“The question is, Sir Ronald,” said McNeill, “who we pull in and when?”
“There’s a round dozen or so we could pull in,” said Comstock. “The Harris lot are mixed-up in it, we know that. There’s a nice little pocket down Luton way. There’s a garage at Epsom, there’s a pub near Maidenhead, and there’s a farm on the Great North Road.”
“Any of them worth pulling in?”
“I don’t think so. Small-fry all of them. Links. Just links here and there in the chain. A spot where cars are converted, and turned over quickly; a respectable pub where messages get passed; a secondhand clothes shop where appearance can be altered, a theatrical costumier in the East End, also very useful. They’re paid, these people. Quite well paid but they don’t really know anything!”
The dreamy Superintendent Andrews said again:
“We’re up against some good brains. We haven’t got near them yet. We know some of their affiliations and that’s all. As I say, the Harris crowd are in it and Marks is in on the financial end. The foreign contacts are in touch with Weber but he’s only an agent. We’ve nothing actually on any of these people. We know that they all have ways of maintaining contact with each other, and with the different branches of the concern, but we don’t know exactly how they do it. We watch them and follow them, and they know we’re watching them. Somewhere there’s a great central exchange. What we want to get at is the planners.”
Comstock said:
“It’s like a giant network. I agree that there must be an operational headquarters somewhere. A place where each operation is planned and detailed and dovetailed completely. Somewhere, someone plots it all, and produces a working blueprint of Operation Mailbag or Operation Payroll. Those are the people we’re out to get.”
“Possibly they are not even in this country,” said Father quietly.
“No, I dare say that’s true. Perhaps they’re in an igloo somewhere, or in a tent in Morocco or in a chalet in Switzerland.”
“I don’t believe in these masterminds,” said McNeill, shaking his head: “they sound all right in a story. There’s got to be a head, of course, but I don’t believe in a Master Criminal. I’d say there was a very clever little Board of Directors behind this. Centrally planned, with a Chairman. They’ve got on to something good, and they’re improving their technique all the time. All the same—”
“Yes?” said Sir Ronald encouragingly.
“Even in a right tight little team, there are probably expendables. What I call the Russian Sledge principle. From time to time, if they think we might be getting hot on the scent, they throw off one of them, the one they think they can best afford.”
“Would they dare to do that? Wouldn’t it be rather risky?”
“I’d say it could be done in such a way that whoever it was wouldn’t even know he had been pushed off the sledge. He’d just think he’d fallen off. He’d keep quiet because he’d think it was worth his while to keep quiet. So it would be, of course. They’ve got plenty of money to play with, and they can afford to be generous. Family looked after, if he’s got one, whilst he’s in prison. Possibly an escape engineered.”
“There’s been too much of that,” said Comstock.
“I think, you know,” said Sir Ronald, “that it’s not much good going over and over our speculations again. We always say much the same thing.”
McNeill laughed.
“What is it you really wanted us for, sir?”
“Well—” Sir Ronald thought a moment, “we’re all agreed on the main things,” he said slowly. “We’re agreed on our main policy, on what we’re trying to do. I think it might be profitable to have a look around for some of the small things, the things that don’t matter much, that are just a bit out of the usual run. It’s hard to explain what I mean, but like that business some years ago in the Culver case. An ink stain. Do you remember? An ink stain round a mouse hole. Now why on earth should a man empty a bottle of ink into a mouse hole? It didn’t seem important. It was hard to get at the answer. But when we did hit on the answer, it led somewhere. That’s—roughly—the sort of thing I was thinking about. Odd things. Don’t mind saying if you come across something that strikes you as a bit out of the usual. Petty if you like, but irritating, because it doesn’t quite fit in. I see Father’s nodding his head.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “Come on, boys, try to come up with something. Even if it’s only a man wearing a funny hat.”
There was no immediate response. Everyone looked a little uncertain and doubtful.
“Come on,” said Father. “I’ll stick my neck out first. It’s just a funny story, really, but you might as well have it for what it’s worth. The London and Metropolitan Bank holdup. Carmolly Street Branch. Remember it? A whole list of car numbers and car colours and makes. We appealed to people to come forward and they responded—how they responded! About a hundred and fifty pieces of misleading information! Got it sorted out in the end to about seven cars that had been seen in the neighbourhood, anyone of which might have been concerned in the robbery.”
“Yes,” said Sir Ronald, “go on.”
“There were one or two we couldn’t get tags on. Looked as though the numbers might have been changed. Nothing out of the way in that. It’s often done. Most of them got tracked down in the end. I’ll just bring up one instance. Morris Oxford, black saloon, number CMG 265, reported by a probation officer. He said it was being driven by Mr. Justice Ludgrove.”
He looked round. They were listening to him, but without any manifest interest.
