伯特伦旅馆之谜20
时间：2026-01-04 07:42:31
（单词翻译:单击）
Chapter Thirteen
Vaguely reminiscent of a large bumblebee, Chief- Inspector Fred Davy
wandered around the confines of the Criminal Investigation Department,
humming to himself. It was a well-known idiosyncrasy of his, and caused
no particular notice except to give rise to the remark that “Father was on
the prowl again.”
His prowling led him at last to the room where Inspector Campbell was
sitting behind a desk with a bored expression. Inspector Campbell was an
ambitious young man and he found much of his occupation tedious in the
extreme. Nevertheless, he coped with the duties appointed to him and
achieved a very fair measure of success in so doing. The powers that be
approved of him, thought he should do well and doled out from time to
time a few words of encouraging commendation.
“Good morning, sir,” said Inspector Campbell, respectfully, when Father
entered his domain. Naturally he called Chief-Inspector Davy “Father” be-
hind his back as everyone else did; but he was not yet of sufficient senior-
ity to do such a thing to his face.
“Anything I can do for you, sir?” he inquired.
“La, la, boom, boom,” hummed the Chief- Inspector, slightly off key.
“Why must they call me Mary when my name’s Miss Gibbs?” After this
rather unexpected resurrection of a bygone musical comedy, he drew up a
chair and sat down.
“Busy?” he asked.
“Moderately so.”
“Got some disappearance case or other on, haven’t you, to do with some
hotel or other. What’s the name of it now? Bertram’s. Is that it?”
“Yes, that’s right, sir. Bertram’s Hotel.”
“Contravening the licensing hours? Call girls?”
“Oh no, sir,” said Inspector Campbell, slightly shocked at hearing Ber-
tram’s Hotel being referred to in such a connection. “Very nice, quiet, old-
fashioned place.”
“Is it now?” said Father. “Yes, is it now? Well, that’s interesting, really.”
Inspector Campbell wondered why it was interesting. He did not like to
ask, as tempers in the upper hierarchy were notoriously short since the
mail train robbery, which had been a spectacular success for the crimin-
als. He looked at Father’s large, heavy, bovine face and wondered, as he
had once or twice wondered before, how Chief- Inspector Davy had
reached his present rank and why he was so highly thought of in the de-
partment. “All right in his day, I suppose,” thought Inspector Campbell,
“but there are plenty of go-ahead chaps about who could do with some
promotion, once the dead wood is cleared away.” But the dead wood had
begun another song, partly hummed, with an occasional word or two here
and there.
“Tell me, gentle stranger, are there anymore at home like you?” intoned
Father and then in a sudden falsetto, “A few, kind sir, and nicer girls you
never knew. No, let’s see, I’ve got the sexes mixed-up. Floradora. That was a
good show, too.”
“I believe I’ve heard of it, sir,” said Inspector Campbell.
“Your mother sang you to sleep in the cradle with it, I expect,” said
Chief- Inspector Davy. “Now then, what’s been going on at Bertram’s
Hotel? Who has disappeared and how and why?”
“A Canon Pennyfather, sir. Elderly clergyman.”
“Dull case, eh?”
Inspector Campbell smiled.
“Yes, sir, it is rather dull in a way.”
“What did he look like?”
“Canon Pennyfather?”
“Yes—you’ve got a description, I suppose?”
“Of course.” Campbell shuffled papers and read: “Height 5 ft 8. Large
thatch of white hair—stoops….”
“And he disappeared from Bertram’s Hotel—when?”
“About a week ago—November 19th.”
“And they’ve just reported it. Took their time about it, didn’t they?”
“Well, I think there was a general idea that he’d turn up.”
“Any idea what’s behind it?” asked Father. “Has a decent God-fearing
man suddenly gone off with one of the churchwardens’ wives? Or does he
do a bit of secret drinking, or has he embezzled church funds? Or is he the
sort of absentminded old chap who goes in for this sort of thing?”
“Well, from all I can hear, sir, I should say the latter. He’s done it be-
fore.”
“What—disappeared from a respectable West End hotel?”
