At Bertram's Hotel

by Agatha Christie

  Bess stared at her for a moment, then she nodded her head slowly.

  “Fair enough,” she said. “Yes, I see. But all the same you misunderstood what you heard. Micky didn’t blackmail me. He might have thought of it—but I warned him off before he could try!” Her lips curled up again in that wide generous smile that made her face so attractive. “I frightened him off.”

  “Yes,” agreed Miss Marple. “I think you probably did. You threatened to shoot him. You handled it—if you won’t think it impertinent of me to say so—very well indeed.”

  Bess Sedgwick’s eyebrows rose in some amusement.

  “But I wasn’t the only person to hear you,” Miss Marple went on.

  “Good gracious! Was the whole hotel listening?”

  “The other armchair was also occupied.”

  “By whom?”

  Miss Marple closed her lips. She looked at Chief-Inspector Davy, and it was almost a pleading glance. “If it must be done, you do it,” the glance said, “but I can’t….”

  “Your daughter was in the other chair,” said Chief-Inspector Davy.

  “Oh no!” The cry came out sharply. “Oh no. Not Elvira! I see—yes, I see. She must have thought—”

  “She thought seriously enough of what she had overheard to go to Ireland and search for the truth. It wasn’t difficult to discover.”

  Again Bess Sedgwick said softly: “Oh no…” And then: “Poor child…Even now, she’s never asked me a thing. She’s kept it all to herself. Bottled it up inside herself. If she’d only told me I could have explained it all to her—showed her how it didn’t matter.”

  “She mightn’t have agreed with you there,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “It’s a funny thing, you know,” he went on, in a reminiscent, almost gossipy manner, looking like an old farmer discussing his stock and his land, “I’ve learnt after a great many years’ trial and error—I’ve learned to distrust a pattern when it’s simple. Simple patterns are often too good to be true. The pattern of this murder the other night was like that. Girl says someone shot at her and missed. The commissionaire came running to save her, and copped it with a second bullet. That may be all true enough. That may be the way the girl saw it. But actually behind the appearances, things might be rather different.

  “You said pretty vehemently just now, Lady Sedgwick, that there could be no reason for Ladislaus Malinowski to attempt your daughter’s life. Well, I’ll agree with you. I don’t think there was. He’s the sort of young man who might have a row with a woman, pull out a knife and stick it into her. But I don’t think he’d hide in an area, and wait cold-bloodedly to shoot her. But supposing he wanted to shoot someone else. Screams and shots—but what actually has happened is that Michael Gorman is dead. Suppose that was actually what was meant to happen. Malinowski plans it very carefully. He chooses a foggy night, hides in the area and waits until your daughter comes up the street. He knows she’s coming because he has managed to arrange it that way. He fires a shot. It’s not meant to hit the girl. He’s careful not to let the bullet go anywhere near her, but she thinks it’s aimed at her all right. She screams. The porter from the hotel, hearing the shot and the scream, comes rushing down the street and then Malinowski shoots the person he’s come to shoot. Michael Gorman.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it! Why on earth should Ladislaus want to shoot Micky Gorman?”

  “A little matter of blackmail, perhaps,” said Father.

  “Do you mean that Micky was blackmailing Ladislaus? What about?”

  “Perhaps,” said Father, “about the things that go on at Bertram’s Hotel. Michael Gorman might have found out quite a lot about that.”

  “Things that go on at Bertram’s Hotel? What do you mean?”

  “It’s been a good racket,” said Father. “Well planned, beautifully executed. But nothing lasts forever. Miss Marple here asked me the other day what was wrong with this place. Well, I’ll answer that question now. Bertram’s Hotel is to all intents and purposes the headquarters of one of the best and biggest crime syndicates that’s been known for years.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  There was silence for about a minute and a half. Then Miss Marple spoke.

  “How very interesting,” she said conversationally.

  Bess Sedgwick turned on her. “You don’t seem surprised, Miss Marple.”

  “I’m not. Not really. There were so many curious things that didn’t seem quite to fit in. It was all too good to be true—if you know what I mean. What they call in theatrical circles, a beautiful performance. But it was a performance—not real.

