At Bertram's Hotel Page 5

  “You can’t be sure. I think—I think she feels it.”

  “What gives you that idea?” said Bess Sedgwick sharply.

  “Something she said yesterday. She asked where you were, what you were doing.”

  Bess Sedgwick walked across the room to the window. She stood there a moment tapping on the pane.

  “You’re so nice, Derek,” she said. “You have such nice ideas. But they don’t work, my poor angel. That’s what you’ve got to say to yourself. They don’t work and they might be dangerous.”

  “Oh come now, Bess. Dangerous?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Dangerous. I’m dangerous. I’ve always been dangerous.”

  “When I think of some of the things you’ve done,” said Colonel Luscombe.

  “That’s my own business,” said Bess Sedgwick. “Running into danger has become a kind of habit with me. No, I wouldn’t say habit. More an addiction. Like a drug. Like that nice little dollop of heroin addicts have to have every so often to make life seem bright coloured and worth living. Well, that’s all right. That’s my funeral—or not—as the case may be. I’ve never taken drugs—never needed them—Danger has been my drug. But people who live as I do can be a source of harm to others. Now don’t be an obstinate old fool, Derek. You keep that girl well away from me. I can do her no good. Only harm. If possible, don’t even let her know I was staying in the same hotel. Ring up the Melfords and take her down there today. Make some excuse about a sudden emergency—”

  Colonel Luscombe hesitated, pulling his moustaches.

  “I think you’re making a mistake, Bess.” He sighed. “She asked where you were. I told her you were abroad.”

  “Well, I shall be in another twelve hours, so that all fits very nicely.”

  She came up to him, kissed him on the point of his chin, turned him smartly around as though they were about to play Blind Man’s Buff, opened the door, gave him a gentle little propelling shove out of it. As the door shut behind him, Colonel Luscombe noticed an old lady turning the corner from the stairs. She was muttering to herself as she looked into her handbag. “Dear, dear me. I suppose I must have left it in my room. Oh dear.”

  She passed Colonel Luscombe without paying much attention to him apparently, but as he went on down the stairs Miss Marple paused by her room door and directed a piercing glance after him. Then she looked towards Bess Sedgwick’s door. “So that’s who she was waiting for,” said Miss Marple to herself. “I wonder why.”

  III

  Canon Pennyfather, fortified by breakfast, wandered across the lounge, remembered to leave his key at the desk, pushed his way through the swinging doors, and was neatly inserted into a taxi by the Irish commissionaire who existed for this purpose.

  “Where to, sir?”

  “Oh dear,” said Canon Pennyfather in sudden dismay. “Now let me see—where was I going?”

  The traffic in Pond Street was held up for some minutes whilst Canon Pennyfather and the commissionaire debated this knotty point.

  Finally Canon Pennyfather had a brainwave and the taxi was directed to go to the British Museum.

  The commissionaire was left on the pavement with a broad grin on his face, and since no other exits seemed to be taking place, he strolled a little way along the façade of the hotel whistling an old tune in a muted manner.

  One of the windows on the ground floor of Bertram’s was flung up—but the commissionaire did not even turn his head until a voice spoke unexpectedly through the open window.

  “So this is where you’ve landed up, Micky. What on earth brought you to this place?”

  He swung round, startled—and stared.

  Lady Sedgwick thrust her head through the open window.

  “Don’t you know me?” she demanded.

  A sudden gleam of recognition came across the man’s face.

  “Why, if it isn’t little Bessie now! Fancy that! After all these years. Little Bessie.”

  “Nobody but you ever called me Bessie. It’s a revolting name. What have you been doing all these years?”

  “This and that,” said Micky with some reserve. “I’ve not been in the news like you have. I’ve read of your doings in the paper time and again.”

  Bess Sedgwick laughed. “Anyway, I’ve worn better than you have,” she said. “You drink too much. You always did.”

  “You’ve worn well because you’ve always been in the money.”

  “Money wouldn’t have done you any good. You’d have drunk even more and gone to the dogs completely. Oh yes, you would! What brought you here? That’s what I want to know. How did you ever get taken on at this place?”

