At Bertram's Hotel (Miss Marple 11)

“Not yet,” said Father, “but I mean to.”

“There are several possibilities,” said Mr. Robinson, thoughtfully. “It is like music, you know. Only so many notes to the octave, yet one can combine them in—what is it—several million different ways? A musician told me once that you do not get the same tune twice. Most interesting.”

There was a slight buzz on his desk and he picked up the receiver once more.

“Yes? Yes, you have been very prompt. I am pleased. I see. Oh! Amsterdam yes…Ah…Thank you…Yes. You will spell that? Good.”

He wrote rapidly on a pad at his elbow.

“I hope this will be useful to you,” he said, as he tore off the sheet and passed it across the table to Father, who read the name out loud. “Wilhelm Hoffman.”

“Nationality Swiss,” said Mr. Robinson. “Though not, I would say, born in Switzerland. Has a good deal of influence in Banking circles and though keeping strictly on the right side of the law, he has been behind a great many—questionable deals. He operates solely on the Continent, not in this country.”

“Oh.”

“But he has a brother,” said Mr. Robinson. “Robert Hoffman. Living in London—a diamond merchant—most respectable business—His wife is Dutch—He also has offices in Amsterdam—Your people may know about him. As I say, he deals mainly in diamonds, but he is a very rich man, and he owns a lot of property, not usually in his own name. Yes, he is behind quite a lot of enterprises. He and his brother are the real owners of Bertram’s Hotel.”

“Thank you, sir,” Chief-Inspector Davy rose to his feet. “I needn’t tell you that I’m much obliged to you. It’s wonderful,” he added, allowing himself to show more enthusiasm than was normal.

“That I should know?” inquired Mr. Robinson, giving one of his larger smiles. “But this is one of my specialities. Information. I like to know. That is why you came to me, is it not?”

“Well,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “we do know about you. The Home Office. The Special Branch and all the rest of it.” He added almost naïvely, “It took a bit of nerve on my part to approach you.”

Again Mr. Robinson smiled.

“I find you an interesting personality, Chief-Inspector Davy,” he said. “I wish you success in whatever you are undertaking.”

“Thank you, sir. I think I shall need it. By the way, these two brothers, would you say they were violent men?”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Robinson. “It would be quite against their policy. The brothers Hoffman do not apply violence in business matters. They have other methods that serve them better. Year by year, I would say, they get steadily richer, or so my information from Swiss Banking circles tells me.”

“It’s a useful place, Switzerland,” said Chief-Inspector Davy.

“Yes, indeed. What we should all do without it I do not know! So much rectitude. Such a fine business sense! Yes, we businessmen must all be very grateful to Switzerland. I myself,” he added, “have also a high opinion of Amsterdam.” He looked hard at Davy, then smiled again, and the Chief-Inspector left.

When he got back to headquarters again, he found a note awaiting him.

Canon Pennyfather has turned up—safe if not sound.

Apparently was knocked down by a car at Milton St. John and has concussion.

Chapter Eighteen

Canon Pennyfather looked at Chief-Inspector Davy and Inspector Campbell, and Chief-Inspector Davy and Inspector Campbell looked at him. Canon Pennyfather was at home again. Sitting in the big armchair in his library, a pillow behind his head and his feet up on a pouffe, with a rug over his knees to emphasize his invalid status.

“I’m afraid,” he was saying politely, “that I simply cannot remember anything at all.”

“You can’t remember the accident when the car hit you?”

“I’m really afraid not.”

“Then how did you know a car did hit you?” demanded Inspector Campbell acutely.

“The woman there, Mrs—Mrs—was her name Wheeling?—told me about it.”

“And how did she know?”

Canon Pennyfather looked puzzled.

“Dear me, you are quite right. She couldn’t have known, could she? I suppose she thought it was what must have happened.”

“And you really cannot remember anything? How did you come to be in Milton St. John?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Canon Pennyfather. “Even the name is quite unfamiliar to me.”

Inspector Campbell’s exasperation was mounting, but Chief-Inspector Davy said in his soothing, homely voice:

“Just tell us again the last thing you do remember, sir.”

Canon Pennyfather turned to him with relief. The inspector’s dry scepticism had made him uncomfortable.

“I was going to Lucerne to a congress. I took a taxi to the airport—at least to Kensington Air Station.”

“Yes. And then?”

“That’s all. I can’t remember anymore. The next thing I remember is the wardrobe.”

“What wardrobe?” demanded Inspector Campbell.

“It was in the wrong place.”

Inspector Campbell was tempted to go into this question of a wardrobe in the wrong place. Chief-Inspector Davy cut in.

“Do you remember arriving at the air station, sir?”

“I suppose so,” said Canon Pennyfather, with the air of one who has a great deal of doubt on the matter.

“And you duly flew to Lucerne.”

“Did I? I don’t remember anything about it if so.”

“Do you remember arriving back at Bertram’s Hotel that night?”

“No.”

“You do remember Bertram’s Hotel?”

“Of course. I was staying there. Very comfortable. I kept my room on.”

“Do you remember travelling in a train?”

“A train? No, I can’t recall a train.”

“There was a holdup. The train was robbed. Surely, Canon Pennyfather, you can remember that.”

“I ought to, oughtn’t I?” said Canon Pennyfather. “But somehow—” he spoke apologetically—“I don’t.” He looked from one to the other of the officers with a bland gentle smile.

“Then your story is that you remember nothing after going in a taxi to the air station until you woke up in the Wheelings’ cottage at Milton St. John.”

“There is nothing unusual in that,” the Canon assured him. “It happens quite often in cases of concussion.”

“What did you think had happened to you when you woke up?”

“I had such a headache I really couldn’t think. Then of course I began to wonder where I was and Mrs. Wheeling explained and brought

me some excellent soup. She called me ‘love’ and ‘dearie’ and ‘ducks,’” said the Canon with slight distaste, “but she was very kind. Very kind indeed.”

“She ought to have reported the accident to the police. Then you would have been taken to hospital and properly looked after,” said Campbell.

“She looked after me very well,” the Canon protested, with spirit, “and I understand that with concussion there is very little you can do except keep the patient quiet.”

“If you should remember anything more, Canon Pennyfather—”

The Canon interrupted him.

“Four whole days I seem to have lost out of my life,” he said. “Very curious. Really very curious indeed. I wonder so much where I was and what I was doing. The doctor tells me it may all come back to me. On the other hand it may not. Possibly I shall never know what happened to me during those days.” His eyelids flickered. “You’ll excuse me. I think I am rather tired.”

“That’s quite enough now,” said Mrs. McCrae, who had been hovering by the door, ready to intervene if she thought it necessary. She advanced upon them. “Doctor says he wasn’t to be worried,” she said firmly.

The policemen rose and moved towards the door. Mrs. McCrae shepherded them out into the hall rather in the manner of a conscientious sheepdog. The Canon murmured something and Chief-Inspector Davy, who was the last to pass through the door, wheeled round at once.

“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?”