McNeill laughed.
"What is it you really wanted us for, sir?"
"Well-" Sir Ronald thought a moment, "we're all agreed on the main things," he said slowly. "We're agreed on our main policy, what we're trying to do. I think it might be profitable to have a look around for some of the small things, the things that don't matter much, that are just a bit out of the usual run. It's 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 mousehole. Now why on earth should a man empty a bottle of ink into a mousehole? It didn't seem important. It was hard to get at the answer. But when we did hit on the answer, it led somewhere. That's-roughly-the sort of thing I was thinking about. Odd things. Don't 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 doesn't quite fit in. I see Father's nodding his head."
"Couldn't agree with you more," said Chief Inspector Davy. "Come on, boys, try to come up with something. Even if it's only a man wearing a funny hat."
There was no immediate response. Everyone looked a little uncertain and doubtful.
"Come on," said Father, "I'll stick my neck out first. It's just a funny story, really, but you might as well have it for what it's 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 responded-how 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, any one of which might have been concerned in the robbery."
"Yes," said Sir Ronald, "go on."
"There were one or two we couldn't get tags on. Looked as though the numbers might have been changed. Nothing out of the way in that. It's often done. Most of them got tracked down in the end. I'll just bring up one instance. Moms Oxford, black saloon, number CMG 256, reported by a probation officer. He said it was being driven by Mr. Justice Ludgrove."
He looked round. They were listening to him, but without any manifest interest.
"I know," he said, "wrong as usual. Mr. Justice Ludgrove is a rather noticeable old boy, ugly as sin for one thing. Well, it wasn't Mr. Justice Ludgrove because at that exact time he was actually in Court. He has got a Morris Oxford, but its number isn't CMG 256." He looked round. "All right. All right. So there's no point in it, you'll say. But do you know what the number was? CMG 265. Near enough, eh? Just the sort of mistake one does make when you're trying to remember a car number."
"I'm sorry," said Sir Ronald, "I don't quite see-"
"No," said Chief Inspector Davy, "there's nothing to see really, is there? Only-it was very like the actual car number, wasn't it? CMG 265-256. 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."
"Do you mean-?"
"Just one little digit difference. Today's 'deliberate mistake.' It almost seems like that."
"Sorry, Davy. I still don't get it."
"Oh, I don't suppose there's anything to get. There's 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."
"Are you suggesting it really was Mr. Justice Ludgrove? Come now, Davy."
"No, I'm not suggesting that it was Mr. Justice Ludgrove and that he was mixed up in a bank robbery. He was staying at Bertram's Hotel in Pond Street, and he was at the Law Courts at that exact time. All proved up to the hilt. I'm 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 doesn't. Too bad."
Comstock stirred uneasily. "There was another case a bit like that in connection with the jewellery business at Brighton. Some old admiral or other. I've forgotten his name now. Some woman identified him most positively as having been on the scene."
"And he wasn't?"
"No, he'd been in London that night. Went up for some naval dinner or other, I think."
"Staying at his club?"
"No, he was staying at a hotel-I believe it was that one you mentioned just now, Father, Bertram's, isn't it? Quiet place. A lot of old service geezers go there, I believe."
"Bertram's Hotel," said Chief Inspector Davy thoughtfully.
5
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 Bertram's. A rose-flowered wallpaper, a large well-polished mahogany chest of drawers-a 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 overfrigid 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.
"Another day," said Miss Marple to herself, greeting the fact with her usual gentle pleasure. Another day-and who knew what it might bring forth?
She relaxed, and abandoning her knitting, let thoughts pass in an idle stream through her head… Selina Hazy… what a pretty cottage she had had in St. Mary Mead's-and now someone had put on that ugly green roof… Muffins… very wasteful in butter…. but very good… And fancy serving oldfashioned seed cake! She had never expected, not for a moment, that things would be as much like they used to be…. because, after all, Time didn't stand still… And to have made it stand still in this way must really have cost a lot of money… Not a bit of plastic in the place!…… It must pay them, she supposed. The out-ofdate returns in due course as the picturesque…. Look how people wanted old-fashioned roses now, and scorned hybrid teas!… None of this place seemed real at all… Well, why should it?… It was fifty-no, nearer sixty years since she had stayed here. And it didn't seem real to her because she was now acclimatized in this present year of Our Lord. Really, the whole thing opened up a very interesting set of problems… The atmosphere and the people…. Miss Marple's fingers pushed her knitting farther away from her.
"Pockets," she said aloud… "Pockets, I suppose… And quite difficult to find…"
Would that account for that curious feeling of uneasiness she had had last night? That feeling that something was wrong..
All those elderly people-really very much like those she remembered when she had stayed here fifty years ago. They had been natural then-but they weren't very natural now. Elderly people nowadays weren't like elderly people then-they 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 hands-they were harsh from washing up and detergents…
And so-well, so these people didn't 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 real-she had met him once, although she did not recall his name-and the Bishop (dear Robbie!) was dead.
Miss Marple glanced at her little clock. It was eightthirty. Time for her breakfast.
She examined the instructions given by the hotel- splendid big print so that it wasn't necessary to put one's 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 pot-bellied 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 interiors-they smelled of fresh bread (the most delicious smell in the world!). There were 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!
Everything piping hot. A real breakfast. She could have cooked it herself but she hadn't had to! It was brought to her as if-no, not as though she were a queen-as though she were a middle-aged lady staying in a good but not unduly expensive hotel. In fact-back to 1909. Miss Marple expressed appreciation to the chambermaid who replied smiling, "Oh, yes, madam, the chef is very particular about his breakfasts."
