At Bertram's Hotel

  With bitterness Mrs. McCrae said:

  “The man might be anywhere!” She pulled herself together. “Well, thank you, Miss Gorringe.”

  “Anything I can do—” Miss Gorringe suggested helpfully.

  “I dare say I’ll hear soon enough,” said Mrs. McCrae. She thanked Miss Gorringe again and rang off.

  She sat by the telephone, looking upset. She did not fear for the Canon’s personal safety. If he had had an accident she would by now have been notified. She felt sure of that. On the whole the Canon was not what one could call accident prone. He was what Mrs. McCrae called to herself “one of the scatty ones,” and the scatty ones seemed always to be looked after by a special providence. Whilst taking no care or thought, they could still survive even a Panda crossing. No, she did not visualize Canon Pennyfather as lying groaning in a hospital. He was somewhere, no doubt innocently and happily prattling with some friend or other. Maybe he was abroad still. The difficulty was that Archdeacon Simmons was arriving this evening and Archdeacon Simmons would expect to find a host to receive him. She couldn’t put Archdeacon Simmons off because she didn’t know where he was. It was all very difficult, but it had, like most difficulties, its bright spot. Its bright spot was Archdeacon Simmons. Archdeacon Simmons would know what to do. She would place the matter in his hands.

  Archdeacon Simmons was a complete contrast to her employer. He knew where he was going, and what he was doing, and was always cheerfully sure of knowing the right thing to be done and doing it. A confident cleric. Archdeacon Simmons, when he arrived, to be met by Mrs. McCrae’s explanations, apologies and perturbation, was a tower of strength. He, too, was not alarmed.

  “Now don’t you worry, Mrs. McCrae,” he said in his genial fashion, as he sat down to the meal she had prepared for his arrival. “We’ll hunt the absentminded fellow down. Ever heard that story about Chesterton? G. K. Chesterton, you know, the writer. Wired to his wife when he’d gone on a lecture tour ‘Am at Crewe Station. Where ought I to be?’”

  He laughed. Mrs. McCrae smiled dutifully. She did not think it was very funny because it was so exactly the sort of thing that Canon Pennyfather might have done.

  “Ah,” said Archdeacon Simmons, with appreciation, “one of your excellent veal cutlets! You’re a marvellous cook, Mrs. McCrae. I hope my old friend appreciates you.”

  Veal cutlets having been succeeded by some small castle puddings with a blackberry sauce which Mrs. McCrae had remembered was one of the Archdeacon’s favourite sweets, the good man applied himself in earnest to the tracking down of his missing friend. He addressed himself to the telephone with vigour and a complete disregard for expense, which made Mrs. McCrae purse her lips anxiously, although not really disapproving, because definitely her master had got to be tracked down.

  Having first dutifully tried the Canon’s sister who took little notice of her brother’s goings and comings and as usual had not the faintest idea where he was or might be, the Archdeacon spread his net farther afield. He addressed himself once more to Bertram’s Hotel and got details as precisely as possible. The Canon had definitely left there on the early evening of the 19th. he had with him a small BEA handbag, but his other luggage had remained behind in his room, which he had duly retained. He had mentioned that he was going to a conference of some kind at Lucerne. He had not gone direct to the airport from the hotel. The commissionaire, who knew him well by sight, had put him into a taxi and had directed it as told by the Canon, to the Athenaeum Club. That was the last time that anyone at Bertram’s Hotel had seen Canon Pennyfather. Oh yes, a small detail—he had omitted to leave his key behind but had taken it with him. It was not the first time that that had happened.

  Archdeacon Simmons paused for a few minutes” consideration before the next call. He could ring up the air station in London. That would no doubt take some time. There might be a short cut. He rang up Dr. Weissgarten, a learned Hebrew scholar who was almost certain to have been at the conference.

  Dr. Weissgarten was at his home. As soon as he heard who was speaking to him he launched out into a torrent of verbiage consisting mostly of disparaging criticism of two papers that had been read at the conference in Lucerne.

  “Most unsound, that fellow Hogarov,” he said, “most unsound. How he gets away with it I don’t know! Fellow isn’t a scholar at all. Do you know what he actually said?”

  The Archdeacon sighed and had to be firm with him. Otherwise there was a good chance that the rest of the evening would be spent in listening to criticism of fellow scholars at the Lucerne Conference. With some reluctance Dr. Weissgarten was pinned down to more personal matters.

  “Pennyfather?” he said. “Pennyfather? He ought to have been there. Can’t think why he wasn’t there. Said he was going. Told me so only a week before when I saw him in the Athenaeum.”

  “You mean he wasn’t at the conference at all?”

  “That’s what I’ve just said. He ought to have been there.”

  “Do you know why he wasn’t there? Did he send an excuse?”

  “How should I know? He certainly talked about being there. Yes, now I remember. He was expected. Several people remarked on his absence. Thought he might have had a chill or something. Very treacherous weather.” He was about to revert to his criticisms of his fellow scholars but Archdeacon Simmons rang off.

  He had got a fact but it was a fact that for the first time awoke in him an uneasy feeling. Canon Pennyfather had not been at the Lucerne Conference. He had meant to go to that conference. It seemed very extraordinary to the Archdeacon that he had not been there. He might, of course, have taken the wrong plane, though on the whole BEA were pretty careful of you and shepherded you away from such possibilities. Could Canon Pennyfather have forgotten the actual day that he was going to the conference? It was always possible, he supposed. But if so where had he gone instead?

  He addressed himself now to the air terminal. It involved a great deal of patient waiting and being transferred from department to department. In the end he got a definite fact. Canon Pennyfather had booked as a passenger on the 21:40 plane to Lucerne on the 18th but he had not been on the plane.

  “We’re getting on,” said Archdeacon Simmons to Mrs. McCrae, who was hovering in the background. “Now, let me see. Who shall I try next?”

  “All this telephoning will cost a fearful lot of money,” said Mrs. McCrae.

  “I’m afraid so. I’m afraid so,” said Archdeacon Simmons. “But we’ve got to get on his track, you know. He’s not a very young man.”

  “Oh, sir, you don’t think there’s anything could really have happened to him?”

  “Well, I hope not…I don’t think so, because I think you’d have heard if so. He—er—always had his name and address on him, didn’t he?”

  “Oh yes, sir, he had cards on him. He’d have letters too, and all sorts of things in his wallet.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’s in a hospital then,” said the Archdeacon. “Let me see. When he left the hotel he took a taxi to the Athenaeum. I’ll ring them up next.”

  Here he got some definite information. Canon Pennyfather, who was well known there, had dined there at seven thirty on the evening of the 19th. It was then that the Archdeacon was struck by something he had overlooked until then. The aeroplane ticket had been for the 18th but the Canon had left Bertram’s Hotel by taxi to the Athenaeum, having mentioned he was going to the Lucerne Conference, on the 19th. 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 19th. I’m sure of it. He must have thought that he was leaving on the 18th. 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 couldn’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 absentmindedness 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.”

  Chapter Twelve

  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 on 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 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 & 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 & 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 nicely brought up, no doubt! Her people probably believed her to be in some quite other spot. She had to tell lies.

  On the 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 great-nephew. 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.

  Chapter Thirteen

  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.