At Bertram's Hotel

by Agatha Christie

  “Yes, but where are we?” said Canon Pennyfather. “I mean, where am I? Where is this place?”

  “Milton St. John,” said the woman. “Didn’t you know?”

  “Milton St. John?” said Canon Pennyfather. He shook his head. “I never heard the name before.”

  “Oh well, it’s not much of a place. Only a village.”

  “You have been very kind,” said Canon Pennyfather. “May I ask your name?”

  “Mrs. Wheeling. Emma Wheeling.”

  “You are most kind,” said Canon Pennyfather again. “But this accident now. I simply cannot remember—”

  “You put yourself outside that, luv, and you’ll feel better and up to remembering things.”

  “Milton St. John,” said Canon Pennyfather to himself, in a tone of wonder. “The name means nothing to me at all. How very extraordinary!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sir Ronald Graves drew a cat upon his blotting pad. He looked at the large portly figure of Chief-Inspector Davy sitting opposite him and drew a bulldog.

  “Ladislaus Malinowski?” he said. “Could be. Got any evidence?”

  “No. He’d fit the bill, would he?”

  “A daredevil. No nerves. Won the World Championship. Bad crash about a year ago. Bad reputation with women. Sources of income doubtful. Spends money here and abroad freely. Always going to and fro to the Continent. Have you got some idea that he’s the man behind these organized robberies and holdups?”

  “I don’t think he’s the planner. But I think he’s in with them.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, he runs a Mercedes-Otto car. Racing model. A car answering to that description was seen near Bedhampton on the morning of the mail robbery. Different number plates—but we’re used to that. And it’s the same stunt—unlike, but not too unlike. FAN 2299 instead of 2266. There aren’t so many Mercedes-Otto models of that type about. Lady Sedgwick has one and young Lord Merrivale.”

  “You don’t think Malinowski runs the show?”

  “No—I think there are better brains than his at the top. But he’s in it. I’ve looked back over the files. Take the holdup at the Midland and West London. Three vans happened—just happened—to block a certain street. A Mercedes-Otto that was on the scene got clear away owing to that block.”

  “It was stopped later.”

  “Yes. And given a clean bill of health. Especially as the people who’d reported it weren’t sure of the correct number. It was reported as FAM 3366—Malinowski’s registration number is FAN 2266—It’s all the same picture.”

  “And you persist in tying it up with Bertram’s Hotel. They dug up some stuff about Bertram’s for you—”

  Father tapped his pocket.

  “Got it here. Properly registered company. Balance—paid up capital—directors—etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Doesn’t mean a thing! These financial shows are all the same—just a lot of snakes swallowing each other! Companies, and holding companies—makes your brain reel!”

  “Come now, Father. That’s just a way they have in the City. Has to do with taxation—”

  “What I want is the real dope. If you’ll give me a chit, sir, I’d like to go and see some top brass.”

  The AC stared at him.

  “And what exactly do you mean by top brass?”

  Father mentioned a name.

  The AC looked upset. “I don’t know about that. I hardly think we dare approach him.”

  “It might be very helpful.”

  There was a pause. The two men looked at each other. Father looked bovine, placid, and patient. The AC gave in.

  “You’re a stubborn old devil, Fred,” he said. “Have it your own way. Go and worry the top brains behind the international financiers of Europe.”

  “He’ll know,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “He’ll know. And if he doesn’t, he can find out by pressing one buzzer on his desk or making one telephone call.”

  “I don’t know that he’ll be pleased.”

  “Probably not,” said Father, “but it won’t take much of his time. I’ve got to have authority behind me, though.”

  “You’re really serious about this place, Bertram’s, aren’t you? But what have you got to go on? It’s well run, has a good respectable clientele—no trouble with the licensing laws.”

  “I know—I know. No drinks, no drugs, no gambling, no accommodation for criminals. All pure as the driven snow. No beatniks, no thugs, no juvenile delinquents. Just sober Victorian-Edwardian old ladies, county families, visiting travellers from Boston and the more respectable parts of the USA. All the same, a respectable Canon of the church is seen to leave it at 3 a.m. in the morning in a somewhat surreptitious manner—”

  “Who saw that?”

