"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. "By the way, is Lady Sedgwick a director of your company?" he asked.
"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 Assistant Commissioner.
"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 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 interests, 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."
20
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 up 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.
"You're a beauty, too," said Chief Inspector Davy. "Your number plate's the same as the last time I saw you. I rather fancy your number plate always is the same. And that should mean"-he broke off-"or should it?" he muttered. He looked up towards what could have been the sky. "Fog's getting thicker," he said to himself.
Outside the door to Bertram's, the Irish commissionaire was standing swinging his arms backwards and forwards with some violence to keep himself warm. Chief Inspector Davy said good evening to him.
"Good evening, sir. Nasty night."
"Yes. I shouldn't think anyone would want to go out tonight who hadn't got to."
The swing doors were pushed open and a middleaged lady came out and paused uncertainly on the step.
"Want a taxi, ma'am?"
"Oh dear. I meant to walk."
"I wouldn't if I were you, ma'am. It's very nasty, this fog. Even in a taxi it won't be too easy."
"Do you think you could find me a taxi?" asked the lady doubtfully.
"I'll do my best. You go inside now, and keep warm and I'll come in and tell you if I've got one." His voice changed, modulated to a persuasive tone. "Unless you have to, ma'am, I wouldn't go out tonight at all."
"Oh dear. Perhaps you're right. But I'm expected at some friends in Chelsea. I don't know. It might be very difficult getting back here. What do you think?"
Michael Gorman took charge.
"If I were you, ma'am," he said firmly, "I'd go in and telephone to your friends. It's not nice for a lady like you to be out on a foggy night like this."
"Well-really-yes, well, perhaps you're right."
She went back in again.
"I have to look after them," said Micky Gorman, turning in an explanatory manner to Father. "That kind would get her bag snatched, she would. Going out this time of night in a fog and wandering about Chelsea or West Kensington or wherever she's trying to go."
"I suppose you've had a good deal of experience of dealing with elderly ladies?" said Davy.
"Ah yes, indeed. This place is a home from home to them, bless their aging hearts. How about you, sir. Were you wanting a taxi?"
"Don't suppose you could get me one if I did," said Father. "There don't seem to be many about in this. And I don't blame them."
"Ah, now, I might lay my hand on one for you. There's a place round the corner where there's usually a taxi driver got his cab parked, having a warm-up and a drop of something to keep the cold out."
"A taxi's no good to me," said Father with a sigh. He jerked his thumb towards Bertram's Hotel. "I've got to go inside. I've got a job to do."
"Indeed now? Would it be still the missing canon?"
"Not exactly. He's been found."
"Found?" The man stared at him. "Found where?"
"Wandering about with concussion after an accident."
"Ah, that's just what one might expect of him. Crossed the road without looking, I expect."
"That seems to be the idea," said Father.
He nodded, and pushed through the doors into the hotel. There were not very many people in the lounge this evening. He saw Miss Marple sitting in a chair near the fire and Miss Marple saw him. She made, however, no sign of recognition. He went towards the desk. Miss Gorringe, as usual, was behind her books. She was, he thought, faintly discomposed to see him. It was a very slight reaction, but he noted the fact.
"You remember me, Miss Gorringe," he said. "I came here the other day."
"Yes, of course I remember you, Chief Inspector. Is there anything more you want to know? Do you want to see Mr. Humfries?"
"No thank you. I don't think that'll be necessary. I'd just like one more look at your register if I may."
"Of course." She pushed it along to him.
He opened it and looked slowly down the pages. To Miss Gorringe he gave the appearance of a man looking for one particular entry. In actuality this was not the case. Father had an accomplishment which he had learned early in life and had developed into a highly skilled art. He could remember names and addresses with a perfect and photographic memory. That memory would remain with him for twenty-four or even forty-eight hours. He shook his head as he shut the book and returned it to her.
"Canon Pennyfather hasn't been in, I suppose?" he said in a light voice.
"Canon Pennyfather?"
"You know he's turned up again?"
"No indeed. Nobody has told me. Where?"
"Some place in the country. Car accident it seems. Wasn't reported to us. Some good Samaritan just picked him up and looked after him."
"Oh, I am pleased. Yes, I really am very pleased. I was worried about him."
"So were his friends," said Father. "Actually I was looking to see if one of them might be staying here now. Archdeacon-Archdeacon-I can't remember his name now, but I'd know it if I saw it."