“No, not exactly that, but he’s not always returned home when he was
expected. Occasionally he’s turned up to stay with friends on a day when
they haven’t asked him, or not turned up on the date when they had asked
him. That sort of thing.”
“Yes,” said Father. “Yes. Well that sounds very nice and natural and ac-
cording to plan, doesn’t it? When exactly did you say he disappeared?”
“Thursday. November 19th. He was supposed to be attending a congress
at—” He bent down and studied some papers on his desk. “—oh yes, Lu-
cerne. Society of Biblical Historical Studies. That’s the English translation
of it. I think it’s actually a German society.”
“And it was held at Lucerne? The old boy—I suppose he is an old boy?”
“Sixty-three, sir, I understand.”
“The old boy didn’t turn up, is that it?”
Inspector Campbell drew his papers towards him and gave Father the
ascertainable facts in so far as they had been ascertained.
“Doesn’t sound as if he’d gone off with a choirboy,” observed Chief-In-
spector Davy.
“I expect he’ll turn up all right,” said Campbell, “but we’re looking into
it, of course. Are you—er—particularly interested in the case, sir?” He
could hardly restrain his curiosity on this point.
“No,” said Davy thoughtfully. “No, I’m not interested in the case. I don’t
see anything to be interested about in it.”
There was a pause, a pause which clearly contained the words, “Well,
then?” with a question mark after it from Inspector Campbell, which he
was too well-trained to utter in audible tones.
“What I’m really interested in,” said Father, “is the date. And Bertram’s
Hotel, of course.”
“It’s always been very well-conducted, sir. No trouble there.”
“That’s very nice, I’m sure,” said Father. He added thoughtfully, “I’d
rather like to have a look at the place.”
“Of course, sir,” said Inspector Campbell. “Anytime you like. I was think-
ing of going round there myself.”
“I might as well come along with you,” said Father. “Not to butt in, noth-
ing like that. But I’d just rather like to have a look at the place, and this dis-
appearing Archdeacon of yours, or whatever he is, makes rather a good
excuse. No need to call me ‘sir’ when we’re there—you throw your weight
about. I’ll just be your stooge.”
Inspector Campbell became interested.
“Do you think there’s something that might tie in there, sir, something
that might tie in with something else?”
“There’s no reason to believe so, so far,” said Father. “But you know how
it is. One gets—I don’t know what to call them—whims, do you think? Ber-
tram’s Hotel, somehow, sounds almost too good to be true.”
He resumed his impersonation of a bumblebee with a rendering of
“Let’s All Go Down the Strand.”
The two detective officers went off together, Campbell looking smart in
a lounge suit (he had an excellent figure), and Chief-Inspector Davy carry-
ing with him a tweedy air of being up from the country. They fitted in
quite well. Only the astute eye of Miss Gorringe, as she raised it from her
ledgers, singled out and appreciated them for what they were. Since she
had reported the disappearance of Canon Pennyfather herself and had
already had a word with a lesser personage in the police force, she had
been expecting something of this kind.
A faint murmur to the earnest- looking girl assistant whom she kept
handy in the background, enabled the latter to come forward and deal
with any ordinary inquiries or services while Miss Gorringe gently shifted
herself a little farther along the counter and looked up at the two men. In-
spector Campbell laid down his card on the desk in front of her and she
nodded. Looking past him to the large tweed-coated figure behind him,
she noted that he had turned slightly sideways, and was observing the
lounge and its occupants with an apparently naïve pleasure at beholding
such a well-bred, upper-class world in action.
“Would you like to come into the office?” said Miss Gorringe. “We can
talk better there perhaps.”
“Yes, I think that would be best.”
“Nice place you’ve got here,” said the large, fat, bovine- looking man,
turning his head back towards her. “Comfortable,” he added, looking ap-
provingly at the large fire. “Good old-fashioned comfort.”
Miss Gorringe smiled with an air of pleasure.
“Yes, indeed. We pride ourselves on making our visitors comfortable,”
she said. She turned to her assistant. “Will you carry on, Alice? There is
the ledger. Lady Jocelyn will be arriving quite soon. She is sure to want to
change her room as soon as she sees it but you must explain to her we are
really full up. If necessary, you can show her number 340 on the third
floor and offer her that instead. It’s not a very pleasant room and I’m sure
she will be content with her present one as soon as she sees that.”
