At Bertram's Hotel mm-12

by Agatha Christie

  Here he got some definite information. Canon Pennyfather, who was well known there, had dined there at seven-thirty on the evening of the nineteenth. It was then that the archdeacon was struck by something he had overlooked until then. The aeroplane ticket had been for the eighteenth but the canon had left Bertram's Hotel by taxi to the Athenaeum, having mentioned he was going to the Lucerne Conference, on the nineteenth. Light began to break. Silly old ass, thought Archdeacon Simmons to himself, but careful not to say it aloud in front of Mrs. McCrae. "Got his dates wrong. The conference was on the nineteenth. I'm sure of it. He must have thought that he was leaving on the eighteenth. He was one day wrong."

  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.

  "That's what happened," said Archdeacon Simmons, "depend upon it." He explained it to Mrs. McCrae, who agreed that it was likely enough. "Then what would he do?"

  "Go back to his hotel," said Mrs. McCrae.

  "He wouldn't have come straight down here-gone straight to the station, I mean."

  "Not if his luggage was at the hotel. At any rate, he would have called there for his luggage."

  "True enough," said Simmons. "All right. We'll 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 perhaps-no, he'd dined at the Athenaeum. All right, he went back to the hotel. But he never arrived there." He paused a moment or two and then said doubtfully, "Or did he? Nobody seems to have seen him there. So what happened to him on the way?"

  "He could have met someone," said Mrs. McCrae, doubtfully.

  "Yes. Of course that's perfectly possible. Some old friend he hadn't seen for a long time… He could have gone off with a friend to the friend's hotel or the friend's house, but he wouldn't have stayed there three days, would he? He wouldn't have forgotten for three whole days that his luggage was at the hotel. He'd have rung up about it, he'd have called for it, or in a supreme fit of absent-mindedness he might have come straight home. Three days' silence. That's what's so inexplicable."

  "If he had an accident-"

  "Yes, Mrs. McCrae, of course that's possible. We can try the hospitals. You say he had plenty of papers on him to identify him? Hm-I think there's only one thing for it."

  Mrs. McCrae looked at him apprehensively.

  "I think, you know," said the archdeacon gently, "that we've got to go to the police."

  12

  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 routes-and 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, "Yes, that was Mrs. Van Dylan's house. Of course it looks quite different now. They seem to have remodelled it. Dear me, I see it's got four bells. Four flats, I suppose. Such a nice old-fashioned square this always was."

  Rather shamefacedly she paid a visit to Madame Tussaud's, a well-remembered delight of her childhood. In Westbourne Grove she looked in vain for Bradley's. Aunt Helen had always gone to Bradley's 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, "There must be progress I suppose. If Cousin Ethel knew, she'd turn in her grave, I'm sure."

  It was 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 Ledbury's former home had vanished without a 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 and 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 Bertram's with Lady Selina Hazy's friend, Colonel Luscombe. But the man was the same man who had been lunching with Lady Sedgwick in the Army and Navy Stores. No doubt about it, the same handsome, hawklike look, the same leanness, the same predatory toughness and-yes, the same strong, virile attraction.

  "Bad!" said Miss Marple. "Bad all through! Cruel! Unscrupulous. I don't like seeing this. First the mother, now the daughter. What does it mean?"

  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 girl's face-Miss 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 nic
ely brought up, no doubt! Her people probably believed her to be in some quite other spot. She had to tell lies.

  On her 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. Planning to run away together, perhaps? thought Miss Marple. She's still under age.

  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 greatnephew. It was a racing car. Some foreign make-she couldn't 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 Bertram's 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, "I have got t-t-t-wo s-s-s-potz…

  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. SENSATIONAL DEVELOPMENTS IN TRAIN ROBBERY, they ran. ENGINE DRIVER'S STORY, 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.

  13

  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 "Father was on the prowl again."

  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.

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

  "Anything I can do for you, sir?" he inquired.

  "La, la, boom, boom," hummed the Chief Inspector, slightly off key. "Why must they call me Mary when my name's Miss Gibbs?" After this rather unexpected resurrection of a bygone musical comedy, he drew up a chair and sat down. "Busy?" he asked.

  "Moderately so."

  "Got some disappearance case or other on, haven't you, to do with some hotel or other? What's the name of it now? Bertram's. Is that it?"