  “I wanted a job. I had these—” his hand flicked over the row of medals.

  “Yes, I see.” She was thoughtful. “All genuine too, aren’t they?”

  “Sure they’re genuine. Why shouldn’t they be?”

  “Oh I believe you. You always had courage. You’ve always been a good fighter. Yes, the army suited you. I’m sure of that.”

  “The army’s all right in time of war, but it’s no good in peacetime.”

  “So you took to this stuff. I hadn’t the least idea—” she stopped.

  “You hadn’t the least idea what, Bessie?”

  “Nothing. It’s queer seeing you again after all these years.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” said the man. “I’ve never forgotten you, little Bessie. Ah! A lovely girl you were! A lovely slip of a girl.”

  “A damn’ fool of a girl, that’s what I was,” said Lady Sedgwick.

  “That’s true now. You hadn’t much sense. If you had, you wouldn’t have taken up with me. What hands you had for a horse. Do you remember that mare—what was her name now?—Molly O’Flynn. Ah, she was a wicked devil, that one was.”

  “You were the only one that could ride her,” said Lady Sedgwick.

  “She’d have had me off if she could! When she found she couldn’t, she gave in. Ah, she was a beauty, now. But talking of sitting a horse, there wasn’t one lady in those parts better than you. A lovely seat you had, lovely hands. Never any fear in you, not for a minute! And it’s been the same ever since, so I judge. Aeroplanes, racing cars.”

  Bess Sedgwick laughed.

  “I must get on with my letters.”

  She drew back from the window.

  Micky leaned over the railing. “I’ve not forgotten Ballygowlan,” he said with meaning. “Sometimes I’ve thought of writing to you—”

  Bess Sedgwick’s voice came out harshly.

  “And what do you mean by that, Mick Gorman?”

  “I was just saying as I haven’t forgotten—anything. I was just—reminding you like.”

  Bess Sedgwick’s voice still held its harsh note.

  “If you mean what I think you mean, I’ll give you a piece of advice. Any trouble from you, and I’d shoot you as easily as I’d shoot a rat. I’ve shot men before—”

  “In foreign parts, maybe—”

  “Foreign parts or here—it’s all the same to me.”

  “Ah, good Lord, now, and I believe you would do just that!” His voice held admiration. “In Ballygowlan—”

  “In Ballygowlan,” she cut in, “they paid you to keep your mouth shut and paid you well. You took the money. You’ll get no more from me so don’t think it.”

  “It would be a nice romantic story for the Sunday papers….”

  “You heard what I said.”

  “Ah,” he laughed, “I’m not serious, I was just joking. I’d never do anything to hurt my little Bessie. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “Mind you do,” said Lady Sedgwick.

  She shut down the window. Staring down at the desk in front of her she looked at her unfinished letter on the blotting paper. She picked it up, looked at it, crumpled it into a ball and slung it into the wastepaper basket. Then abruptly she got up from her seat and walked out of the room. She did not even cast a glance around her before she went.

  The smaller writing rooms at Bertram’s o
ften had an appearance of being empty even when they were not. Two well-appointed desks stood in the windows, there was a table on the right that held a few magazines, on the left were two very high-backed armchairs turned towards the fire. These were favourite spots in the afternoon for elderly military or naval gentlemen to ensconce themselves and fall happily asleep until teatime. Anyone coming in to write a letter did not usually even notice them. The chairs were not so much in demand during the morning.

  As it happened, however, they were on this particular morning both occupied. An old lady was in one and a young girl in the other. The young girl rose to her feet. She stood a moment looking uncertainly towards the door through which Lady Sedgwick had passed out, then she moved slowly towards it. Elvira Blake’s face was deadly pale.

