At Bertram's Hotel

  “Yes, sir. You see, I’m not on duty in the afternoons. I come back again at 6 o’clock. By then he must have left, or at any rate he was downstairs. Not in his room. He had left two suitcases behind.”

  “That’s right,” said Father. The contents of the suitcases had been examined, but had given no useful lead. He went on: “Did you call him the next morning?”

  “Call him? No, sir, he was away.”

  “What did you do ordinarily—take him early tea? Breakfast?”

  “Early tea, sir. He breakfasted downstairs always.”

  “So you didn’t go into his room at all the next day?”

  “Oh yes, sir.” Rose sounded shocked. “I 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.”

  “Had the bed been slept in?”

  She stared at him. “The bed, sir? Oh no.”

  “Was it rumpled—creased in any way?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about the bathroom?”

  “There 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.”

  “And there was nothing to show that he had come back into the room—perhaps quite late—after midnight?”

  She stared at him with an air of bewilderment. Father opened his mouth, then shut it again. Either she knew nothing about the Canon’s return or she was a highly accomplished actress.

  “What about his clothes—suits. Were they packed up in his suitcases?”

  “No, sir, they were hanging up in the cupboards. He was keeping his room on, you see, sir.”

  “Who did pack them up?”

  “Miss Gorringe gave orders, sir. When the room was wanted for the new lady coming in.”

  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 hadn’t even lain down on the bed. Had Miss Marple dreamed the whole thing? At her age it was possible enough. An idea struck him.

  “What about the airport bag?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “A small bag, dark blue—a BEA or BOAC bag—you must have seen it?”

  “Oh that—yes, sir. But of course he’d take that with him abroad.”

  “But he didn’t 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.”

  “Yes—yes—I think—I’m not quite sure—I believe he did.”

  Quite unsolicited, the thought raced into Father’s mind: They didn’t brief you on that, did they?

  Rose Sheldon had been calm and competent up till now. But that question had rattled her. She hadn’t 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 Bertram’s, 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 didn’t 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.

  “Le Five-o’-clock,” he was saying. “C’est bien Anglais ça, n’est ce pas?” He looked round him with approval.

  “Le Five-o’-clock,” thought Davy as he passed through the swing doors to the street. “That chap doesn’t know that ‘le Five-o’-clock’ is as dead as the Dodo!”

  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 Vendôme, Paris.

  Beside him on the kerb, Mrs. Elmer Cabot was expressing her views to her husband.

  “The 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 year—I really do.”

  “If we’ve got a million dollars or so to spare,” said her husband dryly.

  “Now, Elmer, it wasn’t as bad as all that.”

  The baggage was loaded, the tall commissionaire helped them in, murmuring “Thank you, sir” as Mr. Cabot made the expected gesture. The taxi drove off. The commissionaire transferred his attention to Father.

  “Taxi, sir?”

  Father looked up at him.

  Over six feet. Good-looking chap. A bit run to seed. Ex-Army. Lot of medals—genuine, probably. A bit shifty? Drinks too much.

  Aloud he said: “Ex-Army man?”

  “Yes, sir. Irish Guards.”

  “Military Medal, I see. Where did you get that?”

  “Burma.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Michael Gorman. Sergeant.”

  “Good job here?”

  “It’s a peaceful spot.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer the Hilton?”

  “I would not. I like it here. Nice people come here, and quite a lot of racing gentlemen—for Ascot and Newbury. I’ve had good tips from them now and again.”

  “Ah, so you’re an Irishman and gambler, is that it?”

  “Och! Now, what would life be without a gamble?”

  “Peaceful and dull,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “like mine.”

  “Indeed, sir?”

  “Can you guess what my profession is?” asked Father.

  The Irishman grinned.

  “No offence to you, sir, but if I may guess I’d say you were a cop.”

  “Right first time,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “You remember Canon Pennyfather?”

  “Canon Pennyfather now, I don’t seem to mind the name—”

  “Elderly clergyman.”

  Michael Gorman laughed.

  “Ah now, clergyman are as thick as peas in a pod in there.”

  “This one disappeared from here.”

  “Oh, that one!” The commissionaire seemed slightly taken aback.

  “Did you know him?”

  “I wouldn’t remember him if it hadn’t 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. That’s the last I saw of him. Somebody told me he’d gone to Switzerland, but I hear he never got there. Lost himself, it seems.”

  “You didn’t see him later that day?”

  “Later—No, indeed.”

  “What time do you go off duty?”

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  Chief-Inspector Davy nodded, refused a taxi and moved slowly away along Pond Stree
t. A car roared past him close to the kerb, and pulled up outside Bertram’s 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 couldn’t 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.

  “You know who he is?” said Michael Gorman to Father.

  “A dangerous driver, anyway.”

  “Ladislaus Malinowski. Won the Grand Prix two years ago—world champion he was. Had a bad smash last year. They say he’s all right again now.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s staying at Bertram’s. Highly unsuitable.”

  Michael Gorman grinned.

  “He’s not staying here, no. But a friend of his is—” 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 fellow—said to be tied up with some well-known woman—what 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. Devon….

  A cross section of the kind of people who stayed at Bertram’s Hotel. They formed, he thought, a kind of pattern….

  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 Ludgrove—Canon Pennyfather—both patrons of Bertram’s Hotel….

  “I hope you enjoyed your tea, sir?” It was Henry, standing at his elbow. He spoke courteously, and with the slight anxiety of the perfect host.

  “The best tea I’ve had for years,” said Chief-Inspector Davy.

  He remembered he hadn’t paid for it. He attempted to do so; but Henry raised a deprecating hand.

  “Oh no, sir. I was given to understand that your tea was on the house. Mr. Humfries’ orders.”

  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 address—no 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 wasn’t. 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. “Dear me,” said Canon Pennyfather to himself, suddenly solving the problem of the wardrobe. “How stupid I am! Of course, I’m not at home.”

  He moved gingerly. No, this wasn’t his own bed. He was away from home. He was—where was he? Oh, of course. He’d gone to London, hadn’t he? He was in Bertram’s Hotel and—but no, he wasn’t in Bertram’s Hotel. In Bertram’s Hotel his bed was facing the window. So that was wrong, too.

  “Dear me, where can I be?” said Canon Pennyfather.

  Then he remembered that he was going to Lucerne. “Of course,” he said to himself, “I’m in Lucerne.” He began thinking about the paper he was going to read. He didn’t 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 Bertram’s Hotel and he was fairly sure that he was not in Lucerne. This wasn’t 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 he’d 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.

  “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 hu
sband 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.”