The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “Well, thank you,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “You’ve helped me a good deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Richard Egerton looked again at the official card in front of him, then up into the Chief-Inspector’s face.

  “Curious business,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “a very curious business.”

  “Bertram’s Hotel,” said Egerton, “in the fog. Yes it was a bad fog last night. I suppose you get a lot of that sort of thing in fogs, don’t you? Snatch and grab—handbags—that sort of thing?”

  “It wasn’t quite like that,” said Father. “Nobody attempted to snatch anything from Miss Blake.”

  “Where did the shot come from?”

  “Owing to the fog we can’t be sure. She wasn’t sure herself. But we think—it seems the best idea—that the man may have been standing in the area.”

  “He shot at her twice, you say?”

  “Yes. The first shot missed. The commissionaire rushed along from where he was standing outside the hotel door and shoved her behind him just before the second shot.”

  “So that he got hit instead, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quite a brave chap.”

  “Yes. He was brave,” said the Chief-Inspector. “His military record was very good. An Irishman.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Gorman. Michael Gorman.”

  “Michael Gorman.” Egerton frowned for a minute. “No,” he said. “For a moment I thought the name meant something.”

  “It’s a very common name, of course. Anyway, he saved the girl’s life.”

  “And why exactly have you come to me, Chief-Inspector?”

  “I hoped for a little information. We always like full information, you know, about the victim of a murderous assault.”

  “Oh, naturally, naturally. But really, I’ve only seen Elvira twice since she was a child.”

  “You saw her when she came to call upon you about a week ago, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, that’s quite right. What exactly do you want to know? If it’s anything about her personality, who her friends were or about boyfriends, or lovers’ quarrels—all that sort of thing—you’d do better to go to one of the women. There’s a Mrs. Carpenter who brought her back from Italy, I believe, and there’s Mrs. Melford with whom she lives in Kent.”

  “I’ve seen Mrs. Melford.”

  “Oh.”

  “No good. Absolutely no good at all, sir. And I don’t so much want to know about the girl personally—after all, I’ve seen her for myself and I’ve heard what she can tell me—or rather what she’s willing to tell me—”

  At a quick movement of Egerton’s eyebrows he saw that the other had appreciated the point of the word “willing.”

  “I’ve been told that she was worried, upset, afraid about something, and convinced that her life was in danger. Was that your impression when she came to see you?”

  “No,” said Egerton, slowly, “no, I wouldn’t go as far as that; though she did say one or two things that struck me as curious.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, she wanted to know who would benefit if she were to die suddenly.”

  “Ah,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “so she had that possibility in her mind, did she? That she might die suddenly. Interesting.”

  “She’d got something in her head but I didn’t know what it was. She also wanted to know how much money she had—or would have when she was twenty-one. That, perhaps, is more understandable.”

  “It’s a lot of money I believe.”

  “It’s a very large fortune, Chief-Inspector.”

  “Why do you think she wanted to know?”

  “About the money?”

  “Yes, and about who would inherit it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Egerton. “I don’t know at all. She also brought up the subject of marriage—”

  “Did you form the impression that there was a man in the case?”

  “I’ve no evidence—but—yes, I did think just that. I felt sure there was a boyfriend somewhere in the offing. There usually is! Luscombe—that’s Colonel Luscombe, her guardian, doesn’t seem to know anything about a boyfriend. But then dear old Derek Luscombe wouldn’t. He was quite upset when I suggested that there was such a thing in the background and probably an unsuitable one at that.”

  “He is unsuitable,” said Chief-Inspector Davy.

  “Oh. Then you know who he is?”

  “I can have a very good guess at it. Ladislaus Malinowski.”

  “The racing motorist? Really! A handsome daredevil. Women fall for him easily. I wonder how he came across Elvira. I don’t see very well where their orbits would meet except—yes, I believe he was in Rome a couple of months ago. Possibly she met him there.”

  “Very possibly. Or could she have met him through her mother?”

  “What, through Bess? I wouldn’t say that was at all likely.”

  Davy coughed.

  “Lady Sedgwick and Malinowski are said to be close friends, sir.”

  “Oh yes, yes, I know that’s the gossip. May be true, may not. They are close friends—thrown together constantly by their way of life. Bess has had her affairs, of course; though, mind you, she’s not the nymphomaniac type. People are ready enough to say that about a woman, but it’s not true in Bess’s case. Anyway, as far as I know, Bess and her daughter are practically not even acquainted with each other.”

  “That’s what Lady Sedgwick told me. And you agree?” Egerton nodded.

  “What other relatives has Miss Blake got?”

  “For all intents and purposes, none. Her mother’s two brothers were killed in the war—and she was old Coniston’s only child. Mrs. Melford, though the girl calls her ‘Cousin Mildred,’ is actually a cousin of Colonel Luscombe’s. Luscombe’s done his best for the girl in his conscientious old-fashioned way—but it’s difficult…for a man.”

  “Miss Blake brought up the subject of marriage, you say? There’s no possibility, I suppose, that she may actually already be married—”

  “She’s well under age—she’d have to have the assent of her guardian and trustees.”

