintly agreeable quality.

  “I believe,” he said to himself, “I’m hungry.”

  The door opened. A middle-aged woman came in, went across to the curtains, pulled them back a little and turned towards the bed.

  “Ah, you’re awake now,” she said. “And how are you feeling?”

  “Really,” said Canon Pennyfather, rather feebly, “I’m not quite sure.”

  “Ah, I expect not. You’ve been quite bad, you know. Something hit you a nasty crack, so the doctor said. These motorists! Not even stopping after they’d knocked you down.”

  “Have I had an accident?” said Canon Pennyfather. “A motor accident?”

  “That’s right,” said the woman. “Found you by the side of the road when we come home. Thought you was drunk at first.” She chuckled pleasantly at the reminiscence. “Then my husband said he’d better take a look. It may have been an accident, he said. There wasn’t no smell of drink or anything. No blood or anything neither. Anyway, there you was, out like a log. So my husband said, ‘We can’t leave him here lying like that,’ and he carried you in here. See?”

  “Ah,” said Canon Pennyfather, faintly, somewhat overcome by all these revelations. “A good Samaritan.”

  “And he saw you were a clergyman so my husband said, ‘It’s all quite respectable.’ Then he said he’d better not call the police because being a clergyman and all that you mightn’t like it. That’s 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 he’s 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, he’s a good enough doctor and we got him to come and take a look at you. He says you’ve come to no real harm, says it’s mild concussion. All we’d got to do was to keep you lying flat and quiet in a dark room. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘I’m not giving an opinion or anything like that. This is unofficial. I’ve no right to prescribe or to say anything. By rights I dare say you ought to report it to the police, but if you don’t want to, why should you?’ Give the poor old geezer a chance, that’s what he said. Excuse me if I’m speaking disrespectful. He’s a rough and ready speaker, the doctor is. Now what about a drop of soup or some hot bread and milk?”

  “Either,” said Canon Pennyfather faintly, “would be very welcome.”

  He relapsed on to his pillows. An accident? So that was it. An accident, and he couldn’t remember a thing about it! A few minutes later the good woman returned bearing a tray with a steaming bowl on it.

  “You’ll feel better after this,” she said. “I’d like to have put a drop of whisky or a drop of brandy in it but the doctor said you wasn’t to have nothing like that.”

  “Certainly not,” said Canon Pennyfather, “not with concussion. No. It would have been unadvisable.”

  “I’ll put another pillow behind your back, shall I, ducks? There, is that all right?”

  Canon Pennyfather was a little startled by being addressed as “ducks.” He told himself that it was kindly meant.

  “Upsydaisy,” said the woman, “there we are.”

  “Yes, but where are we?” said Canon Pennyfather. “I mean, where am I? Where is this place?”

  “Milton St. John,” said the woman. “Didn’t you know?”

  “Milton St. John?” said Canon Pennyfather. He shook his head. “I never heard the name before.”

  “Oh well, it’s not much of a place. Only a village.”

  “You have been very kind,” said Canon Pennyfather. “May I ask your name?”

  “Mrs. Wheeling. Emma Wheeling.”

  “You are most kind,” said Canon Pennyfather again. “But this accident now. I simply cannot remember—”

  “You put yourself outside that, luv, and you’ll feel better and up to remembering things.”

  “Milton St. John,” said Canon Pennyfather to himself, in a tone of wonder. “The name means nothing to me at all. How very extraordinary!”

  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.

  “Ladislaus Malinowski?” he said. “Could be. Got any evidence?”

  “No. He’d fit the bill, would he?”

  “A 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 he’s the man behind these organized robberies and holdups?”

  “I don’t think he’s the planner. But I think he’s in with them.”

  “Why?”

  “For 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 plates—but we’re used to that. And it’s the same stunt—unlike, but not too unlike. FAN 2299 instead of 2266. There aren’t so many Mercedes-Otto models of that type about. Lady Sedgwick has one and young Lord Merrivale.”

