At Bertram's Hotel

  “Zero hour will be twenty-five past exactly,” said Elvira.

  “That will give me plenty of time. Perhaps even more than I need, but it’s better that way about.”

  “But supposing—” began Bridget.

  “Supposing what?” asked Elvira.

  “Well, I mean, supposing I really got run over?”

  “Of course you won’t get run over,” said Elvira. “You know how nippy you are on your feet, and all London traffic is used to pulling up suddenly. It’ll be all right.”

  Bridget looked far from convinced.

  “You won’t let me down, Bridget, will you?”

  “All right,” said Bridget, “I won’t let you down.”

  “Good,” said Elvira.

  Bridget crossed to the other side of Bond Street and Elvira pushed open the doors of Messrs. Bollard and Whitley, old established jewellers and watchmakers. Inside there was a beautiful and hushed atmosphere. A frock-coated nobleman came forward and asked Elvira what he could do for her.

  “Could I see Mr. Bollard?”

  “Mr. Bollard. What name shall I say?”

  “Miss Elvira Blake.”

  The nobleman disappeared and Elvira drifted to a counter where, below plate glass, brooches, rings and bracelets showed off their jewelled proportions against suitable shades of velvet. In a very few moments Mr. Bollard made his appearance. He was the senior partner of the firm, an elderly man of sixty odd. He greeted Elvira with warm friendliness.

  “Ah, Miss Blake, so you are in London. It’s a great pleasure to see you. Now what can I do for you?”

  Elvira produced a dainty little evening wristwatch.

  “This watch doesn’t go properly,” said Elvira. “Could you do something to it?”

  “Oh yes, of course. There’s no difficulty about that.” Mr. Bollard took it from her. “What address shall I send it to?”

  Elvira gave the address.

  “And there’s another thing,” she said. “My guardian—Colonel Luscombe you know—”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “He asked me what I’d like for a Christmas present,” said Elvira. “He suggested I should come in here and look at some different things. He said would I like him to come with me, and I said I’d rather come along first—because I always think it’s rather embarrassing, don’t you? I mean, prices and all that.”

  “Well, that’s certainly one aspect,” said Mr. Bollard, beaming in an avuncular manner. “Now what had you in mind, Miss Blake? A brooch, bracelet—a ring?”

  “I think really brooches are more useful,” said Elvira. “But I wonder—could I look at a lot of things?” She looked up at him appealingly. He smiled sympathetically.

  “Of course, of course. No pleasure at all if one has to make up one’s mind too quickly, is it?”

  The next five minutes were spent very agreeably. Nothing was too much trouble for Mr. Bollard. He fetched things from one case and another, brooches and bracelets piled up on the piece of velvet spread in front of Elvira. Occasionally she turned aside to look at herself in a mirror, trying the effect of a brooch or a pendant. Finally, rather uncertainly, a pretty little bangle, a small diamond wristwatch and two brooches were laid aside.

  “We’ll make a note of these,” said Mr. Bollard, “and then when Colonel Luscombe is in London next, perhaps he’ll come in and see what he decides himself he’d like to give you.”

  “I think that way will be very nice,” said Elvira. “Then he’ll feel more that he’s chosen my present himself, won’t he?” Her limpid blue gaze was raised to the jeweller’s face. That same blue gaze had registered a moment earlier that the time was now exactly twenty-five minutes past the hour.

  Outside there was the squealing of brakes and a girl’s loud scream. Inevitably the eyes of everyone in the shop turned towards the windows of the shop giving on Bond Street. The movement of Elvira’s hand on the counter in front of her and then to the pocket of her neat tailor-made coat and skirt was so rapid and unobtrusive as to be almost unnoticeable, even if anybody had been looking.

  “Tcha, tcha,” said Mr. Bollard, turning back from where he had been peering out into the street. “Very nearly an accident. Silly girl! Rushing across the road like that.”

  Elvira was already moving towards the door. She looked at her wristwatch and uttered an exclamation.

  “Oh dear, I’ve been far too long in here. I shall miss my train back to the country. Thank you so much, Mr. Bollard, and you won’t forget which the four things are, will you?”

