At Bertram's Hotel

  “No, I suppose not,” agreed Elvira.

  She glanced round in an expressionless manner. It certainly seemed impossible to connect Bertram’s with dancing.

  “Lot of old fogies here, I’m afraid,” said Colonel Luscombe, repeating himself. “Ought, perhaps, to have taken you somewhere more modern. Not very well up in these things, you see.”

  “This is very nice,” said Elvira politely.

  “It’s only for a couple of nights,” went on Colonel Luscombe. “I thought we’d go to a show this evening. A musical—” he said the word rather doubtfully, as though not sure he was using the right term. “Let Down Your Hair Girls. I hope that will be all right?”

  “How delightful,” exclaimed Mrs. Carpenter. “That will be a treat, won’t it, Elvira?”

  “Lovely,” said Elvira, tonelessly.

  “And then supper afterwards? At the Savoy?”

  Fresh exclamations from Mrs. Carpenter. Colonel Luscombe, stealing a glance at Elvira, cheered up a little. He thought that Elvira was pleased, though quite determined to express nothing more than polite approval in front of Mrs. Carpenter. “And I don’t blame her,” he said to himself.

  He said to Mrs. Carpenter:

  “Perhaps you’d like to see your rooms—see they’re all right and all that—”

  “Oh, I’m sure they will be.”

  “Well, if there’s anything you don’t like about them, we’ll make them change it. They know me here very well.”

  Miss Gorringe, in charge at the desk, was pleasantly welcoming. Nos 28 and 29 on the second floor with an adjoining bathroom.

  “I’ll go up and get things unpacked,” said Mrs. Carpenter. “Perhaps, Elvira, you and Colonel Luscombe would like to have a little gossip.”

  Tact, thought Colonel Luscombe. A bit obvious, perhaps, but anyway it would get rid of her for a bit. Though what he was going to gossip about to Elvira, he really didn’t know. A very nice-mannered girl, but he wasn’t used to girls. His wife had died in childbirth and the baby, a boy, had been brought up by his wife’s family whilst an elder sister had come to keep house for him. His son had married and gone to live in Kenya, and his grandchildren were eleven, five and two and a half and had been entertained on their last visit by football and space science talk, electric trains, and a ride on his foot. Easy! But young girls!

  He asked Elvira if she would like a drink. He was about to propose a bitter lemon, ginger ale, or orangeade, but Elvira forestalled him.

  “Thank you. I should like a gin and vermouth.”

  Colonel Luscombe looked at her rather doubtfully. He supposed girls of—what was she? sixteen? seventeen?—did drink gin and vermouth. But he reassured himself that Elvira knew, so to speak, correct Greenwich social time. He ordered a gin and vermouth and a dry sherry.

  He cleared his throat and asked:

  “How was Italy?”

  “Very nice, thank you.”

  “And that place you were at, the Contessa what’s-her-name? Not too grim?”

  “She is rather strict. But I didn’t let that worry me.”

  He looked at her, not quite sure whether the reply was not slightly ambiguous.

  He said, stammering a little, but with a more natural manner than he had been able to manage before:

  “I’m afraid we don’t know each other as well as we ought to, seeing I’m your guardian as well as your godfather. Difficult for me, you know—difficult for a man who’s an old buffer like me—to know what a girl wants—at least—I mean to know what a girl ought to have. Schools and then after school—what they used to call finishing in my day. But now, I suppose it’s all more serious. Careers eh? Jobs? All that? We’ll have to have a talk about all that sometime. Anything in particular you want to do?’

  “I suppose I shall take a secretarial course,” said Elvira without enthusiasm.

  “Oh. You want to be a secretary?”

  “Not particularly—”

  “Oh—well, then—”

  “It’s just what you start with,” Elvira explained.

  Colonel Luscombe had an odd feeling of being relegated to his place.

  “These cousins of mine, the Melfords. You think you’ll like living with them? If not—”

  “Oh I think so. I like Nancy quite well. And Cousin Mildred is rather a dear.”

