At Bertram's Hotel - Agatha Christie [34]
With bitterness Mrs. McCrae said:
“The man might be anywhere!” She pulled herself together. “Well, thank you, Miss Gorringe.”
“Anything I can do—” Miss Gorringe suggested helpfully.
“I dare say I’ll hear soon enough,” said Mrs. McCrae. She thanked Miss Gorringe again and rang off.
She sat by the telephone, looking upset. She did not fear for the Canon’s personal safety. If he had had an accident she would by now have been notified. She felt sure of that. On the whole the Canon was not what one could call accident prone. He was what Mrs. McCrae called to herself “one of the scatty ones,” and the scatty ones seemed always to be looked after by a special providence. Whilst taking no care or thought, they could still survive even a Panda crossing. No, she did not visualize Canon Pennyfather as lying groaning in a hospital. He was somewhere, no doubt innocently and happily prattling with some friend or other. Maybe he was abroad still. The difficulty was that Archdeacon Simmons was arriving this evening and Archdeacon Simmons would expect to find a host to receive him. She couldn’t put Archdeacon Simmons off because she didn’t know where he was. It was all very difficult, but it had, like most difficulties, its bright spot. Its bright spot was Archdeacon Simmons. Archdeacon Simmons would know what to do. She would place the matter in his hands.
Archdeacon Simmons was a complete contrast to her employer. He knew where he was going, and what he was doing, and was always cheerfully sure of knowing the right thing to be done and doing it. A confident cleric. Archdeacon Simmons, when he arrived, to be met by Mrs. McCrae’s explanations, apologies and perturbation, was a tower of strength. He, too, was not alarmed.
“Now don’t you worry, Mrs. McCrae,” he said in his genial fashion, as he sat down to the meal she had prepared for his arrival. “We’ll hunt the absentminded fellow down. Ever heard that story about Chesterton? G. K. Chesterton, you know, the writer. Wired to his wife when he’d gone on a lecture tour ‘Am at Crewe Station. Where ought I to be?’”
He laughed. Mrs. McCrae smiled dutifully. She did not think it was very funny because it was so exactly the sort of thing that Canon Pennyfather might have done.
“Ah,” said Archdeacon Simmons, with appreciation, “one of your excellent veal cutlets! You’re a marvellous cook, Mrs. McCrae. I hope my old friend appreciates you.”
Veal cutlets having been succeeded by some small castle puddings with a blackberry sauce which Mrs. McCrae had remembered was one of the Archdeacon’s favourite sweets, the good man applied himself in earnest to the tracking down of his missing friend. He addressed himself to the telephone with vigour and a complete disregard for expense, which made Mrs. McCrae purse her lips anxiously, although not really disapproving, because definitely her master had got to be tracked down.
Having first dutifully tried the Canon’s sister who took little notice of her brother’s goings and comings and as usual had not the faintest idea where he was or might be, the Archdeacon spread his net farther afield. He addressed himself once more to Bertram’s Hotel and got details as precisely as possible. The Canon had definitely left there on the early evening of the 19th. he had with him a small BEA handbag, but his other luggage had remained behind in his room, which he had duly retained. He had mentioned that he was going to a conference of some kind at Lucerne. He had not gone direct to the airport from the hotel. The commissionaire, who knew him well by sight, had put him into a taxi and had directed it as told by the Canon, to the Athenaeum Club. That was the last time that anyone at Bertram’s Hotel had seen Canon Pennyfather. Oh yes, a small detail—he had omitted to leave his key behind but had taken it with him. It was not the first time that that had happened.
Archdeacon Simmons paused for a few minutes” consideration before the next call. He could ring up the air station in London. That would no doubt take some time. There might be a short cut. He