“Yes, Miss Gorringe. I’ll do just that, Miss Gorringe.”
“And remind Colonel Mortimer that his field glasses are here. He asked
me to keep them for him this morning. Don’t let him go off without them.”
“No, Miss Gorringe.”
These duties accomplished, Miss Gorringe looked at the two men, came
out from behind the desk and walked along to a plain mahogany door
with no legend on it. Miss Gorringe opened it and they went into a small,
rather sad-looking office. All three sat down.
“The missing man is Canon Pennyfather, I understand,” said Inspector
Campbell. He looked at his notes. “I’ve got Sergeant Wadell’s report. Per-
haps you’ll tell me in your own words just what occurred.”
“I don’t think that Canon Pennyfather has really disappeared in the
sense in which one would usually use that word,” said Miss Gorringe. “I
think, you know, that he’s just met someone somewhere, some old friend
or something like that, and has perhaps gone off with him to some schol-
arly meeting or reunion or something of that kind, on the Continent—he is
so very vague.”
“You’ve known him for a long time?”
“Oh yes, he’s been coming here to stay for—let me see—oh five or six
years at least, I should think.”
“You’ve been here some time yourself, ma’am,” said Chief- Inspector
Davy, suddenly putting in a word.
“I have been here, let me think, fourteen years,” said Miss Gorringe.
“It’s a nice place,” repeated Davy again. “And Canon Pennyfather usu-
ally stayed here when he was in London? Is that right?”
“Yes. He always came to us. He wrote well beforehand to retain his
room. He was much less vague on paper than he was in real life. He asked
for a room from the 17th to the 21st. During that time he expected to be
away for one or two nights, and he explained that he wished to keep his
room on while he was away. He quite often did that.”
“When did you begin to get worried about him?” asked Campbell.
“Well, I didn’t really. Of course it was awkward. You see, his room was
let on from the 23rd and when I realized—I didn’t at first—that he hadn’t
come back from Lugano—”
“I’ve got Lucerne here in my notes,” said Campbell.
“Yes, yes, I think it was Lucerne. Some Archaeological Congress or other.
Anyway, when I realized he hadn’t come back here and that his baggage
was still here waiting in his room, it made things rather awkward. You
see, we are very booked up at this time of year and I had someone else
coming into his room. The Honourable Mrs. Saunders, who lives at Lyme
Regis. She always has that room. And then his housekeeper rang up. She
was worried.”
“The housekeeper’s name is Mrs. McCrae, so I understand from Arch-
deacon Simmons. Do you know her?”
“Not personally, no, but I have spoken to her on the telephone once or
twice. She is, I think, a very reliable woman and has been with Canon
Pennyfather for some years. She was worried naturally. I believe she and
Archdeacon Simmons got in touch with near friends and relations but
they knew nothing of Canon Pennyfather’s movements. And since he was
expecting the Archdeacon to stay with him it certainly seemed very odd—
in fact it still does—that the Canon should not have returned home.”
“Is this Canon usually as absentminded as that?” asked Father.
Miss Gorringe ignored him. This large man, presumably the accompany-
ing sergeant, seemed to her to be pushing himself forward a little too
much.
“And now I understand,” continued Miss Gorringe, in an annoyed voice,
“and now I understand from Archdeacon Simmons that the Canon never
even went to this conference in Lucerne.”
“Did he send any message to say he wouldn’t go?”
“I don’t think so—not from here. No telegram or anything like that. I
really know nothing about Lucerne—I am really only concerned with our
side of the matter. It has got into the evening papers, I see—the fact that
he is missing, I mean. They haven’t mentioned he was staying here. I hope
they won’t. We don’t want the Press here, our visitors wouldn’t like that at
all. If you can keep them off us, Inspector Campbell, we should be very
grateful. I mean it’s not as if he had disappeared from here.”
“His luggage is still here?”