  “That’s all right then?”

  “Quite, for the present.”

  Luscombe did not know what to say to that. Whilst he was considering what next to say, Elvira spoke. Her words were simple and direct.

  “Have I any money?”

  Again he took his time before answering, studying her thoughtfully. Then he said:

  “Yes. You’ve got quite a lot of money. That is to say, you will have when you are twenty-one.”

  “Who has got it now?”

  He smiled. “It’s held in trust for you; a certain amount is deducted each year from the income to pay for your maintenance and education.”

  “And you are the trustee?”

  “One of them. There are three.”

  “What happens if I die?”

  “Come, come, Elvira, you’re not going to die. What nonsense!”

  “I hope not—but one never knows, does one? An airliner crashed only last week and everyone was killed.”

  “Well, it’s not going to happen to you,” said Luscombe firmly.

  “You can’t really know that,” said Elvira. “I was just wondering who would get my money if I died?”

  “I haven’t the least idea,” said the Colonel irritably. “Why do you ask?”

  “It might be interesting,” said Elvira thoughtfully. “I wondered if it would be worth anyone’s while to kill me.”

  “Really, Elvira! This is a most unprofitable conversation. I can’t understand why your mind dwells on such things.”

  “Oh. Just ideas. One wants to know what the facts really are.”

  “You’re not thinking of the Mafia—or something like that?”

  “Oh no. That would be silly. Who would get my money if I was married?”

  “Your husband, I suppose. But really—”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “No, I’m not in the least sure. It depends on the wording of the Trust. But you’re not married, so why worry?”

  Elvira did not reply. She seemed lost in thought. Finally she came out of her trance and asked:

  “Do you ever see my mother?”

  “Sometimes. Not very often.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Oh—abroad.”

  “Where abroad?”

  “France—Portugal. I don’t really know.”

  “Does she ever want to see me?”

  Her limpid gaze met his. He didn’t know what to reply. Was this a moment for truth? Or for vagueness? Or for a good thumping lie? What could you say to a girl who asked a question of such simplicity, when the answer was of great complexity? He said unhappily:

  “I don’t know.”

  Her eyes searched him gravely. Luscombe felt thoroughly ill at ease. He was making a mess of this. The girl must wonder—clearly was wondering. Any girl would.

  He said, “You mustn’t think—I mean it’s difficult to explain. Your mother is, well, rather different from—” Elvira was nodding energetically.

  “I know. I’m always reading about her in the papers. She’s something rather special, isn’t she? In fact, she’s rather a wonderful person.”

  “Yes,” agreed the Colonel. “That’s exactly right. She’s a wonderful person.” He paused and then went on. “But a wonderful person is very often—” He stopped and started again—“it’s not always a happy thing to have a wonderful person for a mother. You can take that from me because it’s the truth.”

  “You don’t like speaking the truth very much, do you? But I think what you’ve just said is the truth.”

  They both sat staring towards the big brass-bound swing doors that led to the world outside.

  Suddenly the
doors were pushed open with violence—a violence quite unusual in Bertram’s Hotel—and a young man strode in and went straight across to the desk. He wore a black leather jacket. His vitality was such that Bertram’s Hotel took on the atmosphere of a museum by way of contrast. The people were the dust-encrusted relics of a past age. He bent towards Miss Gorringe and asked:

  “Is Lady Sedgwick staying here?”

  Miss Gorringe on this occasion had no welcoming smile. Her eyes were flinty. She said:

  “Yes.” Then, with definite unwillingness, she stretched out her hand towards the telephone. “Do you want to—?”

  “No,” said the young man. “I just wanted to leave a note for her.”

  He produced it from a pocket of his leather coat and slid it across the mahogany counter.

  “I only wanted to be sure this was the right hotel.”

