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?”
“No,” said Father thoughtfully, “no. No more than one can imagine Mr. Justice Ludgrove being mixed-up with a bank holdup.”
Inspector Campbell looked at his superior officer curiously.
The expedition to Chadminster concluded with a short and unprofitable interview with Dr. Stokes.
Dr. Stokes was aggressive, uncooperative and rude.
“I’ve known the Wheelings quite a while. They’re by way of being neighbours of mine. They’d picked some old chap off the road. Didn’t know whether he was dead drunk, or ill. Asked me in to have a look. I told them he wasn’t drunk—that it was concussion—”
“And you treated him after that.”
“Not at all. I didn’t treat him, or prescribe for him or attend him. I’m not a doctor—I was once, but I’m not now—I told them what they ought to do was ring up the police. Whether they did or not I don’t know. Not my business. They’re a bit dumb, both of them—but kindly folk.”
“You didn’t think of ringing up the police yourself?”
“No, I did not. I’m not a doctor. Nothing to do with me. As a human being I told them not to pour whisky down his throat and keep him quiet and flat until the police came.”
He glared at them and, reluctantly, they had to leave it at that.
Chapter Nineteen
Mr. Hoffman was a big solid-looking man. He gave the appearance of being carved out of wood—preferably teak.
His face was so expressionless as to give rise to surmise—could such a man be capable of thinking—of feeling emotion? It seemed impossible.
His manner was highly correct.
He rose, bowed, and held out a wedge-like hand.
“Chief-Inspector Davy? It is some years since I had the pleasure—you may not even remember—”
“Oh yes I do, Mr. Hoffman. The Aaronberg Diamond Case. You were a witness for the Crown—a most excellent witness, let me say. The defence was quite unable to shake you.”
“I am not easily shaken,” said Mr. Hoffman gravely.
He did not look a man who would easily be shaken.
“What can I do for you?” he went on. “No trouble, I hope—I always want to agree well with the police. I have the greatest admiration for your superb police force.”
“Oh! There is no trouble. It is just that we wanted you to confirm a little information.”
“I shall be delighted to help you in any way I can. As I say, I have the highest opinion of your London Police Force. You have such a splendid class of men. So full of integrity, so fair, so just.”
“You’ll make me embarrassed,” said Father.
“I am at your service. What is it that you want to know?”
“I was just going to ask you to give me a little dope about Bertram’s Hotel.”
Mr. Hoffman’s face did not change. It was possible that his entire attitude became for a moment or two even more static than it had been before—that was all.
“Bertram’s Hotel?” he said. His voice was inquiring, slightly puzzled. It might have been that he had never heard of Bertram’s Hotel or that he could not quite remember whether he knew Bertram’s Hotel or not.
“You have a connection with it, have you not, Mr. Hoffman?”
Mr. Hoffman moved his shoulders.
“There are so many things,” he said. “One cannot remember them all. So much business—so much—it keeps me very busy.”
“You have your fingers in a lot of pies, I know that.”
“Yes.” Mr. Hoffman smiled a wooden smile. “I pull out many plums, that is what you think? And so you believe I have a connection with this—Bertram
’s Hotel?”
“I shouldn’t have said a connection. As a matter of fact, you own it, don’t you?” said Father genially.
This time, Mr. Hoffman definitely did stiffen.
“Now who told you that, I wonder?” he said softly.
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” said Chief-Inspector Davy, cheerfully. “Very nice place to own, I should say. In fact, you must be quite proud of it.”
“Oh yes,” said Hoffman. “For the moment—I could not quite remember—you see—” he smiled deprecatingly—“I own quite a lot of property in London. It is a good investment—property. If something comes on the market in what I think is a good position, and there is a chance of snapping it up cheap, I invest.”
“And was Bertram’s Hotel going cheap?”
“As a running concern, it had gone down the hill,” said Mr. Hoffman, shaking his head.
