At Bertram's Hotel mm-12 Page 8

  Elvira stood looking at him for a moment or two. "But you don't think I'm really a child, do you?" she said shrewdly, and added, "I expect you know rather more about girls than Uncle Derek does. He just lived with his sister." Then she stretched out her hand and said, very prettily, "Thank you so much. I hope I haven't interrupted some important work you had to do," and went out.

  Egerton stood looking at the door that had closed behind her. He pursed up his lips, whistled a moment, shook his head and sat down again, picked up a pen and tapped thoughtfully on his desk. He drew some papers towards him, then thrust them back and picked up his telephone.

  "Miss Cordell, get me Colonel Luscombe, will you? Try his club first. And then the Shropshire address."

  He put back the receiver. Again he drew his papers towards him and started reading them but his mind was not on what he was doing. Presently his buzzer went.

  "Colonel Luscombe is on the wire now, Mr. Egerton."

  "Right. Put him through. Hello, Derek. Richard Egerton here. How are you? I've just been having a visit from someone you know. A visit from your ward."

  "From Elvira?" Derek Luscombe sounded very surprised.

  "Yes."

  "But why-what on earth-what did she come to you for? Not in any trouble?"

  "No, I wouldn't say so. On the contrary, she seemed rather-well, pleased with herself. She wanted to know all about her financial position."

  "You didn't tell her, I hope?" said Colonel Luscombe, in alarm.

  "Why not? What's the point of secrecy?"

  "Well, I can't help feeling it's a little unwise for a girl to know that she is going to come into such a large amount of money."

  "Somebody else will tell her that, if we don't. She's got to be prepared, you know. Money is a responsibility.''

  "Yes, but she's so much of a child still."

  "Are you sure of that?"

  "What do you mean? Of course she's a child."

  "I wouldn't describe her as such. Who's the boy friend?"

  "I beg your pardon."

  "I said who's the boy friend? There is a boy friend in the offing, isn't there?"

  "No, indeed. Nothing of the sort. What on earth makes you think that?"

  "Nothing that she actually said. But I've got some experience, you know. I think you'll find there is a boy friend."

  "Well, I can assure you you're quite wrong. I mean, she's been most carefully brought up, she's been at very strict schools; she's been in a very select finishing establishment in Italy. I should know if there was anything of that kind going on. I dare say she's met one or two pleasant young fellows and all that, but I'm sure there's been nothing of the kind you suggest."

  "Well, my diagnosis is a boy friend-and probably an undesirable one."

  "But why, Richard, why? What do you know about young girls?"

  "Quite a lot," said Egerton dryly. "I've had three clients in the last year, two of whom were made wards of court and the third one managed to bully her parents into agreeing to an almost certainly disastrous marriage. Girls don't get looked after the way they used to be. Conditions are such that it's very difficult to look after them at all-"

  "But I assure you Elvira has been most carefully looked after."

  "The ingenuity of the young female of the species is beyond anything you could conjecture! You keep an eye on her, Derek. Make a few inquiries as to what she's been up to."

  "Nonsense. She's just a sweet simple girl."

  "What you don't know about sweet simple girls would fill an album! Her mother ran away and caused a scandal-remember?-when she was younger than Elvira is today. As for old Coniston, he was one of the worst rips in England."

  "You upset me, Richard. You upset me very much."

  "You might as well be warned. What I didn't quite like was one of her other questions. Why is she so anxious to know who'd inherit her money if she dies?"

  "It's queer your saying that, because she asked me that same question."

  "Did she now? Why should her mind run on early death? She asked me about her mother, by the way."

  Colonel Luscombe's voice sounded worried as he said, "I wish Bess would get in touch with the girl."

  "Have you been talking to her on the subject-to Bess, I mean?"

  "Well, yes… Yes I did. I ran across her by chance. We were staying in the same hotel, as a matter of fact. I urged Bess to make some arrangements to see the girl."

  "What did she say?" asked Egerton curiously.

  "Refused point blank. She more or less said that she wasn't a safe person for the girl to know."

  "Looked at from one point of view I don't suppose she is," said Egerton. "She's mixed up with that racing fellow, isn't she?"

  "I've heard rumours."

  "Yes, I've heard them too. I don't know if there's much in it really. There might be, I suppose. That could be why she feels as she does. Bess's friends are strong meat from time to time! But what a woman she is, eh, Derek? What a woman."

  "Always been her own worst enemy," said Derek Luscombe gruffly.

  "A really nice conventional remark," said Egerton. "Well, sorry I bothered you, Derek, but keep a look out for undesirables in the background. Don't say you haven't been warned."

  He replaced the receiver and drew the pages on his desk towards him once more. This time he was able to put his whole attention on what he was doing.

  11

  Mrs. McCrae, Canon Pennyfather's housekeeper, had ordered a Dover sole for the evening of his return. The advantages attached to a good Dover sole were manifold. It need not be introduced to the grill or frying pan until the canon was safely in the house. It could be kept until the next day if necessary. Canon Pennyfather was fond of Dover sole; and, if a telephone call or telegram arrived saying that the canon would after all be elsewhere on this particular evening, Mrs. McCrae was fond of a good Dover sole herself. All therefore was in good trim for the canon's return. The Dover sole would be followed by pancakes. The sole sat on the kitchen table, the batter for the pancakes was ready in a bowl. All was in readiness. The brass shone, the silver sparkled, not a minuscule of dust showed anywhere. There was only one thing lacking. The canon himself.