  In another minute, she was out of the door. Turning rapidly to the left and then to the left again, she stopped in the arcade of a shoe shop until Bridget, rather breathless, rejoined her.

  “Oh,” said Bridget, “I was terrified. I thought I was going to be killed. And I’ve torn a hole in my stocking, too.”

  “Never mind,” said Elvira and walked her friend rapidly along the street and round yet another corner to the right. “Come on.”

  “Is it—was it—all right?”

  Elvira’s hand slipped into her pocket and out again showing the diamond and sapphire bracelet in her palm.

  “Oh, Elvira, how you dared!”

  “Now, Bridget, you’ve got to get along to that pawnshop we marked down. Go in and see how much you can get for this. Ask for a hundred.”

  “Do you think—supposing they say—I mean—I mean, it might be on a list of stolen things—”

  “Don’t be silly. How could it be on a list so soon? They haven’t even noticed it’s gone yet.”

  “But Elvira, when they do notice it’s gone, they’ll think—perhaps they’ll know—that you must have taken it.”

  “They might think so—if they discover it soon.”

  “Well, then they’ll go to the police and—”

  She stopped as Elvira shook her head slowly, her pale yellow hair swinging to and fro and a faint enigmatic smile curving up the corners of her mouth.

  “They won’t go to the police, Bridget. Certainly not if they think I took it.”

  “Why—you mean—?”

  “As I told you, I’m going to have a lot of money when I’m twenty-one. I shall be able to buy lots of jewels from them. They won’t make a scandal. Go on and get the money quick. Then go to Aer Lingus and book the ticket—I must take a taxi to Prunier’s. I’m already ten minutes late. I’ll be with you tomorrow morning by half past ten.”

  “Oh, Elvira, I wish you wouldn’t take such frightful risks,” moaned Bridget.

  But Elvira had hailed a taxi.

  II

  Miss Marple had a very enjoyable time at Robinson & Cleaver’s. Besides purchasing expensive but delicious sheets—she loved linen sheets with their texture and their coolness—she also indulged in a purchase of good quality red-bordered glass cloths. Really the difficulty in getting proper glass cloths nowadays! Instead, you were offered things that might as well have been ornamental tablecloths, decorated with radishes or lobsters or the Tour Eiffel or Trafalgar Square, or else littered with lemons and oranges. Having given her address in St. Mary Mead, Miss Marple found a convenient bus which took her to the Army & Navy Stores.

  The Army & Navy Stores had been a haunt of Miss Marple’s aunt in days long gone. It was not, of course, quite the same nowadays. Miss Marple cast her thoughts back to Aunt Helen seeking out her own special man in the grocery department, settling herself comfortably in a chair, wearing a bonnet and what she always called her “black poplin” mantle. Then there would ensue a long hour with nobody in a hurry and Aunt Helen thinking of every conceivable grocery that could be purchased and stored up for future use. Christmas was provided for, and there was even a far-off look towards Easter. The young Jane had fidgeted somewhat, and had been told to go and look at the glass department by way of amusement.

  Having finished her purchases, Aunt Helen would then proceed to lengthy inquiries about her chosen shop-assistant’s mother, wife, second boy and crippled sister-in-law. Having had a thor
oughly pleasant morning, Aunt Helen would say in the playful manner of those times, “And how would a little girl feel about some luncheon?” Whereupon they went up in the lift to the fourth floor and had luncheon which always finished with a strawberry ice. After that, they bought half a pound of coffee chocolate creams and went to a matinée in a four wheeler.

  Of course, the Army & Navy Stores had had a good many face lifts since those days. In fact, it was now quite unrecognizable from the old times. It was gayer and much brighter. Miss Marple, though throwing a kindly and indulgent smile at the past, did not object to the amenities of the present. There was still a restaurant, and there she repaired to order her lunch.

