At Bertram's Hotel

  “I thought if she learned to love me it might bring sorrow to her. Oh, you mayn’t believe me, but that’s what I felt.”

  “I see. Do you still think you were right?”

  “No,” said Bess. “I don’t. I think now I may have been entirely wrong.”

  “Does your daughter know Ladislaus Malinowski?”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t. She said so. You heard her.”

  “I heard her, yes.”

  “Well, then?”

  “She was afraid, you know, when she was sitting here. In our profession we get to know fear when we meet up with it. She was afraid—why? Chocolates or no chocolates, her life has been attempted. That tube story may be true enough—”

  “It was ridiculous. Like a thriller—”

  “Perhaps. But that sort of thing does happen, Lady Sedgwick. Oftener than you’d think. Can you give me any idea who might want to kill your daughter?”

  “Nobody—nobody at all!”

  She spoke vehemently.

  Chief-Inspector Davy sighed and shook his head.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chief-Inspector Davy waited patiently until Mrs. Melford had finished talking. It had been a singularly unprofitable interview. Cousin Mildred had been incoherent, unbelieving and generally featherheaded. Or that was Father’s private view. Accounts of Elvira’s sweet manners, nice nature, troubles with her teeth, odd excuses told through the telephone, had led on to serious doubts whether Elvira’s friend Bridget was really a suitable friend for her. All these matters had been presented to the Chief-Inspector in a kind of general hasty pudding. Mrs. Melford knew nothing, had heard nothing, had seen nothing and had apparently deduced very little.

  A short telephone call to Elvira’s guardian, Colonel Luscombe, had been even more unproductive, though fortunately less wordy. “More Chinese monkeys,” he muttered to his sergeant as he put down the receiver. “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

  “The trouble is that everyone who’s had anything to do with this girl has been far too nice—if you get my meaning. Too many nice people who don’t know anything about evil. Not like my old lady.”

  “The Bertram’s Hotel one?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. She’s had a long life of experience in noticing evil, fancying evil, suspecting evil and going forth to do battle with evil. Let’s see what we can get out of girlfriend Bridget.”

  The difficulties in this interview were represented first, last, and most of the time by Bridget’s mamma. To talk to Bridget without the assistance of her mother took all Chief-Inspector Davy’s adroitness and cajolery. He was, it must be admitted, ably seconded by Bridget. After a certain amount of stereotyped questions and answers and expressions of horror on the part of Bridget’s mother at hearing of Elvira’s narrow escape from death, Bridget said, “You know it’s time for that committee meeting, Mum. You said it was very important.”

  “Oh dear, dear,” said Bridget’s mother.

  “You know they’ll get into a frightful mess without you, Mummy.”

  “Oh they will, they certainly will. But perhaps I ought—”

  “Now that’s quite all right, Madam,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, putting on his kindly old father look. “You don’t want to worry. Just you get off. I’ve finished all the important things. You’ve told me really everything I wanted to know. I’ve just one or two routine inquiries about people in Italy which I think your daughter, Miss Bridget, might be able to help me with.”

  “Well, if you think you can manage, Bridget—”

  “Oh, I can manage, Mummy,” said Bridget.

  Finally, with a great deal of fuss, Bridget’s mother went off to her committee.

  “Oh, dear,” said Bridget, sighing, as she came back after closing the front door. “Really! I do think mothers are difficult.”

  “So they tell me,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “A lot of young ladies I come across have a lot of trouble with their mothers.”

  “I’d have thought you’d put it the other way round,” said Bridget.

  “Oh I do, I do,” said Davy. “But that’s not how the young ladies see it. Now you can tell me a little more.”

  “I couldn’t really speak frankly in front of Mummy,” explained Bridget. “But I do feel, of course, that it is really important that you should know as much as possible about all this. I do know Elvira was terribly worried about something and afraid. She wouldn’t exactly admit she was in danger, but she was.”

  “I thought that might have been so. Of course I didn’t like to ask you too much in front of your mother.”

  “Oh no,” said Bridget, “we don’t want Mummy to hear about it. She gets in such a frightful state about things and she’d go and tell everyone. I mean, if Elvira doesn’t want things like this to be known….”

  “First of all,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “I want to know about a box of chocolates in Italy. I gather there was some idea that a box was sent to her which might have been poisoned.”

  Bridget’s eyes opened wide. “Poisoned,” she said. “Oh no. I don’t think so. At least….”

  “There was something?”

  “Oh yes. A box of chocolates came and Elvira did eat a lot of them and she was rather sick that night. Quite ill.”

  “But she didn’t suspect poison?”

  “No. At least—oh yes, she did say that someone was trying to poison one of us and we looked at the chocolates to see, you know, if anything had been injected into them.”

  “And had it?”

  “No, it hadn’t,” said Bridget. “At least, not as far as we could see.”

  “But perhaps your friend, Miss Elvira, might still have thought so?”

  “Well, she might—but she didn’t say anymore.”

  “But you think she was afraid of someone?”

  “I didn’t think so at the time or notice anything. It was only here, later.”