“Well, it’s on its feet now,” said Father. “I was in there just the other day. I was very much struck with the atmosphere there. Nice old-fashioned clientele, comfortable, old-fashioned premises, nothing rackety about it, a lot of luxury without looking luxurious.”
“I know very little about it personally,” explained Mr. Hoffman. “It is just one of my investments—but I believe it is doing well.”
“Yes, you seem to have a first-class fellow running it. What is his name? Humfries? Yes, Humfries.”
“An excellent man,” said Mr. Hoffman. “I leave everything to him. I look at the balance sheet once a year to see that all is well.”
“The place was thick with titles,” said Father. “Rich travelling Americans too.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “Wonderful combination.”
“You say you were in there the other day?” Mr. Hoffman inquired. “Not—not officially, I hope?”
“Nothing serious. Just trying to clear up a little mystery.”
“A mystery? In Bertram’s Hotel?”
“So it seems. The Case of the Disappearing Clergyman, you might label it.”
“That is a joke,” Mr. Hoffman said. “That is your Sherlock Holmes language.”
“This clergyman walked out of the place one evening and was never seen again.”
“Peculiar,” said Mr. Hoffman, “but such things happen. I remember many, many years ago now, a great sensation. Colonel—now let me think of his name—Colonel Fergusson I think, one of the equerries of Queen Mary. He walked out of his club one night and he, too, was never seen again.”
“Of course,” said Father, with a sigh, “a lot of these disappearances are voluntary.”
“You know more about that than I do, my dear Chief-Inspector,” said Mr. Hoffman. He added, “I hope they gave you every assistance at Bertram’s Hotel?”
“They couldn’t have been nicer,” Father assured him. “That Miss Gorringe, she has been with you some time, I believe?”
“Possibly. I really know so very little about it. I take no personal interest, you understand. In fact—” he smiled disarmingly—“I was surprised that you even knew it belonged to me.”
It was not quite a question; but once more there was a slight uneasiness in his eyes. Father noted it without seeming to.
“The ramifications that go on in the City are like a gigantic jigsaw,” he said. “It would make my head ache if I had to deal with that side of things. I gather that a company—Mayfair Holding Trust or some name like that—is the registered owner. They’re owned by another company and so on and so on. The real truth of the matter is that it belongs to you. Simple as that. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“I and my fellow directors are what I dare say you’d call behind it, yes,” admitted Mr. Hoffman rather reluctantly.
“Your fellow directors. And who might they be? Yourself and, I believe, a brother of yours?”
“My brother Wilhelm is associated with me in this venture. You must understand that Bertram’s is only a part of a chain of various hotels, offices, clubs and other London properties.”
“Any other directors?”
“Lord Pomfret, Abel Isaacstein.” Hoffman’s voice was suddenly edged. “Do you really need to know all these things? Just because you are looking into the Case of the Disappearing Clergyman?”
Father shook his head and looked apologetic.
“I suppose it’s really curiosity. Looking for my disappearing clergyman was what took me to Bertram’s, but then I got—well, interested if you understand what I mean. One thing leads to another sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose that could be so, yes. And now?” He smiled. “Your curiosity is satisfied?”
“Nothing like coming to the horse’s mouth when you want information, is there?” said Father, genially. He rose to his feet. “There’s only one thing I’d really like to know—and I don’t suppose you’ll tell me that.”
“Yes, Chief-Inspector?” Hoffman’s voice was wary.
“Where do Bertram’s get hold of their staff? Wonderful! That fellow what’s-his-name—Henry. The one that looks like an Archduke or an Archbishop, I’m not sure which. Anyway, he serves you tea and muffins—most wonderful muffins! An unforgettable experience.”
“You like muffins with much butter, yes?” Mr. Hoffman’s eyes rested for a moment on the rotundity of Father’s figure with disapprobation.
“I expect you can see I do,” said Father. “Well, I mustn’t be keeping you. I expect you’re pretty busy taking over take-over bids, or something like that.”