  “Technically, yes. But they don’t always wait for that,” said Father.

  “I know. Most regrettable. One has to go through all the machinery of making them Wards of Court, and all the rest of it. And even that has its difficulties.”

  “And once they’re married, they’re married,” said Father. “I suppose, if she were married, and died suddenly, her husband would inherit?”

  “This idea of marriage is most unlikely. She has been most carefully looked after and….” He stopped, reacting to Chief-Inspector Davy’s cynical smile.

  However carefully Elvira had been looked after, she seemed to have succeeded in making the acquaintance of the highly unsuitable Ladislaus Malinowski.

  He said dubiously, “Her mother bolted, it’s true.”

  “Her mother bolted, yes—that’s what she would do—but Miss Blake’s a different type. She’s just as set on getting her own way, but she’d go about it differently.”

  “You don’t really think—”

  “I don’t think anything—yet,” said Chief-Inspector Davy.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Ladislaus Malinowski looked from one to the other of the two police officers and flung back his head and laughed.

  “It is very amusing!” he said. “You look solemn as owls. It is ridiculous that you should ask me to come here and wish to ask me questions. You have nothing against me, nothing.”

  “We think you may be able to assist us in our inquiries, Mr. Malinowski.” Chief-Inspector Davy spoke with official smoothness. “You own a car, Mercedes-Otto, registration number FAN 2266.”

  “Is there any reason why I should not own such a car?”

  “No reason at all, sir. There’s just a little uncertainty as to the correct number. Your car was on a motor road, M7, and the re
gistration plate on that occasion was a different one.”

  “Nonsense. It must have been some other car.”

  “There aren’t so many of that make. We have checked up on those there are.”

  “You believe everything, I suppose, that your traffic police tell you! It is laughable! Where was all this?”

  “The place where the police stopped you and asked to see your licence is not very far from Bedhampton. It was on the night of the Irish Mail robbery.”

  “You really do amuse me,” said Ladislaus Malinowski.

  “You have a revolver?”

  “Certainly, I have a revolver and an automatic pistol. I have proper licences for them.”

  “Quite so. They are both still in your possession?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I have already warned you, Mr. Malinowski.”

  “The famous policeman’s warning! Anything you say will be taken down and used against you at your trial.”

  “That’s not quite the wording,” said Father mildly. “Used, yes. Against, no. You don’t want to qualify that statement of yours?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “And you are sure you don’t want your solicitor here?”

  “I do not like solicitors.”

  “Some people don’t. Where are those firearms now?”

  “I think you know very well where they are, Chief-Inspector. The small pistol is in the pocket of my car, the Mercedes-Otto whose registered number is, as I have said, FAN 2266. The revolver is in a drawer in my flat.”

  “You’re quite right about the one in the drawer in your flat,” said Father, “but the other—the pistol—is not in your car.”

  “Yes, it is. It is in the left-hand pocket.”

  Father shook his head. “It may have been once. It isn’t now. Is this it, Mr. Malinowski?”

  He passed a small automatic pistol across the table. Ladislaus Malinowski, with an air of great surprise, picked it up.

  “Ah-ha, yes. This is it. So it was you who took it from my car?”

  “No,” said Father, “we didn’t take it from your car. It was not in your car. We found it somewhere else.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “We found it,” said Father, “in an area in Pond Street, which—as you no doubt know—is a street near Park Lane. It could have been dropped by a man walking down that street—or running perhaps.”

  Ladislaus Malinowski shrugged his shoulders. “That is nothing to do with me—I did not put it there. It was in my car a day or two ago. One does not continually look to see if a thing is still where one has put it. One assumes it will be.”

  “Do you know, Mr. Malinowski, that this is the pistol which was used to shoot Michael Gorman on the night of November 26th?”

  “Michael Gorman? I do not know a Michael Gorman.”

  “The commissionaire from Bertram’s Hotel.”

  “Ah yes, the one who was shot. I read about it. And you say my pistol shot him? Nonsense!”

  “It’s not nonsense. The ballistic experts have examined it. You know enough of firearms to be aware that their evidence is reliable.”

  “You are trying to frame me. I know what you police do!”

  “I think you know the police of this country better than that, Mr. Malinowski.”

  “Are you suggesting that I shot Michael Gorman?”

  “So far we are only asking for a statement. No charge has been made.”

  “But that is what you think—that I shot that ridiculous dressed-up military figure. Why should I? I didn’t owe him money, I had no grudge against him.”

  “It was a young lady who was shot at. Gorman ran to protect her and received the second bullet in his chest.”

  “A young lady?”

  “A young lady whom I think you know. Miss Elvira Blake.”

  “Do you say someone tried to shoot Elvira with my pistol?”

  He sounded incredulous.

  “It could be that you had had a disagreement.”

  “You mean that I quarrelled with Elvira and shot her? What madness! Why should I shoot the girl I am going to marry?”

  “Is that part of your statement? That you are going to marry Miss Elvira Blake?”

  Just for a moment or two Ladislaus hesitated. Then he said, shrugging his shoulders:

  “She is still very young. It remains to be discussed.”