  The canon was scheduled to return on the train arriving at six-thirty from London.

  At seven o'clock he had not returned. No doubt the train was late. At seven-thirty he still had not returned. Mrs. McCrae gave a sigh of vexation. She suspected that this was going to be another of these things. Eight o'clock came and no canon. Mrs. McCrae gave a long, exasperated sigh. Soon, no doubt, she would get a telephone call, though it was quite within the bounds of possibility that there would not even be a telephone call. He might have written to her. No doubt he had written, but he had probably omitted to post the letter.

  "Dear, dear!" said Mrs. McCrae.

  At nine o'clock she made herself three pancakes with the pancake batter. The sole she put carefully away in the Frigidaire. "I wonder where the good man's got to now," she said to herself. She knew by experience that he might be anywhere. The odds were that he would discover his mistake in time to telegraph her or telephone her before she retired to bed. "I shall sit up until eleven o'clock but no longer," said Mrs. McCrae. Ten-thirty was her bedtime, an extension to eleven she considered her duty, but if at eleven there was nothing, no word from the canon, then Mrs. McCrae would duly lock up the house and betake herself to bed.

  It cannot be said that she was worried. This sort of thing had happened before. There was nothing to be done but wait for news of some kind. The possibilities were numerous. Canon Pennyfather might have got on the wrong train and failed to discover his mistake until he was at Land's End or John o' Groats, or he might still be in London having made some mistake in the date, and was therefore convinced he was not returning until tomorrow. He might have met a friend or friends at this foreign conference he was going to and been induced to stay out there perhaps over the weekend. He would have meant to let her know but had entirely forgotten to do so. So, as ha
s been already said, she was not worried. The day after tomorrow his old friend, Archdeacon Simmons, was coming to stay. That was the sort of thing the canon did remember, so no doubt he himself or a telegram from him would arrive tomorrow and at latest he would be home on the day after, or there would be a letter.

  The morning of the day after, however, arrived without a word from him. For the first time Mrs. McCrae began to be uneasy. Between nine A.M. and one P.M. she eyed the telephone in a doubtful manner. Mrs. McCrae had her own fixed views about the telephone. She used it and recognized its convenience but she was not fond of the telephone. Some of her house- hold shopping was done by telephone, though she much preferred to do it in person owing to a fixed belief that if you did not see what you were being given, a shopkeeper was sure to try and cheat you. Still, telephones were useful for domestic matters. She occasionally, though rarely, telephoned her friends or relations in the near neighbourhood. To make a call of any distance, or a London call, upset her severely. It was a shameful waste of money. Nevertheless, she began to meditate facing that problem.

  Finally, when yet another day dawned without any news of him she decided to act. She knew where the canon was staying in London. Bertram's Hotel. A nice old-fashioned place. It might be as well, perhaps, if she rang up and made certain inquiries. They would probably know where the canon was. It was not an ordinary hotel. She would ask to be put through to Miss Gorringe. Miss Gorringe was always efficient and thoughtful. The canon might, of course, return by the twelve-thirty. If so he would be here any minute now.

  But the minutes passed and there was no canon. Mrs. McCrae took a deep breath, nerved herself and asked for a call to London. She waited, biting her lips and holding the receiver clamped firmly to her ear.

  "Bertram's Hotel, at your service," said the voice.

  "I would like, if you please, to speak to Miss Gorringe," said Mrs. McCrae.

  "Just a moment. What name shall I say?"

  "It's Canon Pennyfather's housekeeper. Mrs. McCrae."

  "Just a moment please."

  Presently the calm and efficient voice of Miss Gorringe came through. "Miss Gorringe here. Did you say Canon Pennyfather's housekeeper?"

  "That's right. Mrs. McCrae."

  "Oh yes. Of course. What can I do for you, Mrs. McCrae?"

  "Is Canon Pennyfather staying at the hotel still?"

  "I'm glad you've rung up," said Miss Gomnge. "We have been rather worried as to what exactly to do."

  "Do you mean something's happened to Canon Pennyfather? Has he had an accident?"

  "No, no, nothing of that kind. But we expected him back from Lucerne on Friday or Saturday."

  "Eh-that'd be right."

  "But he didn't arrive. Well, of course that wasn't really surprising. He had booked his room on- booked it, that is, until yesterday. He didn't come back yesterday or send any word and his things are still here. The major part of his baggage. We hadn't been quite sure what to do about it. Of course," Miss Gorringe went on hastily, "we know the canon is, well- somewhat forgetful sometimes."

  "You may well say that!"

  "It makes it a little difficult for us. We are so fully booked up. His room is actually booked for another guest." She added, "You have no idea where he is?"

  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 daresay 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 would 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. While 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 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 nineteenth. He had with him a small B.E.A. 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 airlines 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, B.E.A. 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 eighteenth 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."