  “And there were a lot of little things, people claiming a friend or an acquaintance—and turning out to be wrong.”

  “These things happen,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “but they happened too often. Is that right, Miss Marple?”

  “Yes,” agreed Miss Marple. “People like Selina Hazy do make that kind of mistake. But there were so many other people doing it too. One couldn’t help noticing it.”

  “She notices a lot,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, speaking to Bess Sedgwick as though Miss Marple was his pet performing dog.

  Bess Sedgwick turned on him sharply.

  “What did you mean when you said this place was the headquarters of a Crime Syndicate? I should have said that Bertram’s Hotel was the most respectable place in the world.”

  “Naturally,” said Father. “It would have to be. A lot of money, time, and thought has been spent on making it just what it is. The genuine and the phony are mixed-up very cleverly. You’ve got a superb actor manager running the show in Henry. You’ve got that chap, Humfries, wonderfully plausible. He hasn’t got a record in this country but he’s been mixed-up in some rather curious hotel dealings abroad. There are some very good character actors playing various parts here. I’ll admit, if you like, that I can’t help feeling a good deal of admiration for the whole setup. It has cost this country a mint of money. It’s given the CID and the provincial police forces constant headaches. Every time we seemed to be getting somewhere, and put our finger on some particular incident—it turned out to be the kind of incident that had nothing to do with anything else. But we’ve gone on working on it, a piece there, a piece here. A garage where stacks of number plates were kept, transferable at a moment’s notice to certain cars. A firm of furniture vans, a butcher’s van, a grocer’s van, even one or two phony postal vans. A racing driver with a racing car covering incredible distances in incredibly few minutes, and at the other end of the scale an old clergyman jogging along in his old Morris Oxford. A cottage with a market gardener in it who lends first aid if necessary and who is in touch with a useful doctor. I needn’t go into it all. The ramifications seem unending. That’s one half of it. The foreign visitors who come to Bertram’s are the other half. Mostly from America, or from the Dominions. Rich people above suspicion, coming here with a good lot of luxury luggage, leaving here with a good lot of luxury luggage which looks the same but isn’t. Rich tourists arriving in France and not worried unduly by the Customs because the Customs don’t worry tourists when they’re bringing money into the country. Not the same tourists too many times. The pitcher mustn’t go to the well too often. None of it’s going to be easy to prove or to tie up, but it will all tie up in the end. We’ve made a beginning. The Cabots, for instance—”

  “What about the Cabots?” asked Bess sharply.

  “You remember them? Very nice Americans. Very nice indeed. They stayed here last year and they’ve been here again this year. They wouldn’t have come a third time. Nobody ever comes here more than twice on the same racket. Yes, we arrested them when they arrived at Calais. Very well-made job, that wardrobe case they had with them. It had over three hundred thousand pounds neatly stashed. Proceeds of the Bedhampton train robbery. Of course, that’s only a drop in the ocean.

  “Bertram’s Hotel, let me tell you, is the headquarters of the whole thing! Half the staff are in on it. Some of the guests are in on it. Some of the gues
ts are who they say they are—some are not. The real Cabots, for instance, are in Yucatan just now. Then there was the identification racket. Take Mr. Justice Ludgrove. A familiar face, bulbous nose and a wart. Quite easy to impersonate. Canon Pennyfather. A mild country clergyman, with a great white thatch of hair and notable absentminded behaviour. His mannerisms, his way of peering over his spectacles—all very easily imitated by a good character actor.”

  “But what was the use of all that?” asked Bess.

  “Are you really asking me? Isn’t it obvious? Mr. Justice Ludgrove is seen near the scene of a bank holdup. Someone recognizes him, mentions it. We go into it. It’s all a mistake. He was somewhere else at the time. But it wasn’t for a while that we realized that these were all what is sometimes called ‘deliberate mistakes.’ Nobody’s bothered about the man who had looked so like him. And doesn’t look particularly like him really. He takes off his makeup and stops acting his part. The whole thing brings about confusion. At one time we had a High Court judge, an Archdeacon, an Admiral, a Major-General, all seen near the scene of a crime.

