At Bertram's Hotel - Agatha Christie [58]
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 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 middle-aged 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 ageing 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, no, 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