  “An old lady.”

  “How did she manage to see him. Why wasn’t she in bed and asleep?”

  “Old ladies are like that, sir.”

  “You’re not talking of—what’s his name—Canon Pennyfather?”

  “That’s right, sir. His disappearance was reported and Campbell has been looking into it.”

  “Funny coincidence—his name’s just come up in connection with the mail robbery at Bedhampton.”

  “Indeed? In what way, sir?”

  “Another old lady—or middle-aged anyway. When the train was stopped by that signal that had been tampered with, a good many people woke up and looked out into the corridor. This woman, who lives in Chadminster and knows Canon Pennyfather by sight, says she saw him entering the train by one of the doors. She thought he’d got out to see what was wrong and was getting in again. We were going to follow it up because of his disappearance being reported—”

  “Let’s see—the train was stopped at 5.30 a.m. Canon Pennyfather left Bertram’s Hotel not long after 3 a.m. Yes, it could be done. If he were driven there—say—in a racing car….”

  “So we’re back again to Ladislaus Malinowski!”

  The AC looked at his blotting pad doodles. “What a bulldog you are, Fred,” he said.

  Half an hour later Chief-Inspector Davy was entering a quiet and rather shabby office.

  The large man behind the desk rose and put forward a hand.

  “Chief-Inspector Davy? Do sit down,” he said. “Do you care for a cigar?”

  Chief-Inspector Davy shook his head.

  “I must apologize,” he said, in his deep countryman’s voice, “for wasting your valuable time.”

  Mr. Robinson smiled. He was a fat man and very well dressed. He had a yellow face, his eyes were dark and sad looking and his mouth was large and generous. He frequently smiled to display overlarge teeth. “The better to eat you with,” thought Chief-Inspector Davy irrelevantly. His English was perfect and without accent but he was not an Englishman. Father wondered, as many others had wondered before him, what nationality Mr. Robinson really was.

  “Well, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to know,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “who owns Bertram’s Hotel.”

  The expression on Mr. Robinson’s face did not change. He showed no surprise at hearing the name nor did he show recognition. He said thoughtfully:

  “You want to know who owns Bertram’s Hotel. That, I think, is in Pond Street, off Piccadilly.”

  “Quite right, sir.”

  “I have occasionally stayed there myself. A quiet place. Well run.”

  “Yes,” said Father, “particularly well run.”

  “And you want to know who owns it? Surely that is easy to ascertain?”

  There was a faint irony behind his smile.

  “Through the usual channels, you mean? Oh yes.” Father took a small piece of paper from his pocket and read out three or four names and addresses.

  “I see,” said Mr. Robinson, “someone has taken quite a lot of trouble. Interesting. And you come to me?”

  “If anyone knows, you would, sir.”

  “Actually I do not know. But it is true that I have ways of obtaining information. One ha
s—” he shrugged his very large, fat shoulders—“one has contacts.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Father with an impassive face.

  Mr. Robinson looked at him, then he picked up the telephone on his desk.

  “Sonia? Get me Carlos.” He waited a minute or two then spoke again. “Carlos?” He spoke rapidly half a dozen sentences in a foreign language. It was not a language that Father could even recognize.

  Father could converse in good British French. He had a smattering of Italian and he could make a guess at plain travellers’ German. He knew the sounds of Spanish, Russian and Arabic, though he could not understand them. This language was none of those. At a faint guess he hazarded it might be Turkish or Persian or Armenian, but even of that he was by no means sure. Mr. Robinson replaced the receiver.

  “I do not think,” he said genially, “that we shall have long to wait. I am interested, you know. Very much interested. I have occasionally wondered myself—”

  Father looked inquiring.

  “About Bertram’s Hotel,” said Mr. Robinson. “Financially, you know. One wonders how it can pay. However, it has never been any of my business. And one appreciates—” he shrugged his shoulders—“a comfortable hostelry with an unusually talented personnel and staff…Yes, I have wondered.” He looked at Father. “You know how and why?”