  There might have been some slight incredulity in his voice as he looked round him, then turned back towards the entrance. His eyes passed indifferently over the people sitting round him. They passed over Luscombe and Elvira in the same way, and Luscombe felt a sudden unsuspected anger. “Dammit all,” he thought to himself, “Elvira’s a pretty girl. When I was a young chap I’d have noticed a pretty girl, especially among all these fossils.” But the young man seemed to have no interested eyes to spare for pretty girls. He turned back to the desk and asked, raising his voice slightly as though to call Miss Gorringe’s attention:

  “What’s the telephone number here? 1129 isn’t it?”

  “No,” said Miss Gorringe, “3925.”

  “Regent?”

  “No. Mayfair.”

  He nodded. Then swiftly he strode across to the door and passed out, swinging the doors behind him with something of the same explosive quality he had shown on entering.

  Everybody seemed to draw a deep breath; to find difficulty in resuming their interrupted conversations.

  “Well,” said Colonel Luscombe, rather inadequately, as if at a loss for words. “Well, really! These young fellows nowadays….”

  Elvira was smiling.

  “You recognized him, didn’t you?” she said. “You know who he is?” She spoke in a slightly awed voice. She proceeded to enlighten him. “Ladislaus Malinowski.”

  “Oh, that chap.” The name was indeed faintly familiar to Colonel Luscombe. “Racing driver.”

  “Yes. He was world champion two years running. He had a bad crash a year ago. Broke lots of things. But I believe he’s driving again now.” She raised her head to listen. “That’s a racing car he’s driving now.”

  The roar of the engine had penetrated through to Bertram’s Hotel from the street outside. Colonel Luscombe perceived that Ladislaus Malinowski was one of Elvira’s heroes. “Well,” he thought to himself, “better that than one of those pop singers or crooners or long-haired Beatles or whatever they call themselves.” Luscombe was old-fashioned in his views of young men.

  The swing doors opened again. Both Elvira and Colonel Luscombe looked at them expectantly but Bertram’s Hotel had reverted to normal. It was merely a white-haired elderly cleric who came in. He stood for a moment looking round him with a slightly puzzled air as of one who fails to understand where he was or how he had come there. Such an experience was no novelty to Canon Pennyfather. It came to him in trains when he did not remember where he had come from, where he was going, or why! It came to him when he was walking along the street, it came to him when he found himself sitting on a committee. It had come to him before now when he was in his cathedral stall, and did not know whether he had already preached his sermon or was about to do so.

  “I believe I know that old boy,” said Luscombe, peering at him. “Who is he now? Stays here fairly often, I believe. Abercrombie? Archdeacon Abercrombie—no, it’s not Abercrombie, though he’s rather like Abercrombie.”

  Elvira glanced round at Canon Pennyfather without interest. Compared with a racing driver he had no appeal at all. She was not interested in ecclesiastics of any kind although, since being in Italy, she admitted to a mild admiration for Cardinals whom she considered as at any rate properly picturesque.

  Canon Pennyfather’s face cleared and he nodded his head appreciatively. He had recognized where he was. In Bertram’s Hotel, of course; where he was going to spend the night on his way to—now where was he on his way to? Chadminster? No, no, he had just come from Chadminster. He was going to—of course—to the Congress at Lucerne. He stepped forward, beaming, to the reception desk and was greeted warmly by Miss Gorringe.

  “So glad to see you, Canon Pennyfather. How well you are looking.”

  “Thank you—thank you—I had a severe cold last week but I’ve got over it now. You have a room for me. I did write?”

  Miss Gorringe reassured him.

  “Oh yes, Canon Pennyfather, we got your letter. We’ve reserved No. 19 for you, the room you had last time.”

  “Thank you—thank you. For—let me see—I shall want it for four days. Actually I am going to Lucerne and I shall be away for one night, but please keep the room. I shall leave most of my things here and only take a small bag to Switzerland. There won’t be any difficulty over that?”

  Again Miss Gorringe reassured him.

  “Everything’s going to be quite all right. You explained very clearly in your letter.”

  Other people might not have used the word “clearly.” “Fully” would have been better, since he had certainly written at length.