“Ah. It amuses you to pretend to be ignorant of all these things. No, I am not busy. I do not let business absorb me too much. My tastes are simple. I live simply, with leisure, with growing of roses, and my family to whom I am much devoted.”
“Sounds ideal,” said Father. “Wish I could live like that.”
Mr. Hoffman smiled and rose ponderously to shake hands with him.
“I hope you will find your disappearing clergyman very soon.”
“Oh! That’s all right. I’m sorry I didn’t make myself clear. He’s found—disappointing case, really. Had a car accident and got concussion—simple as that.”
Father went to the door, then turned and asked:
“By the way, is Lady Sedgwick a director of your company?”
“Lady Sedgwick?” Hoffman took a moment or two. “No. Why should she be?”
“Oh well, one hears things—Just a shareholder?”
“I—yes.”
“Well, good-bye, Mr. Hoffman. Thanks very much.”
Father went back to the Yard and straight to the AC.
“The two Hoffman brothers are the ones behind Bertram’s Hotel—financially.”
“What? Those scoundrels?” demanded Sir Ronald.
“Yes.”
“They’ve kept it very dark.”
“Yes—and Robert Hoffman didn’t half like our finding it out. It was a shock to him.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, we kept it all very formal and polite. He tried, not too obviously, to learn how I had found out about it.”
“And you didn’t oblige him with that information, I suppose.”
“I certainly did not.”
“What excuse did you give for going to see him?”
“I didn’t give any,” said Father.
“Didn’t he think that a bit odd?”
“I expect he did. On the whole I thought that was a good way to play it, sir.”
“If the Hoffmans are behind all this, it accounts for a lot. They’re never concerned in anything crooked themselves—oh no! They don’t organize crime—they finance it though!
“Wilhelm deals with the banking side from Switzerland. He was behind those foreign currency rackets just after the war—we knew it—but we couldn’t prove it. Those two brothers control a great deal of money and they use it for backing all kinds of enterprises—some legitimate—some not. But they’re careful—they know every trick of the trade. Robert’s diamond broking is straightforward enough—but it makes a suggestive picture—diamonds—banking int
erests, and property—clubs, cultural foundations, office buildings, restaurants, hotels—all apparently owned by somebody else.”
“Do you think Hoffman is the planner of these organized robberies?”
“No, I think those two deal only with finance. No, you’ll have to look elsewhere for your planner. Somewhere there’s a first-class brain at work.”
Chapter Twenty
I
The fog had come down over London suddenly that evening. Chief-Inspector Davy pulled up his coat collar and turned into Pond Street. Walking slowly, like a man who was thinking of something else, he did not look particularly purposeful but anyone who knew him well would realize that his mind was wholly alert. He was prowling as a cat prowls before the moment comes for it to pounce on its prey.
Pond Street was quiet tonight. There were few cars about. The fog had been patchy to begin with, had almost cleared, then had deepened again. The noise of the traffic from Park Lane was muted to the level of a suburban side road. Most of the buses had given up. Only from time to time individual cars went on their way with determined optimism. Chief-Inspector Davy turned up a cul-de-sac, went to the end of it and came back again. He turned again, aimlessly as it seemed, first one way, then the other, but he was not aimless. Actually his cat prowl was taking him in a circle round one particular building. Bertram’s Hotel. He was appraising carefully just what lay to the east of it, to the west of it, to the north of it and to the south of it. He examined the cars that were parked by the pavement, he examined the cars that were in the cul-de-sac. He examined a mews with special care. One car in particular interested him and he stopped. He pursed his lips and said softly, “So you’re here again, you beauty.” He checked the number and nodded to himself. “FAN 2266 tonight, are you?” He bent down and ran his fingers over the number plate delicately, then nodded approval. “Good job they made of it,” he said under his breath.
He went on, came out at the other end of the mews, turned right and right again and came out in Pond Street once more, fifty yards from the entrance of Bertram’s Hotel. Once again he paused, admiring the handsome lines of yet another racing car.
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