Miss Marple studied her appraisingly. Bertram's Hotel could certainly produce marvels. A real housemaid. She pinched her left arm surreptitiously.
"Have you been here long?" she asked.
"Just over three years, madam."
"And before that?"
"I was in a hotel at Eastbourne. Very modern and up-to-date-but I prefer an old-fashioned place like this."
Miss Marple took a sip of tea. She found herself humming in a vague way-words fitting themselves to a long-forgotten song. "Oh, where have you been all my life…"
The chambermaid was looking slightly startled.
"I was just remembering an old song," twittered Miss Marple apologetically. "Very popular at one time."
Again she sang softly. "Oh where have you been all my life…"
"Perhaps you know it?" she asked.
"Well-" The chambermaid looked rather apologetic. "Too long ago for you," said Miss Marple. "Ah well, one gets to remembering things-in a place like this."
"Yes, madam, a lot of the ladies who stay here feel like that, I think."
"It's partly why they come, I expect," 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 much- to overtire herself. Oxford Street today, perhaps. And tomorrow Knightsbridge. She planned ahead happily.
It was about ten o'clock when she emerged from her room fully equipped: hat, gloves, umbrella-just in case, though it looked fine-handbag-her smartest shopping bag.
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 elevator first thing in the morning. It limbered her up. Her steps grew slower and slower… she stopped.
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.
"There you are at last! I've been on the lookout for you-waiting to pounce. Where can we go and talk? This is to say without falling over some old pussy every second."
"Well, really, Bess, I'm not quite sure-I think on the mezzanine floor there's a sort of writing room."
"You'd better come in here. Quick now, before the chambermaid gets peculiar ideas about us."
Rather unwillingly, Colonel Luscombe stepped across the threshold and had the door shut firmly behind him.
"I'd no idea you would be staying here, Bess. I hadn't the faintest idea of it."
"I don't suppose you had."
"I mean-I would never have brought Elvira here. I have got Elvira here, you know?"
"Yes, I saw her with you last night."
"But I really didn't know that you were here. It seemed such an unlikely place for you."
"I don't see why," said Bess Sedgwick coldly. "It's far and away the most comfortable hotel in London. Why shouldn't I stay here?"
"You must understand that I hadn't any idea of… I mean-"
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.
"Darling Derek, don't look so worried. I'm not accusing you of trying to stage a mother and daughter sentimental meeting. It's 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 here at once-today."
"Oh, she's going. I mean, I only brought her here just for a couple of nights. Do a show-that sort of thing. She's going down to the Melfords tomorrow."
"Poor girl, that'll be boring for her."
Luscombe looked at her with concern. "Do you think she will be very bored?"
Bess took pity on him.
"Probably not after duress in Italy. She might even think it wildly thrilling."
Luscombe took his courage in both hands.
"Look here, Bess, I was startled to find you here, but don't you think it-well, you know, it might be meant in a way. I mean that it might be an opportunity-I don't think you really know how-well, how the girl might feel."
"What are you trying to say, Derek?"
"Well, you are her mother, you know."
"Of course I'm her mother. She's my daughter. And what good has that fact ever been to either of us, or ever will be?"
"You can't be sure. I think-I think she feels it."
"What gives you that idea?" said Bess Sedgwick sharply.
"Something she said yesterday. She asked where you were, what you were doing."
Bess Sedgwick walked across the room to the window. She stood there a moment tapping on the pane.
"You're so nice, Derek," she said. "You have such nice ideas. But they don't work, my poor angel. That's what you've got to say to yourself. They don't work and they might be dangerous."
"Oh, come now, Bess. Dangerous?"
"Yes, yes, yes. Dangerous. I'm dangerous. I've always been dangerous."
"When I think of some of the things you've done," said Colonel Luscombe.
"That's my own business," said Bess Sedgwick. "Running into danger has become a kind of habit with me. No, I wouldn't 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, that's all right. That's my funeral-or not-as the case may be. I've never taken drugs-never needed them. Danger has been my drug. But people who live as I do can be a source of harm to others. Now don't be an obstinate old fool, Derek. You keep that girl well away from me. I can do her no good. Only harm. If possible, don't 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 emergency-"
Colonel Luscombe hesitated, pulling his moustache.
"I think you're making a mistake, Bess." He sighed. "She asked where you were. I told her you were abroad."
"Well, I shall be in another twelve hours, so that all fits very nicely."
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 man's 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. "Dear, dear me. I suppose I must have left it in my room. Oh dear."
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 Sedgwick's door. "So that's who she was waiting for," said Miss Marple to herself. "I wonder why."
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.
"Where to, sir?"
"Oh dear," said Canon Pennyfather in sudden dismay. "Now let me see-where was I going?"
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 façade of the hotel whistling an old tune in a muted manner.
One of the windows on the ground floor of Bertram's was flung up-but the commissionaire did not even turn his head until a voice spoke unexpectedly through the open window.
"So this is where you've landed up, Micky. What on earth brought you to this place?"
He swung round, startled-and stared.
Lady Sedgwick thrust her head through the open window.
"Don't you know me?" she demanded.
A sudden gleam of recognition came across the man's face.
"Why, if it isn't little Bessie now! Fancy that! After all these years. Little Bessie."
At Bertram's Hotel mm-12 Page 4