At Bertram's Hotel - Agatha Christie [52]
“I know—I know. No drinks, no drugs, no gambling, no accommodation for criminals. All pure as the driven snow. No beatniks, no thugs, no juvenile delinquents. Just sober Victorian-Edwardian old ladies, county families, visiting travellers from Boston and the more respectable parts of the USA. All the same, a respectable Canon of the church is seen to leave it at 3 a.m. in the morning in a somewhat surreptitious manner—”
“Who saw that?”
“An old lady.”
“How did she manage to see him. Why wasn’t she in bed and asleep?”
“Old ladies are like that, sir.”
“You’re not talking of—what’s his name—Canon Pennyfather?”
“That’s right, sir. His disappearance was reported and Campbell has been looking into it.”
“Funny coincidence—his name’s just come up in connection with the mail robbery at Bedhampton.”
“Indeed? In what way, sir?”
“Another old lady—or middle-aged anyway. When the train was stopped by that signal that had been tampered with, a good many people woke up and looked out into the corridor. This woman, who lives in Chadminster and knows Canon Pennyfather by sight, says she saw him entering the train by one of the doors. She thought he’d got out to see what was wrong and was getting in again. We were going to follow it up because of his disappearance being reported—”
“Let’s see—the train was stopped at 5.30 a.m. Canon Pennyfather left Bertram’s Hotel not long after 3 a.m. Yes, it could be done. If he were driven there—say—in a racing car….”
“So we’re back again to Ladislaus Malinowski!”
The AC looked at his blotting pad doodles. “What a bulldog you are, Fred,” he said.
Half an hour later Chief-Inspector Davy was entering a quiet and rather shabby office.
The large man behind the desk rose and put forward a hand.
“Chief-Inspector Davy? Do sit down,” he said. “Do you care for a cigar?”
Chief-Inspector Davy shook his head.
“I must apologize,” he said, in his deep countryman’s voice, “for wasting your valuable time.”
Mr. Robinson smiled. He was a fat man and very well dressed. He had a yellow face, his eyes were dark and sad looking and his mouth was large and generous. He frequently smiled to display overlarge teeth. “The better to eat you with,” thought Chief-Inspector Davy irrelevantly. His English was perfect and without accent but he was not an Englishman. Father wondered, as many others had wondered before him, what nationality Mr. Robinson really was.
“Well, what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to know,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “who owns Bertram’s Hotel.”
The expression on Mr. Robinson’s face did not change. He showed no surprise at hearing the name nor did he show recognition. He said thoughtfully:
“You want to know who owns Bertram’s Hotel. That, I think, is in Pond Street, off Piccadilly.”
“Quite right, sir.”
“I have occasionally stayed there myself. A quiet place. Well run.”
“Yes,” said Father, “particularly well run.”
“And you want to know who owns it? Surely that is easy to ascertain?”
There was a faint irony behind his smile.
“Through the usual channels, you mean? Oh yes.” Father took a small piece of paper from his pocket and read out three or four names and addresses.
“I see,” said Mr. Robinson, “someone has taken quite a lot of trouble. Interesting. And you come to me?”
“If anyone knows, you would, sir.”
“Actually I do not know. But it is true that I have ways of obtaining information. One has—” he shrugged his very large, fat shoulders—“one has contacts.”
“Yes, sir,” said Father with an impassive face.
Mr. Robinson looked at him, then he picked up the telephone on his desk.
“Sonia? Get me Carlos.” He waited a minute or two then spoke again. “Carlos?” He spoke rapidly half a dozen sentences in a foreign language. It was not a language that Father could even recognize.
Father could converse in good British French. He had a smattering of Italian and he could make a guess at plain travellers’ German. He knew