"Tomlinson?" said Miss Gorringe helpfully. "He is due next week. From Salisbury."
"No, not Tomlinson. Well, it doesn't matter." He turned away.
It was quiet in the lounge tonight.
An ascetic-looking middle-aged man was reading through a badly typed thesis, occasionally writing a comment in the margin in such small crabbed handwriting as to be almost illegible. Every time he did this, he smiled in vinegary satisfaction.
There were one or two married couples of long standing who had little need to talk to each other. Occasionally two or three people were gathered together in the name of the weather conditions, discussing anxiously how they or their families were going to get where they wanted to be.
"-I rang up and begged Susan not to come by car… it means the M. One and always so dangerous in fog-"
"They say it's clearer in the Midlands…"
Chief Inspector Davy noted them as he passed. Without haste, and with no seeming purpose, he arrived at his objective.
Miss Marple was sitting near the fire and observing his approach.
"So you're still here, Miss Marple. I'm glad."
"I go tomorrow," said Miss Marple.
That fact had, somehow, been implicit in her attitude. She had sat, not relaxed, but upright, as one sits in an airport lounge, or a railway waiting room. Her luggage, he was sure, would be packed, only toilet things and night wear to be added.
"It is the end of my fortnight's holiday," she explained.
"You've enjoyed it, I hope?"
Miss Marple did not answer at once. "In a way- yes…." She stopped.
"And in another way, no?"
"It's difficult to explain what I mean-"
"Aren't you, perhaps, a little too near the fire? Rather hot, here. Wouldn't you like to move-into that corner perhaps."
Miss Marple looked at the corner indicated, then she looked at Chief Inspector Davy. "I think you are quite right," she said.
He gave her a hand up, carried her handbag and her book for her and established her in the quiet corner he had indicated.
"All right?"
"Quite all right."
"You know why I suggested it?"
"You thought-very kindly-that it was too hot for me by the fire. Besides," she added, "our conversation cannot be overheard here."
"Have you got something you want to tell me, Miss Marple?"
"Now why should you think that?"
"You looked as though you had," said Davy.
"I'm sorry I showed it so plainly," said Miss Marple. "I didn't mean to."
"Well, what about it?"
"I don't know if I ought to do so. I would like you to believe, Inspector, that I am not really fond of interfering. I am against interference. Though often well meant, it can cause a great deal of harm."
"It's like that, is it? I see. Yes, it's quite a problem for you."
"Sometimes one sees people doing things that seem to one unwise-even dangerous. But has one any right to interfere? Usually not, I think."
"Is this Canon Pennyfather you're talking about?"
"Canon Pennyfather?" Miss Marple sounded very surprised. "Oh no. Oh dear me, no, nothing whatever to do with him. It concerns-a girl."
"A girl, indeed? And you thought I could help?"
"I don't know," said Miss Marple. "I simply don't know. But I'm worried, very worried."
Father did not press her. He sat there looking large and comfortable and rather stupid. He let her take her time. She had been willing to do her best to help him, and he was quite prepared to do anything he could to help her. He was not, perhaps, particularly interested. On the other hand, one never knew.
"One reads in the papers," said Miss Marple in a low clear voice, "accounts of proceedings in court; of young people, children or girls 'in need of care and protection.' It's just a sort of legal phrase, I suppose, but it could mean something real."
"This girl you mentioned, you feel she is in need of care and protection?"
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"Alone in the world?"
"Oh no," said Miss Marple. "Very much not so, if I may put it that way. She is to all outward appearances very heavily protected and very well cared for."
"Sounds interesting," said Father.
"She was staying in this hotel," said Miss Marple, "with a Mrs. Carpenter, I think. I looked in the register to see the name. The girl's name is Elvira Blake."
Father looked up with a quick air of interest.
"She was a lovely girl. Very young, very mu,ch as I say, sheltered and protected. Her guardian was a Colonel Luscombe, a very nice man. Quite charming. Elderly, of course, and I am afraid terribly innocent."
"The guardian or the girl?"
"I meant the guardian," said Miss Marple. "I don't know about the girl. But I do think she is in danger. I came across her quite by chance in Battersea Park. She was sitting at a refreshment place there with a young man."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Father. "Undesirable, I suppose. Beatnik-spiv-thug-"
"A very handsome man," said Miss Marple. "Not so very young. Thirty-odd, the kind of man that I should say is very attractive to women, but his face is a bad face. Cruel, hawklike, predatory."