  It was another five minutes before the old lady moved. Then Miss Marple decided that the little rest which she always took after dressing and coming downstairs had lasted quite long enough. It was time to go out and enjoy the pleasures of London. She might walk as far as Piccadilly, and take a No. 9 bus to High Street, Kensington, or she might walk along to Bond Street and take a 25 bus to Marshall & Snelgrove’s, or she might take a 25 the other way which as far as she remembered would land her up at the Army & Navy Stores. Passing through the swing doors she was still savouring these delights in her mind. The Irish commissionaire, back on duty, made up her mind for her.

  “You’ll be wanting a taxi, Ma’am,” he said with firmness.

  “I don’t think I do,” said Miss Marple. “I think there’s a 25 bus I could take quite near here—or a 2 from Park Lane.”

  “You’ll not be wanting a bus,” said the commissionaire firmly. “It’s very dangerous springing on a bus when you’re getting on in life. The way they start and stop and go on again. Jerk you off your feet, they do. No heart at all, these fellows, nowadays. I’ll whistle you along a taxi and you’ll go to wherever you want to like a queen.”

  Miss Marple considered and fell.

  “Very well then,” she said, “perhaps I had better have a taxi.”

  The commissionaire had no need even to whistle. He merely clicked his thumb and a taxi appeared like magic. Miss Marple was helped into it with every possible care and decided on the spur of the moment to go to Robinson & Cleaver’s and look at their splendid offer of real linen sheets. She sat happily in her taxi feeling indeed as the commissionaire had promised her, just like a queen. Her mind was filled with pleasurable anticipation of linen sheets, linen pillowcases and proper glass and kitchen cloths without pictures of bananas, figs or performing dogs and other pictorial distractions to annoy you when you were washing up.

  IV

  Lady Sedgwick came up to the Reception desk.

  “Mr. Humfries in his office?”

  “Yes, Lady Sedgwick.” Miss Gorringe looked startled.

  Lady Sedgwick passed behind the desk, tapped on the door and went in without waiting for any response.

  Mr. Humfries looked up startled.

  “What—”

  “Who engaged the man Michael Gorman?”

  Mr. Humfries spluttered a little.

  “Parfitt left—he had a car accident a month ago. We had to replace him quickly. This man seemed all right. References OK—ex-Army—quite good record—not very bright perhaps—but that’s all the better sometimes—you don’t know anything against him, do you?”

  “Enough not to want him here.”

  “If you insist,” Humfries said slowly, “we’ll give him his notice—”

  “No,” said Lady Sedgwick slowly. “No—it’s too late for that—Never mind.”

  Chapter Six

  I

  “Elvira.”

  “Hallo, Bridget.”

  The Hon. Elvira Blake pushed her way through the front door of 180 Onslow Square, which her friend Bridget had rushed down to open for her, having been watching through the window.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” said Elvira.

  “Yes, we’d better. Otherwise we’ll get entangled by Mummy.”

  The two girls rushed up the stairs, thereby circumventing Bridget’s mother, who came out onto the landing from her own bedroom just too late.

  “You really are lucky not to have a mother,” said Bridget, rather breathlessly as she took her friend into her bedroom and shut the door firmly. “I mean, Mummy’s quite a pet and all that, but the questions she asks! Morning, noon and night. Where are you going, and who have you met? And are they cousins of somebody else of the same name in Yorkshire? I mean, the futility of it all.”

  “I suppose they have nothing else to think about,” said Elvira vaguely. “Look here, Bridget, there’s something terribly important I’ve got to do, and you’ve got to help me.”

  “Well, I will if I can. What is it—a man?”

  “No, it isn’t, as a matter of fact.” Bridget looked disappointed. “I’ve got to get away to Ireland for twenty-four hours or perhaps longer, and you’ve got to cover up for me.”

  “To Ireland? Why?”

  “I can’t tell you all about it now. There’s no time. I’ve got to meet my guardian, Colonel Luscombe, at Prunier’s for lunch at half past one.”

  “What have you done with the Carpenter?”

  “Gave her the slip in Debenham’s.”

  Bridget giggled.

  “And after lunch they’re taking me down to the Melfords. I’m going to live with them until I’m twenty-one.”

  “How ghastly!”