  As she was looking carefully down the menu and deciding what to have, she looked across the room and her eyebrows went up a little. How extraordinary coincidence was! Here was a woman she had never seen till the day before, though she had seen plenty of newspaper photographs of her—at race meetings, in Bermuda, or standing by her own plane or car. Yesterday, for the first time, she had seen her in the flesh. And now, as was so often the case, there was the coincidence of running into her again in a most unlikely place. For somehow she did not connect lunch at the Army & Navy Stores with Bess Sedgwick. She would not have been surprised to see Bess Sedgwick emerging from a den in Soho, or stepping out of Covent Garden Opera House in evening dress with a diamond tiara on her head. But somehow, not in the Army & Navy Stores which in Miss Marple’s mind was, and always would be, connected with the armed forces, their wives, daughters, aunts and grandmothers. Still, there Bess Sedgwick was, looking as usual very smart, in her dark suit and her emerald shirt, lunching at a table with a man. A young man with a lean hawklike face, wearing a black leather jacket. They were leaning forward talking earnestly together, forking in mouthfuls of food as though they were quite unaware what they were eating.

  An assignation, perhaps? Yes, probably an assignation. The man must be fifteen or twenty years younger than she was—but Bess Sedgwick was a magnetically attractive woman.

  Miss Marple looked at the young man consideringly and decided that he was what she called a “handsome fellow.” She also decided that she didn’t like him very much. “Just like Harry Russell,” said Miss Marple to herself, dredging up a prototype as usual from the past. “Never up to any good. Never did any woman who had anything to do with him any good either.

  “She wouldn’t take advice from me,” thought Miss Marple, “but I could give her some.” However, other people’s love affairs were no concern of hers, and Bess Sedgwick, by all accounts, could take care of herself very well when it came to love affairs.

  Miss Marple sighed, ate her lunch, and meditated a visit to the stationery department.

  Curiosity, or what she preferred herself to call “taking an interest” in other people’s affairs, was undoubtedly one of Miss Marple’s characteristics.

  Deliberately leaving her gloves on the table, she rose and crossed the floor to the cash desk, taking a route that passed close to Lady Sedgwick’s table. Having paid her bill she “discovered” the absence of her gloves and returned to get them—unfortunately dropping her handbag on the return route. It came open and spilled various oddments. A waitress rushed to assist her in picking them up, and Miss Marple was forced to show a great shakiness and dropped coppers and keys a second time.

  She did not get very much by these subterfuges but they were not entirely in vain—and it was interesting that neither of the two objects of her curiosity spared as much as a glance for the dithery old lady who kept dropping things.

  As Miss Marple waited for the lift down she memorized such scraps as she had heard.

  “What about the weather forecast?”

  “OK. No fog.”

  “All set for Lucerne?”

  “Yes. Plane leaves 9:40.”

  That was all she had got the first time. On the way back it had lasted a little longer.

  Bess Sedgwick had been speaking angrily.

  “What possessed you to come to Bertram’s yesterday—you shouldn’t have come near the place.”

  “It’s all right. I asked if you were staying there and everyone knows we’re close friends—”

  “That’s not the point. Bertram’s is all right for me—Not for you. You stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone stares at you.”

  “Let them!”

  “You really are an idiot. Why—why? What reasons did you have? You had a reason—I know you….”

  “Calm down, Bess.”

  “You’re such a liar!”

  That was all she had been able to hear. She found it interesting.

  Chapter Seven

  On the evening of 19th November Canon Pennyfather had finished an early dinner at the Athenaeum, he had nodded to one or two friends, had had a pleasant acrimonious discussion on some crucial points of the dating of the Dead Sea Scrolls and now, glancing at his watch, saw that it was time to leave to catch his plane to Lucerne. As he passed through the hall he was greeted by one more friend: Dr. Whittaker of the SOAS, who said cheerfully:

  “How are you, Pennyfather? Haven’t seen you for a long time. How did you get on at the Congress? Any points of interest come up?”

  “I am sure there will be.”

  “Just come back from it, haven’t you?”

  “No, no, I am on my way there. I’m catching a plane this evening.”

  “Oh I see.” Whittaker looked slightly puzzled. “Somehow or other I thought the Congress was today.”

  “No, no. Tomorrow, the 19th.”

  Canon Pennyfather passed out through the door while his friend, looking after him, was just saying:

  “But my dear chap, today is the 19th, isn’t it?”