  “You don’t think Malinowski runs the show?”

  “No—I think there are better brains than his at the top. But he’s in it. I’ve looked back over the files. Take the holdup at the Midland and West London. Three vans happened—just happened—to block a certain street. A Mercedes-Otto that was on the scene got clear away owing to that block.”

  “It was stopped later.”

  “Yes. And given a clean bill of health. Especially as the people who’d reported it weren’t sure of the correct number. It was reported as FAM 3366—Malinowski’s registration number is FAN 2266—It’s all the same picture.”

  “And you persist in tying it up with Bertram’s Hotel. They dug up some stuff about Bertram’s for you—”

  Father tapped his pocket.

  “Got it here. Properly registered company. Balance—paid up capital—directors—etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Doesn’t mean a thing! These financial shows are all the same—just a lot of snakes swallowing each other! Companies, and holding companies—makes your brain reel!”

  “Come now, Father. That’s just a way they have in the City. Has to do with taxation—”

  “What I want is the real dope. If you’ll give me a chit, sir, I’d like to go and see some top brass.”

  The AC stared at him.

  “And what exactly do you mean by top brass?”

  Father mentioned a name.

  The AC looked upset. “I don’t know about that. I hardly think we dare approach him.”

  “It might be very helpful.”

  There was a pause. The two men looked at each other. Father looked bovine, placid, and patient. The AC gave in.

  “You’re a stubborn old devil, Fred,” he said. “Have it your own way. Go and worry the top brains behind the international financiers of Europe.”


  “He’ll know,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “He’ll know. And if he doesn’t, he can find out by pressing one buzzer on his desk or making one telephone call.”

  “I don’t know that he’ll be pleased.”

  “Probably not,” said Father, “but it won’t take much of his time. I’ve got to have authority behind me, though.”

  “You’re really serious about this place, Bertram’s, aren’t you? But what have you got to go on? It’s well run, has a good respectable clientele—no trouble with the licensing laws.”

  “I know—I 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 manner—”

  “Who saw that?”

  “An old lady.”

  “How did she manage to see him. Why wasn’t she in bed and asleep?”

  “Old ladies are like that, sir.”

  “You’re not talking of—what’s his name—Canon Pennyfather?”

  “That’s right, sir. His disappearance was reported and Campbell has been looking into it.”

  “Funny coincidence—his name’s just come up in connection with the mail robbery at Bedhampton.”

  “Indeed? In what way, sir?”

  “Another old lady—or 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 he’d got out to see what was wrong and was getting in again. We were going to follow it up because of his disappearance being reported—”

  “Let’s see—the train was stopped at 5.30 a.m. Canon Pennyfather left Bertram’s Hotel not long after 3 a.m. Yes, it could be done. If he were driven there—say—in a racing car….”

  “So we’re back again to Ladislaus Malinowski!”

  The AC looked at his blotting pad doodles. “What a bulldog you are, Fred,” 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.

  “Chief-Inspector Davy? Do sit down,” he said. “Do you care for a cigar?”

  Chief-Inspector Davy shook his head.

  “I must apologize,” he said, in his deep countryman’s voice, “for wasting your valuable time.”

  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. “The better to eat you with,” 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.

  “Well, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to know,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “who owns Bertram’s Hotel.”

  The expression on Mr. Robinson’s face did not change. He showed no surprise at hearing the name nor did he show recognition. He said thoughtfully:

  “You want to know who owns Bertram’s Hotel. That, I think, is in Pond Street, off Piccadilly.”

  “Quite right, sir.”

  “I have occasionally stayed there myself. A quiet place. Well run.”

  “Yes,” said Father, “particularly well run.”

  “And you want to know who owns it? Surely that is easy to ascertain?”

  There was a faint irony behind his smile.

  “Through the usual channels, you mean? Oh yes.” Father took a small piece of paper from his pocket and read out three or four names and addresses.

