At Bertram's Hotel - Agatha Christie [55]
“What was that?” he asked, but the Canon’s eyes were now closed.
“What did you think he said?” said Campbell as they left the house after refusing Mrs. McCrae’s lukewarm offer of refreshment.
Father said thoughtfully:
“I thought he said ‘the Walls of Jericho.’”
“What could he mean by that?”
“It sounds biblical,” said Father.
“Do you think we’ll ever know,” asked Campbell, “how that old boy got from the Cromwell Road to Milton St. John?”
“It doesn’t seem as if we shall get much help from him,” agreed Davy.
“That woman who says she saw him on the train after the holdup. Can she possibly be right? Can he be mixed-up in some way with these robberies? It seems impossible. He’s such a thoroughly respectable old boy. Can’t very well suspect a Canon of Chadminster Cathedral of being mixed-up with a train robbery, can one?”
“No,” said Father thoughtfully, “no. No more than one can imagine Mr. Justice Ludgrove being mixed-up with a bank holdup.”
Inspector Campbell looked at his superior officer curiously.
The expedition to Chadminster concluded with a short and unprofitable interview with Dr. Stokes.
Dr. Stokes was aggressive, uncooperative and rude.
“I’ve known the Wheelings quite a while. They’re by way of being neighbours of mine. They’d picked some old chap off the road. Didn’t know whether he was dead drunk, or ill. Asked me in to have a look. I told them he wasn’t drunk—that it was concussion—”
“And you treated him after that.”
“Not at all. I didn’t treat him, or prescribe for him or attend him. I’m not a doctor—I was once, but I’m not now—I told them what they ought to do was ring up the police. Whether they did or not I don’t know. Not my business. They’re a bit dumb, both of them—but kindly folk.”
“You didn’t think of ringing up the police yourself?”
“No, I did not. I’m not a doctor. Nothing to do with me. As a human being I told them not to pour whisky down his throat and keep him quiet and flat until the police came.”
He glared at them and, reluctantly, they had to leave it at that.
Chapter Nineteen
Mr. Hoffman was a big solid-looking man. He gave the appearance of being carved out of wood—preferably teak.
His face was so expressionless as to give rise to surmise—could such a man be capable of thinking—of feeling emotion? It seemed impossible.
His manner was highly correct.
He rose, bowed, and held out a wedge-like hand.
“Chief-Inspector Davy? It is some years since I had the pleasure—you may not even remember—”
“Oh yes I do, Mr. Hoffman. The Aaronberg Diamond Case. You were a witness for the Crown—a most excellent witness, let me say. The defence was quite unable to shake you.”
“I am not easily shaken,” said Mr. Hoffman gravely.
He did not look a man who would easily be shaken.
“What can I do for you?” he went on. “No trouble, I hope—I always want to agree well with the police. I have the greatest admiration for your superb police force.”
“Oh! There is no trouble. It is just that we wanted you to confirm a little information.”
“I shall be delighted to help you in any way I can. As I say, I have the highest opinion of your London Police Force. You have such a splendid class of men. So full of integrity, so fair, so just.”
“You’ll make me embarrassed,” said Father.
“I am at your service. What is it that you want to know?”
“I was just going to ask you to give me a little dope about Bertram’s Hotel.”
Mr. Hoffman’s face did not change. It was possible that his entire attitude became for a moment or two even more static than it had been before—that was all.
“Bertram’s Hotel?” he said. His voice was inquiring, slightly puzzled. It might have been that he had never heard of Bertram’s Hotel or that he could not quite remember whether he knew Bertram’s Hotel or not.
“You have a connection with it, have you not, Mr. Hoffman?”
Mr. Hoffman moved his shoulders.
“There are so many things,” he said. “One cannot remember them all. So much business—so much—it keeps me very