  Canon Pennyfather, however, had gone beyond earshot. He picked up a taxi in Pall Mall, and was driven to the air terminal in Kensington. There was quite a fair crowd this evening. Presenting himself at the desk it at last came to his turn. He managed to produce ticket and passport and other necessities for the journey. The girl behind the desk, about to stamp these credentials, paused abruptly.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, this seems to be the wrong ticket.”

  “The wrong ticket? No, no, that is quite right. Flight one hundred and—well, I can’t really read without my glasses—one hundred and something to Lucerne.”

  “It’s the date, sir. This is dated Wednesday the 18th.”

  “No, no, surely. At least—I mean—today is Wednesday the 18th.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Today is the 19th.”

  “The 19th!” The Canon was dismayed. He fished out a small diary, turning the pages eagerly. In the end he had to be convinced. Today was the 19th. The plane he had meant to catch had gone yesterday.

  “Then that means—that means—dear me, it means the Congress at Lucerne has taken place today.”

  He stared in deep dismay across the counter; but there were many others travelling; the Canon and his perplexities were elbowed aside. He stood sadly, holding the useless ticket in his hand. His mind ranged over various possibilities. Perhaps his ticket could be changed? But that would be no use—no indeed—what time was it now? Going on for 9 o’clock? The conference had actually taken place; starting at 10 o’clock this morning. Of course, that was what Whittaker had meant at the Athenaeum. He thought Canon Pennyfather had already been to the Congress.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” said Canon Pennyfather, to himself. “What a muddle I have made of it all!” He wandered sadly and silently into the Cromwell Road, not at its best a very cheerful place.

  He walked slowly along the street carrying his bag and revolving perplexities in his mind. When at last he had worked out to his satisfaction the various reasons for which he had made a mistake in the day, he shook his head sadly.

  “Now, I suppose,” he said to himself, “I suppose—let me see, it’s after nine o’clock, yes, I suppose I had better have something to eat.”

  It was curious, he thought, that he did not feel hungry.

 
Wandering disconsolately along the Cromwell Road he finally settled upon a small restaurant which served Indian curries. It seemed to him that though he was not quite as hungry as he ought to be, he had better keep his spirits up by having a meal, and after that he must find a hotel and—but no, there was no need to do that. He had a hotel! Of course. He was staying at Bertram’s; and had reserved his room for four days. What a piece of luck! What a splendid piece of luck! So his room was there, waiting for him. He had only to ask for his key at the desk and—here another reminiscence assailed him. Something heavy in his pocket?

  He dipped his hand in and brought out one of those large and solid keys with which hotels try and discourage their vaguer guests from taking them away in their pockets. It had not prevented the Canon from doing so!

  “No. 19,” said the Canon, in happy recognition. “That’s right. It’s very fortunate that I haven’t got to go and find a room in a hotel. They say they’re very crowded just now. Yes, Edmunds was saying so at the Athenaeum this evening. He had a terrible job finding a room.”

  Somewhat pleased with himself and the care he had taken over his travelling arrangements by booking a hotel beforehand, the Canon abandoned his curry, remembered to pay for it, and strode out once more into the Cromwell Road.

  It seemed a little tame to go home just like this when he ought to have been dining in Lucerne and talking about all sorts of interesting and fascinating problems. His eye was caught by a cinema.

  Walls of Jericho.

  It seemed an eminently suitable title. It would be interesting to see if biblical accuracy had been preserved.

  He bought himself a seat and stumbled into the darkness. He enjoyed the film, though it seemed to him to have no relationship to the biblical story whatsoever. Even Joshua seemed to have been left out. The walls of Jericho seemed to be a symbolical way of referring to a certain lady’s marriage vows. When they had tumbled down several times, the beautiful star met the dour and uncouth hero whom she had secretly loved all along and between them they proposed to build up the walls in a way that would stand the test of time better. It was not a film destined particularly to appeal to an elderly clergyman; but Canon Pennyfather enjoyed it very much. It was not the sort of film he often saw and he felt it was enlarging his knowledge of life. The film ended, the lights went up, the National Anthem was played and Canon Pennyfather stumbled out into the lights of London, slightly consoled for the sad events of earlier in the evening.