“Yes. In the baggage room. If he didn’t go to Lucerne, have you con-
sidered the possibility of his being run over? Something like that?”
“Nothing like that has happened to him.”
“It really does seem very, very curious,” said Miss Gorringe, a faint
flicker of interest appearing in her manner, to replace the annoyance. “I
mean, it does make one wonder where he could have gone and why?”
Father looked at her comprehendingly.
“Of course,” he said. “You’ve only been thinking of it from the hotel
angle. Very natural.”
“I understand,” said Inspector Campbell, referring once more to his
notes, “that Canon Pennyfather left here about six thirty on the evening of
Thursday the 19th. He had with him a small overnight bag and he left here
in a taxi, directing the commissionaire to tell the driver to drive to the
Athenaeum Club.”
Miss Gorringe nodded her head.
“Yes, he dined at the Athenaeum Club—Archdeacon Simmons told me
that that was the place he was last seen.”
There was a firmness in Miss Gorringe’s voice as she transferred the re-
sponsibility of seeing the Canon last from Bertram’s Hotel to the Athen-
aeum Club.
“Well, it’s nice to get the facts straight,” said Father in a gentle rumbling
voice. “We’ve got ’em straight now. He went off with his little blue BOAC
bag or whatever he’d got with him—it was a blue BOAC bag, yes? He went
off and he didn’t come back, and that’s that.”
“So you see, really I cannot help you,” said Miss Gorringe, showing a dis-
position to rise to her feet and get back to work.
“It doesn’t seem as if you could help us,” said Father, “but someone else
might be able to,” he added.
“Someone else?”
“Why, yes,” said Father. “One of the staff perhaps.”
“I don’t think anyone knows anything; or they would certainly have re-
ported it to me.”
“Well, perhaps they might. Perhaps they mightn’t. What I mean is,
they’d have told you if they’d distinctly known anything. But I was thinking
more of something he might have said.”
“What sort of thing?” said Miss Gorringe, looking perplexed.
“Oh, just some chance word that might give one a clue. Something like
‘I’m going to see an old friend tonight that I haven’t seen since we met in
Arizona.’ Something like that. Or ‘I’m going to stay next week with a niece
of mine for her daughter’s confirmation.’ With absentminded people, you
know, clues like that are a great help. They show what was in the person’s
mind. It may be that after his dinner at the Athenaeum, he gets into a taxi
and thinks ‘Now where am I going?’ and having got—say—the confirma-
tion in his mind—thinks he’s going off there.”
“Well, I see what you mean,” said Miss Gorringe doubtfully. “It seems a
little unlikely.”
“Oh, one never knows one’s luck,” said Father cheerfully. “Then there
are the various guests here. I suppose Canon Pennyfather knew some of
them since he came here fairly often.”
“Oh yes,” said Miss Gorringe. “Let me see now. I’ve seen him talking to—
yes, Lady Selina Hazy. Then there was the Bishop of Norwich. They’re old
friends, I believe. They were at Oxford together. And Mrs. Jameson and
her daughters. They come from the same part of the world. Oh yes, quite a
lot of people.”
“You see,” said Father, “he might have talked to one of them. He might
have just mentioned some little thing that would give us a clue. Is there
anyone staying here now that the Canon knew fairly well?”
Miss Gorringe frowned in thought.
“Well, I think General Radley is here still. And there’s an old lady who
came up from the country—who used to stay here as a girl, so she told me.
Let me see, I can’t remember her name at the moment, but I can find it for
you. Oh yes, Miss Marple, that’s her name. I believe she knew him.”
“Well, we could make a start with those two. And there’d be a chamber-
maid, I suppose.”
“Oh yes,” said Miss Gorringe. “But she has been interviewed already by
Sergeant Wadell.”
“I know. But not perhaps from this angle. What about the waiter who at-
tended on his table. Or the headwaiter?”
“There’s Henry, of course,” said Miss Gorringe.
“Who’s Henry?” asked Father.
Miss Gorringe looked almost shocked. It was to her impossible that any-
one should not know Henry.
“Henry has been here for more years than I can say,” she said. “You
must have noticed him serving teas as you came in.”