  “I expect I shall manage. Cousin Mildred is fearfully easy to deceive. It’s arranged I’m to come up for classes and things. There’s a place called World of Today. They take you to lectures and to Museums and to Picture Galleries and the House of Lords, and all that. The whole point is that nobody will know whether you’re where you ought to be or not! We’ll manage lots of things.”

  “I expect we will.” Bridget giggled. “We managed in Italy, didn’t we? Old Macaroni thought she was so strict. Little did she know what we got up to when we tried.”

  Both girls laughed in the pleasant consciousness of successful wickedness.

  “Still, it did need a lot of planning,” said Elvira.

  “And some splendid lying,” said Bridget. “Have you heard from Guido?”

  “Oh yes, he wrote me a long letter signed Ginevra as though he was a girlfriend. But I do wish you’d stop talking so much, Bridget. We’ve got a lot to do and only about an hour and a half to do it in. Now first of all just listen. I’m coming up tomorrow for an appointment with the dentist. That’s easy, I can put it off by telephone—or you can from here. Then, about midday, you can ring up the Melfords pretending to be your mother and explain that the dentist wants to see me again the next day and so I’m staying over with you here.”

  “That ought to go down all right. They’ll say how very kind and gush. But supposing you’re not back the next day?”

  “Then you’ll have to do some more ringing up.”

  Bridget looked doubtful.

  “We’ll have lots of time to think up something before then,” said Elvira impatiently. “What’s worrying me now is money. You haven’t got any, I suppose?” Elvira spoke without much hope.

  “Only about two pounds.”

  “That’s no good. I’ve got to buy my air ticket. I’ve looked up the flights. It only takes about two hours. A lot depends upon how long it takes me when I get there.”

  “Can’t you tell me what you’re going to do?”

  “No, I can’t. But it’s terribly, terribly important.”

  Elvira’s voice was so different that Bridget looked at her in some surprise.

  “Is anything really the matter, Elvira?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is it something nobody’s got to know about?”

  “Yes, that’s the sort of thing. It’s frightfully, frightfully secret. I’ve got to find out if something is really true or not. It’s a bore about the money. What’s maddening is that I’m really quite rich. My guardian told m
e so. But all they give me is a measly dress allowance. And that seems to go as soon as I get it.”

  “Wouldn’t your guardian—Colonel Thingummybob—lend you some money?”

  “That wouldn’t do at all. He’d ask a lot of questions and want to know what I wanted it for.”

  “Oh, dear, I suppose he would. I can’t think why everybody wants to ask so many questions. Do you know that if somebody rings me up, Mummy has to ask who it is? When it really is no business of hers!”

  Elvira agreed, but her mind was on another tack.

  “Have you ever pawned anything, Bridget?”

  “Never. I don’t think I’d know how to.”

  “It’s quite easy, I believe,” said Elvira. “You go to the sort of jeweller who has three balls over the door, isn’t that right?”

  “I don’t think I’ve got anything that would be any good taking to a pawnbroker,” said Bridget.

  “Hasn’t your mother got some jewellery somewhere?”

  “I don’t think we’d better ask her to help.”

  “No, perhaps not—But we could pinch something perhaps.”

  “Oh, I don’t think we could do that,” said Bridget, shocked.

  “No? Well, perhaps you’re right. But I bet she wouldn’t notice. We could get it back before she missed it. I know. We’ll go to Mr. Bollard.”

  “Who’s Mr. Bollard?”

  “Oh, he’s a sort of family jeweller. I take my watch there always to have it mended. He’s known me ever since I was six. Come on, Bridget, we’ll go there right away. We’ll just have time.”

  “We’d better go out the back way,” said Bridget, “and then Mummy won’t ask us where we’re going.”

  Outside the old established business of Bollard and Whitley in Bond Street the two girls made their final arrangements.

  “Are you sure you understand, Bridget?”

  “I think so,” said Bridget in a far from happy voice.

  “First,” said Elvira, “we synchronize our watches.”

  Bridget brightened up a little. This familiar literary phrase had a heartening effect. They solemnly synchronized their watches, Bridget adjusting hers by one minute.