At Bertram's Hotel - Agatha Christie [48]
Outside, various vast American wardrobe cases and suitcases were being loaded on to a taxi. It seemed that Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Cabot were on their way to the Hotel Vendôme, Paris.
Beside him on the kerb, Mrs. Elmer Cabot was expressing her views to her husband.
“The Pendleburys were quite right about this place, Elmer. It just is old England. So beautifully Edwardian. I just feel Edward the Seventh could walk right in any moment and sit down there for his afternoon tea. I mean to come back here next year—I really do.”
“If we’ve got a million dollars or so to spare,” said her husband dryly.
“Now, Elmer, it wasn’t as bad as all that.”
The baggage was loaded, the tall commissionaire helped them in, murmuring “Thank you, sir” as Mr. Cabot made the expected gesture. The taxi drove off. The commissionaire transferred his attention to Father.
“Taxi, sir?”
Father looked up at him.
Over six feet. Good-looking chap. A bit run to seed. Ex-Army. Lot of medals—genuine, probably. A bit shifty? Drinks too much.
Aloud he said: “Ex-Army man?”
“Yes, sir. Irish Guards.”
“Military Medal, I see. Where did you get that?”
“Burma.”
“What’s your name?”
“Michael Gorman. Sergeant.”
“Good job here?”
“It’s a peaceful spot.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer the Hilton?”
“I would not. I like it here. Nice people come here, and quite a lot of racing gentlemen—for Ascot and Newbury. I’ve had good tips from them now and again.”
“Ah, so you’re an Irishman and gambler, is that it?”
“Och! Now, what would life be without a gamble?”
“Peaceful and dull,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “like mine.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Can you guess what my profession is?” asked Father.
The Irishman grinned.
“No offence to you, sir, but if I may guess I’d say you were a cop.”
“Right first time,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “You remember Canon Pennyfather?”
“Canon Pennyfather now, I don’t seem to mind the name—”
“Elderly clergyman.”
Michael Gorman laughed.
“Ah now, clergyman are as thick as peas in a pod in there.”
“This one disappeared from here.”
“Oh, that one!” The commissionaire seemed slightly taken aback.
“Did you know him?”
“I wouldn’t remember him if it hadn’t been for people asking me questions about him. All I know is, I put him into a taxi and he went to the Athenaeum Club. That’s the last I saw of him. Somebody told me he’d gone to Switzerland, but I hear he never got there. Lost himself, it seems.”
“You didn’t see him later that day?”
“Later—No, indeed.”
“What time do you go off duty?”
“Eleven-thirty.”
Chief-Inspector Davy nodded, refused a taxi and moved slowly away along Pond Street. A car roared past him close to the kerb, and pulled up outside Bertram’s Hotel, with a scream of brakes. Chief-Inspector Davy turned his head soberly and noted the number plate. FAN 2266. There was something reminiscent about that number, though he couldn’t for the moment place it.
Slowly he retraced his steps. He had barely reached the entrance before the driver of the car, who had gone through the doors a moment or two before, came out again. He and the car matched each other. It was a racing model, white with long gleaming lines. The young man had the same eager greyhound look with a handsome face and a body with not a superfluous inch of flesh on it.
The commissionaire held the car door open, the young man jumped in, tossed a coin to the commissionaire and drove off with a burst of powerful engine.
“You know who he is?” said Michael Gorman to Father.
“A dangerous driver, anyway.”
“Ladislaus Malinowski. Won the Grand Prix two years ago—world champion he was. Had a bad smash last year. They say he’s all right again now.”
“Don’t tell me he’s staying at Bertram’s. Highly unsuitable.”
Michael Gorman grinned.
“He’s not staying here, no. But a friend of his is—” He winked.
A porter in a striped apron came out with more American luxury travel equipment.
Father stood absentmindedly watching them being ensconced in a Daimler Hire Car whilst he tried to remember what he knew about Ladislaus Malinowski. A reckless fellow—said to be tied up