  "Yes, that's right, sir. Bertram's Hotel."

  "Contravening the licensing hours? Call girls?"

  "Oh no, sir," said Inspector Campbell, slightly shocked at hearing Bertram's Hotel being referred to in such a connection. "Very nice, quiet, old-fashioned place."

  "Is it now?" said Father. "Yes, is it now? Well, that's interesting, really."

  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 Father's 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. All right in his day, I suppose, thought Inspector Campbell, but there are plenty of go-ahead chaps about who could do with some promotion, once the deadwood is cleared away. But the deadwood had begun another song, partly hummed, with an occasional word or two here and there.

  "Tell me, gentle stranger, are there any more at home like you?" intoned Father and then in a sudden falsetto, "A few, kind sir, and nicer girls you never knew. No, let's see, I've got the sexes mixed up. Floradora. That was a good show, too."

  "I believe I've heard of it, sir," said Inspector Campbell.

  "Your mother sang you to sleep in the cradle with it, I expect," said Chief Inspector Davy. "Now then, what's been going on at Bertram's Hotel? Who has disappeared and how and why?"

  "A Canon Pennyfather, sir. Elderly clergyman."

  "Dull case, eh?"

  Inspector Campbell smiled. "Yes, sir, it is rather dull in a way."

  "What did he look like?"

  "Canon Pennyfather?"

  "Yes-you've got a description, I suppose?"

  "Of course." Campbell shuffled papers and read:

  "Height five feet eight. Large thatch of white hair- stoops…"

  "And he disappeared from Bertram's Hotel- when?"

  "About a week ago-November nineteenth."

  "And they've just reported it. Took their time about it, didn't they?"

  "Well, I think there was a general idea that he'd turn up."

  "Any idea what's behind it?" asked Father. "Has a decent God-fearing man suddenly gone off with one of the churchwardens' wives? Or does he do a bit of secret drinking, or has he embezzled the church funds? Or is he the sort of absent-minded old chap who goes in for this sort of thing?"

  "Well, from all I can hear, sir, I should say the latter. He's done it before."

  "What-disappeared from a respectable West End hotel?"

  "No, not exactly that, but he's not always returned home when he was expected. Occasionally he's turned up to stay with friends on a day when they haven't asked him, or not turned up on the date when they had asked him. That sort of thing."

  "Yes," said Father. "Yes. Well that sounds very nice and natural and according to plan, doesn't it? When exactly did you say he disappeared?"

  "Thursday. November nineteenth. He was supposed to be attending a congress at"-he bent down and studied some papers on his desk-"oh yes, Lucerne. Society of Biblical Historical Studies. That's the English translation of it. I think it's actually a German society."

  "And it was held at Lucerne? The old boy-I suppose he is an old boy?"

  "Sixty-three, sir, I understand."

  "The old boy didn't turn up, is that it?"

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

  "Doesn't sound as if he'd gone off with a choirboy," observed Chief Inspector Davy.

  "I expect he'll turn up all right," said Campbell, "but we're looking into it, of course. Are you-er- particularly interested in the case, sir?" He could hardly restrain his curiosity on this point.

  "No," said Davy thoughtfully. "No, I'm not interested in the case. I don't see anything to be interested about in it."

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

  "What I'm really interested in," said Father, "is the date. And Bertram's Hotel, of course."

  "It's always been very well conducted, sir. No trouble there."

  "That's very nice, I'm sure," said Father. He added thoughtfully, "I'd rather like to have a look at the place."

  "Of course, sir," said Inspector Campbell. "Any time you like. I was thinkin
g of going round there myself."

  "I might as well come along with you," said Father. "Not to butt in, nothing like that. But I'd 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 'sir' when we're there-you throw your weight about. I'll just be your stooge."

  Inspector Campbell became interested.

  "Do you think there's something that might tie in there, sir, something that might tie in with something else?"

  "There's no reason to believe so, so far," said Father. "But you know how it is. One gets-I don't know what to call them-whims, do you think? Bertram's Hotel, somehow, sounds almost too good to be true."

  He resumed his impersonation of a bumblebee with a rendering of "Let's All Go Down the Strand."

  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 them 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 Gomnge 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 naïve pleasure at beholding such a well-bred, upper-class world in action.

  "Would you like to come into the office?" said Miss Gorringe. "We can talk better there perhaps."