  “Not yet,” said Father, “but I mean to.”

  “There are several possibilities,” said Mr. Robinson, thoughtfully. “It is like music, you know. Only so many notes to the octave, yet one can combine them in—what is it—several million different ways? A musician told me once that you do not get the same tune twice. Most interesting.”

  There was a slight buzz on his desk and he picked up the receiver once more.

  “Yes? Yes, you have been very prompt. I am pleased. I see. Oh! Amsterdam yes…Ah…Thank you…Yes. You will spell that? Good.”

  He wrote rapidly on a pad at his elbow.

  “I hope this will be useful to you,” he said, as he tore off the sheet and passed it across the table to Father, who read the name out loud. “Wilhelm Hoffman.”

  “Nationality Swiss,” said Mr. Robinson. “Though not, I would say, born in Switzerland. Has a good deal of influence in Banking circles and though keeping strictly on the right side of the law, he has been behind a great many—questionable deals. He operates solely on the Continent, not in this country.”

  “Oh.”

  “But he has a brother,” said Mr. Robinson. “Robert Hoffman. Living in London—a diamond merchant—most respectable business—His wife is Dutch—He also has offices in Amsterdam—Your people may know about him. As I say, he deals mainly in diamonds, but he is a very rich man, and he owns a lot of property, not usually in his own name. Yes, he is behind quite a lot of enterprises. He and his brother are the real owners of Bertram’s Hotel.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Chief-Inspector Davy rose to his feet. “I needn’t tell you that I’m much obliged to you. It’s wonderful,” he added, allowing himself to show more enthusiasm than was normal.

  “That I should know?” inquired Mr. Robinson, giving one of his larger smiles. “But this is one of my specialities. Information. I like to know. That is why you came to me, is it not?”

  “Well,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “we do know about you. The Home Office. The Special Branch and all the rest of it.” He added almost naïvely, “It took a bit of nerve on my part to approach you.”

  Again Mr. Robinson smiled.

  “I find you an interesting personality, Chief-Inspector Davy,” he said. “I wish you success in whatever you are undertaking.”

  “Thank you, sir. I think I shall need it. By the way, these two brothers, would you say they were violent men?”

  “Certainly not,” said Mr. Robinson. “It would be quite against their policy. The brothers Hoffman do not apply violence in business matters. They have other methods that serve them better. Year by year, I would say, they get steadily richer, or so my information from Swiss Banking circles tells me.”

  “It’s a useful place, Switzerland,” said Chief-Inspector Davy.

  “Yes, indeed. What we should all do without it I do not know! So much rectitude. Such a fine business sense! Yes, we businessmen must all be very grateful to Switzerland. I myself,” he added, “have also a high opinion of Amsterdam.” He looked hard at Davy, then smiled again, and the Chief-Inspector left.

  When he got back to headquarters again, he found a note awaiting him.

  Canon Pennyfather has turned up—safe if not sound.

  Apparently was knocked down by a car at Milton St. John and has concussion.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Canon Pennyfather looked at Chief-Inspector Davy and Inspector Campbell, and Chief-Inspector Davy and Inspector Campbell looked at him. Canon Pennyfather was at home again. Sitting in the big armchair in his library, a pillow behind his head and his feet up on a pouffe, with a rug over his knees to emphasize his invalid status.

  “I’m afraid,” he was saying politely, “that I simply cannot remember anything at all.”

  “You can’t remember the accident when the car hit you?”

  “I’m really afraid not.”

  “Then how did you know a car did hit you?” demanded Inspector Campbell acutely.

  “The woman there, Mrs—Mrs—was her name Wheeling?—told me about it.”

  “And how did she know?”

  Canon Pennyfather looked puzzled.

  “Dear me, you are quite right. She couldn’t have known, could she? I suppose she thought it was what must have happened.”

  “And you really cannot remember anything? How did you come to be in Milton St. John?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Canon Pennyfather. “Even the name is quite unfamiliar to me.”