“I know,” he said, “wrong as usual. Mr. Justice Ludgrove is a rather noticeable old boy, ugly as sin for one thing. Well, it wasn’t Mr. Justice Ludgrove because at that exact time he was actually in Court. He has got a Morris Oxford, but its number isn’t CMG 256.” He looked round. “All right. All right. So there’s no point in it, you’ll say. But do you know what the number was? CMG 265. Near enough, eh? Just the sort of mistake one does make when you’re trying to remember a car number.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sir Ronald, “I don’t quite see—”
“No,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “there’s nothing to see really, is there? Only—it was very like the actual car number, wasn’t it? 265—256 CMG. Really rather a coincidence that there should be a Morris Oxford car of the right colour with the number just one digit wrong, and with a man in it closely resembling the owner of the car.”
“Do you mean—?”
“Just one little digit difference. Today’s ‘deliberate mistake.’ It almost seems like that.”
“Sorry, Davy. I still don’t get it.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose there’s anything to get. There’s a Morris Oxford car, CMG 265, proceeding along the street two and a half minutes after the bank snatch. In it, the probation officer recognizes Mr. Justice Ludgrove.”
“Are you suggesting it really was Mr. Justice Ludgrove? Come now, Davy.”
“No, I’m not suggesting that it was Mr. Justice Ludgrove and that he was mixed-up in a bank robbery. He was staying at Bertram’s Hotel in Pond Street, and he was at the Law Courts at that exact time. All proved up to the hilt. I’m saying the car number and make and the identification by a probation officer who knows old Ludgrove quite well by sight is the kind of coincidence that ought to mean something. Apparently it doesn’t. Too bad.”
Comstock stirred uneasily.
“There was another case like that in connection with the jewellery business at Brighton. Some old Admiral or other. I’ve forgotten his name now. Some woman identified him most positively as having been on the scene.”
“And he wasn’t?”
“No, he’d been in London that night. Went up for some Naval dinner or other, I think.”
“Staying at his club?”
“No, he was staying at a hotel—I believe it was that one you mentioned just now, Father, Bertram’s, isn’t it? Quiet place. A lot of old service geezers go there, I believe.”
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“Bertram’s Hotel,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, thoughtfully.
Chapter Five
I
Miss Marple awoke early because she always woke early. She was appreciative of her bed. Most comfortable.
She pattered across to the window and pulled the curtains, admitting a little pallid London daylight. As yet, however, she did not try to dispense with the electric light. A very nice bedroom they had given her, again quite in the tradition of Bertram’s. A rose-flowered wallpaper, a large well-polished mahogany chest of drawers—a dressing table to correspond. Two upright chairs, one easy chair of a reasonable height from the ground. A connecting door led to a bathroom which was modern but which had a tiled wallpaper of roses and so avoided any suggestion of over-frigid hygiene.
Miss Marple got back into bed, plumped her pillows up, glanced at her clock, half past seven, picked up the small devotional book that always accompanied her, and read as usual the page and a half allotted to the day. Then she picked up her knitting and began to knit, slowly at first, since her fingers were stiff and rheumatic when she first awoke, but very soon her pace grew faster, and her fingers lost their painful stiffness.
“Another day,” said Miss Marple to herself, greeting the fact with her usual gentle pleasure. Another day—and who knew what it might bring forth?
She relaxed, and abandoning her knitting, let thoughts pass in an idle stream through her head…Selina Hazy…what a pretty cottage she had had in St. Mary Mead—and now someone had put on that ugly green roof…Muffins…very wasteful in butter…but very good…And fancy serving old-fashioned seed cake! She had never expected, not for a moment, that things would be as much like they used to be…because, after all, Time didn’t stand still…And to have made it stand still in this way must really have cost a lot of money…Not a bit of plastic in the place!…It must pay them, she supposed. The out-of-date returns in due course as the picturesque…Look how people wanted old-fashioned roses now, and scorned hybrid teas!…None of this place seemed real at all…Well, why should it?…It was fifty—no, nearer sixty years since she had stayed here. And it didn’t seem real to her because she was now acclimatized in this present year of Our Lord—Really, the whole thing opened up a very interesting set of problems…The atmosphere and the people…Miss Marple’s fingers pushed her knitting farther away from her.
“Pockets,” she said aloud…“Pockets, I suppose…And quite difficult to find….”
Would that account for that curious feeling of uneasiness she had had last night? That feeling that something was wrong….
All those elderly people—really very much like those she remembered when she had stayed here fifty years ago. They had been natural then—but they weren’t very natural now. Elderly people nowadays weren’t like elderly people then—they had that worried harried look of domestic anxieties with which they are too tired to cope, or they rushed around to committees and tried to appear bustling and competent, or they dyed their hair gentian blue, or wore wigs, and their hands were not the hands she remembered, tapering, delicate hands—they were harsh from washing up and detergents….
And so—well, so these people didn’t look real. But the point was that they were real. Selina Hazy was real. And that rather handsome old military man in the corner was real—she had met him once, although she did not recall his name—and the Bishop (dear Robbie!) was dead.
Miss Marple glanced at her little clock. It was eight thirty. Time for her breakfast.
She examined the instructions given by the hotel—splendid big print so that it wasn’t necessary to put one’s spectacles on.