  “I see,” said Mr. Robinson, “someone has taken quite a lot of trouble. Interesting. And you come to me?”

  “If anyone knows, you would, sir.”

  “Actually I do not know. But it is true that I have ways of obtaining information. One has—” he shrugged his very large, fat shoulders—“one has contacts.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Father with an impassive face.

  Mr. Robinson looked at him, then he picked up the telephone on his desk.

  “Sonia? Get me Carlos.” He waited a minute or two then spoke again. “Carlos?” 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 travellers’ 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.

  “I do not think,” he said genially, “that we shall have long to wait. I am interested, you know. Very much interested. I have occasionally wondered myself—”

  Father looked inquiring.

  “About Bertram’s Hotel,” said Mr. Robinson. “Financially, you know. One wonders how it can pay. However, it has never been any of my business. And one appreciates—” he shrugged his shoulders—“a comfortable hostelry with an unusually talented personnel and staff…Yes, I have wondered.” He looked at Father. “You know how and why?”

  “Not yet,” said Father, “but I mean to.”

  “There are several possibilities,” said Mr. Robinson, thoughtfully. “It is like music, you know. Only so many notes to the octave, yet one can combine them in—what is it—several million different ways? A musician told me once that you do not get the same tune twice. Most interesting.”

  There was a slight buzz on his desk and he picked up the receiver once more.

  “Yes? Yes, you have been very prompt. I am pleased. I see. Oh! Amsterdam yes…Ah…Thank you…Yes. You will spell that? Good.”

  He wrote rapidly on a pad at his elbow.

  “I hope this will be useful to you,” he said, as he tore off the sheet and passed it across the table to Father, who read the name out loud. “Wilhelm Hoffman.”

  “Nationality Swiss,” said Mr. Robinson. “Though 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 many—questionable deals. He operates solely on the Continent, not in this country.”

  “Oh.”

  “But he has a brother,” said Mr. Robinson. “Robert Hoffman. Living in London—a diamond merchant—most respectable business—His wife is Dutch—He also has offices in Amsterdam—Your 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 Bertram’s Hotel.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Chief-Inspector Davy rose to his feet. “I needn’t tell you that I’m much obliged to you. It’s wonderful,” he added, allowing himself to show more enthusiasm than was normal.

  “That I should know?” inquired Mr. Robinson, giving one of his larger smiles. “But this is one of my specialities. Information. I like to know. That is why you came to me, is it not?”

  “Well,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “we do know about you. The Home Office. The Special Branch and all the rest of it.” He added almost naïvely, “It took a bit of nerve on my part to approach you.”

  Again Mr. Robinson smiled.

  “I find you an interesting personality, Chief-Inspector Davy,” he said. “I wish you success in whatever you are undertaking.”

  “Thank you, sir. I think I shall need it. By the way, these two brothers, would you say they were violent men?”

  “Certainly not,” said Mr. R
obinson. “It 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.”

  “It’s a useful place, Switzerland,” said Chief-Inspector Davy.

  “Yes, 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,” he added, “have also a high opinion of Amsterdam.” 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 up—safe 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.

  “I’m afraid,” he was saying politely, “that I simply cannot remember anything at all.”

  “You can’t remember the accident when the car hit you?”

  “I’m really afraid not.”

  “Then how did you know a car did hit you?” demanded Inspector Campbell acutely.

  “The woman there, Mrs—Mrs—was her name Wheeling?—told me about it.”

  “And how did she know?”

  Canon Pennyfather looked puzzled.

  “Dear me, you are quite right. She couldn’t have known, could she? I suppose she thought it was what must have happened.”

  “And you really cannot remember anything? How did you come to be in Milton St. John?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Canon Pennyfather. “Even the name is quite unfamiliar to me.”

  Inspector Campbell’s exasperation was mounting, but Chief-Inspector Davy said in his soothing, homely voice:

  “Just tell us again the last thing you do remember, sir.”