  “After the Bedhampton train robbery at least four vehicles were concerned before the loot arrived in London. A racing car driven by Malinowski took part in it, a false Metal Box lorry, an old-fashioned Daimler with an admiral in it, and an old clergyman with a thatch of white hair in a Morris Oxford. The whole thing was a splendid operation, beautifully planned.

  “And then one day the gang had a bit of bad luck. That muddle-headed old ecclesiastic, Canon Pennyfather, went off to catch his plane on the wrong day, they turned him away from the air station, he wandered out into Cromwell Road, went to a film, arrived back here after midnight, came up to his room, of which he had the key in his pocket, opened the door, and walked in to get the shock of his life when he saw what appeared to be himself sitting in a chair facing him! The last thing the gang expected was to see the real Canon Pennyfather, supposed to be safely in Lucerne, walk in! His double was just getting ready to start off to play his part at Bedhampton when in walked the real man. They didn’t know what to do but there was a quick reflex action from one member of the party. Humfries, I suspect. He hit the old man on the head, and he went down unconscious. Somebody, I think, was angry over that. Very angry. However, they examined the old boy, decided he was only knocked out, and would probably come round later and they went on with their plans. The false Canon Pennyfather left his room, went out of the hotel and drove to the scene of activities where he was to play his part in the relay race. What they did with the real Canon Pennyfather I don’t know. I can only guess. I presume he too was moved later that night, driven down in a car, taken to the market gardener’s cottage which was at a spot not too far from where the train was to be held up and where a doctor could attend to him. Then, if reports came through about Canon Pennyfather having been seen in the neighbourhood, it would all fit in. It must have been an anxious moment for all concerned until he regained consciousness and they found that at least three days had been knocked out of his remembrance.”

  “Would they have killed him otherwise?” asked Miss Marple.

  “No,” said Father. “I don’t think they would have killed him. Someone wouldn’t have let that happen. It had seemed very clear all along that whoever ran this show had an objection to murder.”

  “It sounds fantastic,” said Bess Sedgwick. “Utterly fantastic! And I don’t believe you have any evidence whatever to link Ladislaus Malinowski with this rigmarole.”

  “I’ve got plenty of evidence against Ladislaus Malinowski,” said Father. “He’s careless, you know. He hung around here when he shouldn’t have. On the first occasion he came to establish connection with your daughter. They had a code arranged.”

  “Nonsense. She told you herself that she didn’t know him.”

  “She may have told me that but it wasn’t true. She’s in love with him. She wants the fellow to marry her.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “You’re not in a position to know,” Chief-Inspector Davy pointed out. “Malinowski isn’t the sort of person who tells all his secrets and your daughter you don’t know at all. You admitted as much. You were angry, weren’t you, when you found out Malinowski had come to Bertram’s Hotel.”

  “Why should I be angry?”

  “Because you’re the brains of the show,” said Father. “You and Henry. The financial side was run by the Hoffman brothers. They made all the arrangements with the Continental banks and accounts and that sort of thing, but the boss of the syndicate, the brains that run it, and plan it, are your brains, Lady Sedgwick.”

  Bess looked at him and laughed. “I never heard anything so ridiculous!” she said.

  “Oh no, it’s not ridiculous at all. You’ve got brains, courage and daring. You’ve tried most things; you thought you’d turn your hand to crime. Plenty of excitement in it, plenty of risk. It wasn’t the money that attracted you, I’d say, it was the fun of the whole thing. But you wouldn’t stand for murder, or for undue violence. There were no killings, no brutal assaults, only nice quiet scientific taps on the head if necessary. You’re a very interesting woman, you know. One of the few really interesting great criminals.”

  There was silence for some few minutes. Then Bess Sedgwick rose to her feet.

  “I think you must be mad.” She put her hand out to the telephone.

  “Going to ring up your solicitor? Quite the right thing to do before you say too much.”

  With a sharp gesture she slammed the receiver back on the hook.

