伯特伦旅馆之谜8
时间：2026-01-04 07:38:37
（单词翻译:单击）
III
Canon Pennyfather, fortified by breakfast, wandered across the lounge, re-
membered to leave his key at the desk, pushed his way through the
swinging doors, and was neatly inserted into a taxi by the Irish commis-
sionaire who existed for this purpose.
“Where to, sir?”
“Oh dear,” said Canon Pennyfather in sudden dismay. “Now let me see—
where was I going?”
The traffic in Pond Street was held up for some minutes whilst Canon
Pennyfather and the commissionaire debated this knotty point.
Finally Canon Pennyfather had a brainwave and the taxi was directed to
go to the British Museum.
The commissionaire was left on the pavement with a broad grin on his
face, and since no other exits seemed to be taking place, he strolled a little
way along the façade of the hotel whistling an old tune in a muted man-
ner.
One of the windows on the ground floor of Bertram’s was flung up—but
the commissionaire did not even turn his head until a voice spoke unex-
pectedly through the open window.
“So this is where you’ve landed up, Micky. What on earth brought you to
this place?”
He swung round, startled—and stared.
Lady Sedgwick thrust her head through the open window.
“Don’t you know me?” she demanded.
A sudden gleam of recognition came across the man’s face.
“Why, if it isn’t little Bessie now! Fancy that! After all these years. Little
Bessie.”
“Nobody but you ever called me Bessie. It’s a revolting name. What have
you been doing all these years?”
“This and that,” said Micky with some reserve. “I’ve not been in the
news like you have. I’ve read of your doings in the paper time and again.”
Bess Sedgwick laughed. “Anyway, I’ve worn better than you have,” she
said. “You drink too much. You always did.”
“You’ve worn well because you’ve always been in the money.”
“Money wouldn’t have done you any good. You’d have drunk even more
and gone to the dogs completely. Oh yes, you would! What brought you
here? That’s what I want to know. How did you ever get taken on at this
place?”
“I wanted a job. I had these—” his hand flicked over the row of medals.
“Yes, I see.” She was thoughtful. “All genuine too, aren’t they?”
“Sure they’re genuine. Why shouldn’t they be?”
“Oh I believe you. You always had courage. You’ve always been a good
fighter. Yes, the army suited you. I’m sure of that.”
“The army’s all right in time of war, but it’s no good in peacetime.”
“So you took to this stuff. I hadn’t the least idea—” she stopped.
“You hadn’t the least idea what, Bessie?”
“Nothing. It’s queer seeing you again after all these years.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said the man. “I’ve never forgotten you, little
Bessie. Ah! A lovely girl you were! A lovely slip of a girl.”
“A damn’ fool of a girl, that’s what I was,” said Lady Sedgwick.
“That’s true now. You hadn’t much sense. If you had, you wouldn’t have
taken up with me. What hands you had for a horse. Do you remember that
mare—what was her name now?—Molly O’Flynn. Ah, she was a wicked
devil, that one was.”
“You were the only one that could ride her,” said Lady Sedgwick.
“She’d have had me off if she could! When she found she couldn’t, she
gave in. Ah, she was a beauty, now. But talking of sitting a horse, there
wasn’t one lady in those parts better than you. A lovely seat you had,
lovely hands. Never any fear in you, not for a minute! And it’s been the
same ever since, so I judge. Aeroplanes, racing cars.”
Bess Sedgwick laughed.
“I must get on with my letters.”
She drew back from the window.
Micky leaned over the railing. “I’ve not forgotten Ballygowlan,” he said
with meaning. “Sometimes I’ve thought of writing to you—”
Bess Sedgwick’s voice came out harshly.
“And what do you mean by that, Mick Gorman?”
“I was just saying as I haven’t forgotten—anything. I was just—remind-
ing you like.”
Bess Sedgwick’s voice still held its harsh note.
“If you mean what I think you mean, I’ll give you a piece of advice. Any
trouble from you, and I’d shoot you as easily as I’d shoot a rat. I’ve shot
men before—”
“In foreign parts, maybe—”
“Foreign parts or here—it’s all the same to me.”
“Ah, good Lord, now, and I believe you would do just that!” His voice
held admiration. “In Ballygowlan—”
“In Ballygowlan,” she cut in, “they paid you to keep your mouth shut
and paid you well. You took the money. You’ll get no more from me so
don’t think it.”
“It would be a nice romantic story for the Sunday papers….”
“You heard what I said.”
“Ah,” he laughed, “I’m not serious, I was just joking. I’d never do any-
thing to hurt my little Bessie. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“Mind you do,” said Lady Sedgwick.
She shut down the window. Staring down at the desk in front of her she
looked at her unfinished letter on the blotting paper. She picked it up,
looked at it, crumpled it into a ball and slung it into the wastepaper bas-
ket. Then abruptly she got up from her seat and walked out of the room.
She did not even cast a glance around her before she went.
The smaller writing rooms at Bertram’s often had an appearance of be-
ing empty even when they were not. Two well-appointed desks stood in
the windows, there was a table on the right that held a few magazines, on
the left were two very high-backed armchairs turned towards the fire.
These were favourite spots in the afternoon for elderly military or naval
gentlemen to ensconce themselves and fall happily asleep until teatime.
Anyone coming in to write a letter did not usually even notice them. The
chairs were not so much in demand during the morning.
As it happened, however, they were on this particular morning both oc-
cupied. An old lady was in one and a young girl in the other. The young
girl rose to her feet. She stood a moment looking uncertainly towards the
door through which Lady Sedgwick had passed out, then she moved
slowly towards it. Elvira Blake’s face was deadly pale.
It was another five minutes before the old lady moved. Then Miss
Marple decided that the little rest which she always took after dressing
and coming downstairs had lasted quite long enough. It was time to go out
and enjoy the pleasures of London. She might walk as far as Piccadilly,
and take a No. 9 bus to High Street, Kensington, or she might walk along to
Bond Street and take a 25 bus to Marshall & Snelgrove’s, or she might take
a 25 the other way which as far as she remembered would land her up at
the Army & Navy Stores. Passing through the swing doors she was still sa-
vouring these delights in her mind. The Irish commissionaire, back on
duty, made up her mind for her.
“You’ll be wanting a taxi, Ma’am,” he said with firmness.
“I don’t think I do,” said Miss Marple. “I think there’s a 25 bus I could
take quite near here—or a 2 from Park Lane.”
“You’ll not be wanting a bus,” said the commissionaire firmly. “It’s very
dangerous springing on a bus when you’re getting on in life. The way they
start and stop and go on again. Jerk you off your feet, they do. No heart at
all, these fellows, nowadays. I’ll whistle you along a taxi and you’ll go to
wherever you want to like a queen.”
Miss Marple considered and fell.
“Very well then,” she said, “perhaps I had better have a taxi.”
The commissionaire had no need even to whistle. He merely clicked his
thumb and a taxi appeared like magic. Miss Marple was helped into it
with every possible care and decided on the spur of the moment to go to
Robinson & Cleaver’s and look at their splendid offer of real linen sheets.
She sat happily in her taxi feeling indeed as the commissionaire had
promised her, just like a queen. Her mind was filled with pleasurable anti-
cipation of linen sheets, linen pillowcases and proper glass and kitchen
cloths without pictures of bananas, figs or performing dogs and other
pictorial distractions to annoy you when you were washing up.
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