  All anxieties set at rest, Canon Pennyfather breathed a sigh of relief and was conveyed, together with his baggage, to Room 19.

  In Room 28 Mrs. Carpenter had removed her crown of violets from her head and was carefully adjusting her nightdress on the pillow of her bed. She looked up as Elvira entered.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear. Would you like me to help you with your unpacking?”

  “No, thank you,” said Elvira politely. “I shan’t unpack very much, you know.”

  “Which of the bedrooms would you like to have? The bathroom is between them. I told them to put your luggage in the far one. I thought this room might be a little noisy.”

  “That was very kind of you,” said Elvira in her expressionless voice.

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t like me to help you?”

  “No, thanks, really I wouldn’t. I think I might perhaps have a bath.”

  “Yes, I think that’s a very good idea. Would you like to have the first bath? I’d rather finish putting my things away.”

  Elvira nodded. She went into the adjoining bathroom, shut the door behind her and pushed the bolts across. She went into her own room, opened her suitcase and flung a few things on the bed. Then she undressed, put on a dressing gown, went into the bathroom and turned the taps on. She went back into her own room and sat down on the bed by the telephone. She listened a moment or two in case of interruption, then lifted the receiver.

  “This is Room 29. Can you give me Regent 1129 please?”

  Chapter Four

  Within the confines of Scotland Yard a conference was in progress. It was by way of being an informal conference. Six or seven men were sitting easily around a table and each of those six men was a man of some importance in his own line. The subject that occupied the attention of these guardians of the law was a subject that had grown terrifically in importance during the last two or three years. It concerned a branch of crime whose success had been overwhelmingly disquieting. Robbery on a big scale was increasing. Bank holdups, snatches of payrolls, thefts of consignments of jewels sent through the mail, train robberies. Hardly a month passed but some daring and stupendous coup was attempted and brought off successfully.

  Sir Ronald Graves, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, was presiding at the head of the table. According to his usual custom he did more listening than talking. No formal reports were being presented on this occasion. All that belonged to the ordinary routine of CID work. This was a high level consultation, a general pooling of ideas between men looking at affair
s from slightly different points of view. Sir Ronald Graves’ eyes went slowly round his little group, then he nodded his head to a man at the end of the table.

  “Well, Father,” he said, “let’s hear a few homely wisecracks from you.”

  The man addressed as “Father” was Chief-Inspector Fred Davy. His retirement lay not long ahead and he appeared to be even more elderly than he was. Hence his nickname of “Father.” He had a comfortable spreading presence, and such a benign and kindly manner that many criminals had been disagreeably surprised to find him a less genial and gullible man that he had seemed to be.

  “Yes, Father, let’s hear your views,” said another Chief-Inspector.

  “It’s big,” said Chief-Inspector Davy with a deep sigh. “Yes, it’s big. Maybe it’s growing.”

  “When you say big, do you mean numerically?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Another man, Comstock, with a sharp, foxy face and alert eyes, broke in to say:

  “Would you say that was an advantage to them?”

  “Yes and no,” said Father. “It could be a disaster. But so far, devil take it, they’ve got it all well under control.”

  Superintendent Andrews, a fair, slight, dreamy-looking man said, thoughtfully:

  “I’ve always thought there’s a lot more to size than people realize. Take a little one-man business. If that’s well run and if it’s the right size, it’s a sure and certain winner. Branch out, make it bigger, increase personnel, and perhaps you’ll get it suddenly to the wrong size and down the hill it goes. The same way with a great big chain of stores. An empire in industry. If that’s big enough it will succeed. If it’s not big enough it just won’t manage it. Everything has got its right size. When it is its right size and well run it’s the tops.”

  “How big do you think this show is?” Sir Ronald barked.

  “Bigger than we thought at first,” said Comstock.

  A tough-looking man, Inspector McNeill, said:

  “It’s growing, I’d say. Father’s right. Growing all the time.”

  “That may be a good thing,” said Davy. “It may grow a bit too fast, and then it’ll get out of hand.”