  Inspector Campbell’s exasperation was mounting, but Chief-Inspector Davy said in his soothing, homely voice:

  “Just tell us again the last thing you do remember, sir.”

  Canon Pennyfather turned to him with relief. The inspector’s dry scepticism had made him uncomfortable.

  “I was going to Lucerne to a congress. I took a taxi to the airport—at least to Kensington Air Station.”

  “Yes. And then?”

  “That’s all. I can’t remember anymore. The next thing I remember is the wardrobe.”

  “What wardrobe?” demanded Inspector Campbell.

  “It was in the wrong place.”

  Inspector Campbell was tempted to go into this question of a wardrobe in the wrong place. Chief-Inspector Davy cut in.

  “Do you remember arriving at the air station, sir?”

  “I suppose so,” said Canon Pennyfather, with the air of one who has a great deal of doubt on the matter.

  “And you duly flew to Lucerne.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember anything about it if so.”

  “Do you remember arriving back at Bertram’s Hotel that night?”

  “No.”

  “You do remember Bertram’s Hotel?”

  “Of course. I was staying there. Very comfortable. I kept my room on.”

  “Do you remember travelling in a train?”

  “A train? No, I can’t recall a train.”

  “There was a holdup. The train was robbed. Surely, Canon Pennyfather, you can remember that.”

  “I ought to, oughtn’t I?” said Canon Pennyfather. “But somehow—” he spoke apologetically—“I don’t.” He looked from one to the other of the officers with a bland gentle smile.

  “Then your story is that you remember nothing after going in a taxi to the air station until you woke up in the Wheelings’ cottage at Milton St. John.”

  “There is nothing unusual in that,” the Canon assured him. “It happens quite often in cases of concussion.”

  “What did you think had happened to you when you woke up?”

  “I had such a headache I really couldn’t think. Then of course I began to wonder where I was and Mrs. Wheeling explained and brought
me some excellent soup. She called me ‘love’ and ‘dearie’ and ‘ducks,’” said the Canon with slight distaste, “but she was very kind. Very kind indeed.”

  “She ought to have reported the accident to the police. Then you would have been taken to hospital and properly looked after,” said Campbell.

  “She looked after me very well,” the Canon protested, with spirit, “and I understand that with concussion there is very little you can do except keep the patient quiet.”

  “If you should remember anything more, Canon Pennyfather—”

  The Canon interrupted him.

  “Four whole days I seem to have lost out of my life,” he said. “Very curious. Really very curious indeed. I wonder so much where I was and what I was doing. The doctor tells me it may all come back to me. On the other hand it may not. Possibly I shall never know what happened to me during those days.” His eyelids flickered. “You’ll excuse me. I think I am rather tired.”

  “That’s quite enough now,” said Mrs. McCrae, who had been hovering by the door, ready to intervene if she thought it necessary. She advanced upon them. “Doctor says he wasn’t to be worried,” she said firmly.

  The policemen rose and moved towards the door. Mrs. McCrae shepherded them out into the hall rather in the manner of a conscientious sheepdog. The Canon murmured something and Chief-Inspector Davy, who was the last to pass through the door, wheeled round at once.

  “What was that?” he asked, but the Canon’s eyes were now closed.

  “What did you think he said?” said Campbell as they left the house after refusing Mrs. McCrae’s lukewarm offer of refreshment.

  Father said thoughtfully:

  “I thought he said ‘the Walls of Jericho.’”

  “What could he mean by that?”

  “It sounds biblical,” said Father.

  “Do you think we’ll ever know,” asked Campbell, “how that old boy got from the Cromwell Road to Milton St. John?”

  “It doesn’t seem as if we shall get much help from him,” agreed Davy.

  “That woman who says she saw him on the train after the holdup. Can she possibly be right? Can he be mixed-up in some way with these robberies? It seems impossible. He’s such a thoroughly respectable old boy. Can’t very well suspect a Canon of Chadminster Cathedral of being mixed-up with a train robbery, can one?”