  “What about this man, Guido?”

  Bridget giggled.

  “He had a terrific crush on Elvira,” she said.

  “And you and your friend used to meet him places?”

  “Well, I don’t mind telling you,” said Bridget. “After all you’re the police. It isn’t important to you, that sort of thing and I expect you understand. Countess Martinelli was frightfully strict—or thought she was. And of course we had all sorts of dodges and things. We all stood in with each other. You know.”

  “And told the right lies, I suppose?”

  “Well, I’m afraid so,” said Bridget. “But what can one do when anyone is so suspicious?”

  “So you did meet Guido and all that. And used he to threaten Elvira?”

  “Oh, not seriously, I don’t think.”

  “Then perhaps there was someone else she used to meet?”

  “Oh—that—well, I don’t know.”

  “Please tell me, Miss Bridget. It might be—vital, you know.”

  “Yes. Yes I can see that. Well there was someone. I don’t know who it was, but there was someone else—she really minded about. She was deadly serious. I mean it was a really important thing.”

  “She used to meet him?”

  “I think so. I mean she’d say she was meeting Guido but it wasn’t Guido. It was this other man.”

  “Any idea who it was?”

  “No.” Bridget sounded a little uncertain.

  “It wouldn’t be a racing motorist called Ladislaus Malinowski?”

  Bridget gaped at him.

  “So you know?”

  “Am I right?”

  “Yes—I think so. She’d got a photograph of him torn out of a paper. She kept it under her stockings.”

  “That might have been just a pin-up hero, mightn’t it?”

  “Well it might, of course, but I don’t think it was.”

  “Did she meet him here in this country, do you know?”

  “I don’t know. You see I don’t know really what she’s been doing since she came back from Italy.”

&nbs
p; “She came up to London to the dentist,” Davy prompted her. “Or so she said. Instead she came to you. She rang up Mrs. Melford with some story about an old governess.”

  A faint giggle came from Bridget.

  “That wasn’t true, was it?” said the Chief-Inspector, smiling. “Where did she really go?”

  Bridget hesitated and then said, “She went to Ireland.”

  “She went to Ireland, did she? Why?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me. She said there was something she had to find out.”

  “Do you know where she went in Ireland?”

  “Not exactly. She mentioned a name. Bally something. Ballygowlan, I think it was.”

  “I see. You’re sure she went to Ireland?”

  “I saw her off at Kensington Airport. She went by Aer Lingus.”

  “She came back when?”

  “The following day.”

  “Also by air?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re quite sure, are you, that she came back by air?”

  “Well—I suppose she did!”

  “Had she taken a return ticket?”

  “No. No, she didn’t. I remember.”

  “She might have come back another way, mightn’t she?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “She might have come back for instance by the Irish Mail?”

  “She didn’t say she had.”

  “But she didn’t say she’d come by air, did she?”

  “No,” Bridget agreed. “But why should she come back by boat and train instead of by air?”

  “Well, if she had found out what she wanted to know and had had nowhere to stay, she might think it would be easier to come back by the Night Mail.”

  “Why, I suppose she might.”

  Davy smiled faintly.

  “I don’t suppose you young ladies,” he said, “think of going anywhere except in terms of flying, do you, nowadays?”

  “I suppose we don’t really,” agreed Bridget.

  “Anyway, she came back to England. Then what happened? Did she come to you or ring you up?”

  “She rang up.”

  “What time of day?”

  “Oh, in the morning sometime. Yes, it must have been about eleven or twelve o’clock, I think.”

  “And she said, what?”

  “Well, she just asked if everything was all right.”

  “And was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t, because, you see, Mrs. Melford had rung up and Mummy had answered the phone and things had been very difficult and I hadn’t known what to say. So Elvira said she would not come to Onslow Square, but that she’d ring up her cousin Mildred and try to fix up some story or other.”

  “And that’s all that you can remember?”

  “That’s all,” said Bridget, making certain reservations. She thought of Mr. Bollard and the bracelet. That was certainly a thing she was not going to tell Chief-Inspector Davy. Father knew quite well that something was being kept from him. He could only hope that it was not something pertinent to his inquiry. He asked again:

  “You think your friend was really frightened of someone or something?”

  “Yes I do.”

  “Did she mention it to you or did you mention it to her?”

  “Oh, I asked her outright. At first she said no and then she admitted that she was frightened. And I know she was,” went on Bridget violently. “She was in danger. She was quite sure of it. But I don’t know why or how or anything about it.”

  “Your surety on this point relates to that particular morning, does it, the morning she had come back from Ireland?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s when I was so sure about it.”

  “On the morning when she might have come back on the Irish Mail?”

  “I don’t think it’s very likely that she did. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I probably shall do in the end. But I don’t want to call attention to that point. Not at the moment. It might just possibly make things more dangerous for her.”

  Bridget opened round eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You may not remember it, Miss Bridget, but that was the night, or rather the early morning, of the Irish Mail robbery.”

  “Do you mean that Elvira was in that and never told me a thing about it?”