  “On second thoughts I hate solicitors…All right. Have it your own way. Yes, I ran this show. You’re quite correct when you say it was fun. I loved every minute of it. It was fun scooping money from banks, trains and post offices and so-called security vans! It was fun planning and deciding; glorious fun and I’m glad I had it. The pitcher goes to the well once too often? That’s what you said just now, wasn’t it? I suppose it’s true. Well, I’ve had a good run for my money! But you’re wrong about Ladislaus Malinowski shooting Michael Gorman! He didn’t. I did.” She laughed a sudden high, excited laugh. “Never mind what it was he did, what he threatened…I told him I’d shoot him—Miss Marple heard me—and I did shoot him. I did very much what you suggested Ladislaus did. I hid in that area. When Elvira passed, I fired one shot wild, and when she screamed and Micky came running down the street, I’d got him where I wanted him, and I let him have it! I’ve got keys to all the hotel entrances, of course. I just slipped in through the area door and up to my room. It never occurred to me you’d trace the pistol to Ladislaus—or would even suspect him. I’d pinched it from his car without his knowing. But not, I can assure you, with any idea of throwing suspicion on him.”

  She swept round on Miss Marple. “You’re a witness to what I’ve said, remember. I killed Gorman.”

  “Or perhaps you are saying so because you’re in love with Malinowski,” suggested Davy.

  “I’m not.” Her retort came sharply. “I’m his good friend, that’s all. Oh yes, we’ve been lovers in a casual kind of way, but I’m not in love with him. In all my life, I’ve only loved one person—John Sedgwick.” her voice changed and softened as she pronounced the name.

  “But Ladislaus is my friend. I don’t want him railroaded for something he didn’t do. I killed Michael Gorman. I’ve said so, and Miss Marple has heard me…And now, dear Chief-Inspector Davy—” her voice rose excitedly, and her laughter rang out—“catch me if you can.”

  With a sweep of her arm, she smashed the window with the heavy telephone set, and before Father could get to his feet, she was out of the window and edging her way rapidly along the narrow parapet. With surprising quickness in spite of his bulk, Davy had moved to the other window and flung up the sash. At the same time he blew the whistle he had taken from his pocket.

  Miss Marple, getting to her feet with rather more difficulty a moment or two later, joined him. Together they stared out along the façade of Bertram’s Hotel.

&nb
sp; “She’ll fall. She’s climbing up a drainpipe,” Miss Marple exclaimed. “But why up?”

  “Going to the roof. It’s her only chance and she knows it. Good God, look at her. Climbs like a cat. She looks like a fly on the side of the wall. The risks she’s taking!”

  Miss Marple murmured, her eyes half closing, “She’ll fall. She can’t do it….”

  The woman they were watching disappeared from sight. Father drew back a little into the room.

  Miss Marple asked:

  “Don’t you want to go and—”

  Father shook his head. “What good am I with my bulk? I’ve got my men posted ready for something like this. They know what to do. In a few minutes we shall know…I wouldn’t put it past her to beat the lot of them! She’s a woman in a thousand, you know.” He sighed. “One of the wild ones. Oh, we’ve some of them in every generation. You can’t tame them, you can’t bring them into the community and make them live in law and order. They go their own way. If they’re saints they go and tend lepers or something, or get themselves martyred in jungles. If they’re bad lots they commit the atrocities that you don’t like hearing about: and sometimes—they’re just wild! They’d have been all right, I suppose, born in another age when it was everyone’s hand for himself, everyone fighting to keep life in their veins. Hazards at every turn, danger all round them, and they themselves perforce dangerous to others. That world would have suited them; they’d have been at home in it. This one doesn’t.”

  “Did you know what she was going to do?”

  “Not really. That’s one of her gifts. The unexpected. She must have thought this out, you know. She knew what was coming. So she sat looking at us—keeping the ball rolling—and thinking. Thinking and planning hard. I expect—ah—” He broke off as there came the sudden roar of a car’s exhaust, the screaming of wheels, and the sound of a big racing engine. He leaned out. “She’s made it, she’s got to her car.”