  “Perhaps she had promised to marry you, and then—she changed her mind. There was someone she was afraid of. Was it you, Mr. Malinowski?”

  “Why should I want her to die? Either I am in love with her and want to marry her or if I do not want to marry her I need not marry her. It is as simple as that. So why should I kill her?”

  “There aren’t many people close enough to her to want to kill her.” Davy waited a moment and then said, almost casually: “There’s her mother, of course.”

  “What!” Malinowski sprang up. “Bess? Bess kill her own daughter? You are mad! Why should Bess kill Elvira?”

  “Possibly because, as next of kin, she might inherit an enormous fortune.”

  “Bess? You mean Bess would kill for money? She has plenty of money from her American husband. Enough, anyway.”

  “Enough is not the same as a great fortune,” said Father. “People do do murder for a large fortune, mothers have been known to kill their children, and children have killed their mothers.”

  “I tell you, you are mad!”

  “You say that you may be going to marry Miss Blake. Perhaps you have already married her? If so, then you would be the one to inherit a vast fortune.”

  “What more crazy, stupid things can you say! No, I am not married to Elvira. She is a pretty girl. I like her, and she is in love with me. Yes, I admit it. I met her in Italy. We had fun—but that is all. No more, do you understand?”

  “Indeed? Just now, Mr. Malinowski, you said quite definitely that she was the girl you were going to marry.”

  “Oh that.”

  “Yes—that. Was it true?”

  “I said it because—it sounded more respectable that way. You are so—prudish in this country—”

  “That seems to me an unlikely explanation.”

  “You do not understand anything at all. The mother and I—we are lovers—I did not wish to say so—I suggest instead that the daughter and I—we are engaged to be married. That sounds very English and proper.”

  “It sounds to me even more far-fetched. You’re rather badly in need of money, aren’t you, Mr. Malinowski?”

  “My dear Chief-Inspector, I am always in need of money. It is very sad.”

  “And yet a few months ago I understand you were flinging money about in a very carefree way.”

  “Ah. I had had a lucky flutter. I am a gambler. I admit it.”

  “I find that quite easy to believe. Where did you have this ‘flutter’?”

  “That I do not tell. You can hardly expect it.”

  “I don’t expect it.”

  “Is that all you have to ask me?”

  “For the moment, yes. You have identified the pistol as yours. That will be very helpful.”

  “I don’t understand—I can’t conceive—” He broke off and stretched out his hand. “Give it me please.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to keep it for the present, so I’ll write you out a receipt for it.”

  He did so and handed it to Malinowski.

  The latter went out slamming the door.

  “Temperamental chap,” said Father.

  “You didn’t press him on the matter of the false number plate and Bedhampton?”

  “No. I wanted him rattled. But not too badly rattled. We’ll give him one thing to worry about at a time—And he is worried.”

  “The Old Man wanted to see you, sir, as soon as you were through.”

  Chief-Inspector Davy nodded and made his way to Sir Ronald’s room.

  “Ah! Father. Making progress?”

  “Yes. Getting along nicely—quite a lot of fish
in the net. Small-fry mostly. But we’re closing in on the big fellows. Everything’s in train—”

  “Good show, Fred,” said the AC.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I

  Miss Marple got out of her train at Paddington and saw the burly figure of Chief-Inspector Davy standing on the platform waiting for her.

  He said, “Very good of you, Miss Marple,” put his hand under her elbow and piloted her through the barrier to where a car was waiting. The driver opened the door, Miss Marple got in, Chief-Inspector Davy followed her and the car drove off.

  “Where are you taking me, Chief-Inspector Davy?”

  “To Bertram’s Hotel.”

  “Dear me, Bertram’s Hotel again. Why?”

  “The official reply is: because the police think you can assist them in their inquiries.”

  “That sounds familiar, but surely rather sinister? So often the prelude to an arrest, is it not?”

  “I am not going to arrest you, Miss Marple.” Father smiled. “You have an alibi.”

  Miss Marple digested this in silence. Then she said, “I see.”

  They drove to Bertram’s Hotel in silence. Miss Gorringe looked up from the desk as they entered, but Chief-Inspector Davy piloted Miss Marple to the lift.

  “Second floor.”

  The lift ascended, stopped, and Father led the way along the corridor.

  As he opened the door of No. 18 Miss Marple said:

  “This is the same room I had when I was staying here before.”

  “Yes,” said Father.

  Miss Marple sat down in the armchair.

  “A very comfortable room,” she observed, looking round with a slight sigh.

  “They certainly know what comfort is here,” Father agreed.

  “You look tired, Chief-Inspector,” said Miss Marple unexpectedly.

  “I’ve had to get around a bit. As a matter of fact I’ve just got back from Ireland.”

  “Indeed. From Ballygowlan?”

  “Now how the devil did you know about Ballygowlan? I’m sorry—I beg your pardon.”

  Miss Marple smiled forgiveness.

  “I suppose Michael Gorman happened to tell you he came from there—was that it?”

  “No, not exactly,” said Miss Marple.