  “I agree it’s unlikely,” said Father. “But it just occurred to me that she might have seen something or someone, or some incident might have occurred connected with the Irish Mail. She might have seen someone she knew, for instance, and that might have put her in danger.”

  “Oh!” said Bridget. She thought it over. “You mean—someone she knew was mixed-up in the robbery.”

  Chief-Inspector Davy got up.

  “I think that’s all,” he said. “Sure there’s nothing more you can tell me? Nowhere where your friend went that day? Or the day before?”

  Again visions of Mr. Bollard and the Bond Street shop rose before Bridget’s eyes.

  “No,” she said.

  “I think there is something you haven’t told me,” said Chief-Inspector Davy.

  Bridget grasped thankfully at a straw.

  “Oh, I forgot,” she said. “Yes. I mean she did go to some lawyers. Lawyers who were trustees, to find out something.”

  “Oh, she went to some lawyers who were her trustees. I don’t suppose you know their name?”

  “Their name was Egerton—Forbes Egerton and Something,” said Bridget. “Lots of names. I think that’s more or less right.”

  “I see. And she wanted to find out something, did she?”

  “She wanted to know how much money she’d got,” said Bridget.

  Inspector Davy’s eyebrows rose.

  “Indeed!” he said. “Interesting. Why didn’t she know herself?”

  “Oh, because people never told her anything about money,” said Bridget. “They seem to think it’s bad for you to know actually how much money you have.”

  “And she wanted to know badly, did she?”

  “Yes,” said Bridget. “I think she thought it was important.”

  “Well, thank you,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “You’ve helped me a good deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Richard Egerton looked again at the official card in front of him, then up into the Chief-Inspector’s face.

  “Curious business,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “a very curious business.”

  “Bertram’s Hotel,” said Egerton, “in the fog. Yes it was a bad fog last night. I suppose you get a lot of that sort of thing in fogs, don’t you? Snatch and grab—handbags—that sort of thing?”

  “It wasn’t quite like that,” said Father. “Nobody attempted to snatch anything from Miss Blake.”

  “Where did the shot come from?”

  “Owing to the fog we can’t be sure. She wasn’t sure herself. But we think—it seems the best idea—that the man may have been standing in the area.”

  “He shot at her twice, you say?”

  “Yes. The first shot missed. The commissionaire rushed along from where he was standing outside the hotel door and shoved her behind him just before the second shot.”

  “So that he got hit instead, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quite a brave chap.”

  “Yes. He was brave,” said the Chief-Inspector. “His military record was very good. An Irishman.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Gorman. Michael Gorman.”

  “Michael Gorman.” Egerton frowned for a minute. “No,” he said. “For a moment I thought the name meant something.”

  “It’s a very common name, of course. Anyway, he saved the girl’s life.”

  “And why exactly have you come to me, Chief-Inspector?”

  “I hoped for a little information. We always like full information, you know, about the victim of a murderous assault.”

  “Oh, naturally, naturally. But really, I’ve only seen El
vira twice since she was a child.”

  “You saw her when she came to call upon you about a week ago, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, that’s quite right. What exactly do you want to know? If it’s anything about her personality, who her friends were or about boyfriends, or lovers’ quarrels—all that sort of thing—you’d do better to go to one of the women. There’s a Mrs. Carpenter who brought her back from Italy, I believe, and there’s Mrs. Melford with whom she lives in Kent.”

  “I’ve seen Mrs. Melford.”

  “Oh.”

  “No good. Absolutely no good at all, sir. And I don’t so much want to know about the girl personally—after all, I’ve seen her for myself and I’ve heard what she can tell me—or rather what she’s willing to tell me—”

  At a quick movement of Egerton’s eyebrows he saw that the other had appreciated the point of the word “willing.”

  “I’ve been told that she was worried, upset, afraid about something, and convinced that her life was in danger. Was that your impression when she came to see you?”

  “No,” said Egerton, slowly, “no, I wouldn’t go as far as that; though she did say one or two things that struck me as curious.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, she wanted to know who would benefit if she were to die suddenly.”

  “Ah,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “so she had that possibility in her mind, did she? That she might die suddenly. Interesting.”

  “She’d got something in her head but I didn’t know what it was. She also wanted to know how much money she had—or would have when she was twenty-one. That, perhaps, is more understandable.”

  “It’s a lot of money I believe.”

  “It’s a very large fortune, Chief-Inspector.”

  “Why do you think she wanted to know?”

  “About the money?”

  “Yes, and about who would inherit it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Egerton. “I don’t know at all. She also brought up the subject of marriage—”

  “Did you form the impression that there was a man in the case?”

  “I’ve no evidence—but—yes, I did think just that. I felt sure there was a boyfriend somewhere in the offing. There usually is! Luscombe—that’s Colonel Luscombe, her guardian, doesn’t seem to know anything about a boyfriend. But then dear old Derek Luscombe wouldn’t. He was quite upset when I suggested that there was such a thing in the background and probably an unsuitable one at that.”