“Kind of personality,” said Davy. “I remember noticing him.”
“I don’t know what we should do without Henry,” said Miss Gorringe
with feeling. “He really is wonderful. He sets the tone of the place, you
know.”
“Perhaps he might like to serve tea to me,” said Chief-Inspector Davy.
“Muffins, I saw he’d got there. I’d like a good muffin again.”
“Certainly if you like,” said Miss Gorringe, rather coldly. “Shall I order
two teas to be served to you in the lounge?” she added, turning to In-
spector Campbell.
“That would—” the inspector began, when suddenly the door opened
and Mr. Humfries appeared in his Olympian manner.
He looked slightly taken aback, then looked inquiringly at Miss Gor-
ringe. Miss Gorringe explained.
“These are two gentlemen from Scotland Yard, Mr. Humfries,” she said.
“Detective-Inspector Campbell,” said Campbell.
“Oh yes. Yes, of course,” said Mr. Humfries. “The matter of Canon
Pennyfather, I suppose? Most extraordinary business. I hope nothing’s
happened to him, poor old chap.”
“So do I,” said Miss Gorringe. “Such a dear old man.”
“One of the old school,” said Mr. Humfries approvingly.
“You seem to have quite a lot of the old school here,” observed Chief-In-
spector Davy.
“I suppose we do, I suppose we do,” said Mr. Humfries. “Yes, in many
ways we are quite a survival.”
“We have our regulars you know,” said Miss Gorringe. She spoke
proudly. “The same people come back year after year. We have a lot of
Americans. People from Boston, and Washington. Very quiet, nice people.”
“They like our English atmosphere,” said Mr. Humfries, showing his
very white teeth in a smile.
Father looked at him thoughtfully. Inspector Campbell said,
“You’re quite sure that no message came here from the Canon? I mean it
might have been taken by someone who forgot to write it down or to pass
it on.”
“Telephone messages are always taken down most carefully,” said Miss
Gorringe with ice in her voice. “I cannot conceive it possible that a mes-
sage would not have been passed on to me or to the appropriate person on
duty.”
She glared at him.
Inspector Campbell looked momentarily taken aback.
“We’ve really answered all these questions before, you know,” said Mr.
Humfries, also with a touch of ice in his voice. “We gave all the informa-
tion at our disposal to your sergeant—I can’t remember his name for the
moment.”
Father stirred a little and said, in a kind of homely way,
“Well you see, things have begun to look rather more serious. It looks
like a bit more than absentmindedness. That’s why, I think, it would be a
good thing if we could have a word or two with those two people you men-
tioned—General Radley and Miss Marple.”
“You want me to—to arrange an interview with them?” Mr. Humfries
looked rather unhappy. “General Radley’s very deaf.”
“I don’t think it will be necessary to make it too formal,” said Chief-In-
spector Davy. “We don’t want to worry people. You can leave it quite
safely to us. Just point out those two you mentioned. There is just a
chance, you know, that Canon Pennyfather might have mentioned some
plan of his, or some person he was going to meet at Lucerne or who was
going with him to Lucerne. Anyway, it’s worth trying.”
Mr. Humfries looked somewhat relieved.
“Nothing more we can do for you?” he asked. “I’m sure you understand
that we wish to help you in every way, only you do understand how we
feel about any Press publicity.”
“Quite,” said Inspector Campbell.
“And I’ll just have a word with the chambermaid,” said Father.
“Certainly, if you like. I doubt very much whether she can tell you any-
thing.”
“Probably not. But there might be some detail—some remark the Canon
made about a letter or an appointment. One never knows.”
Mr. Humfries glanced at his watch.
“She’ll be on duty at six,” he said. “Second floor. Perhaps, in the mean-
time, you’d care for tea?”
“Suits me,” said Father promptly.
They left the office together.
Miss Gorringe said, “General Radley will be in the smoking room. The
first room down that passage on the left. He’ll be in front of the fire there
with The Times. I think,” she added discreetly, “he might be asleep. You’re
sure you don’t want me to—”
“No, no, I’ll see to it,” said Father. “And what about the other one—the
old lady?”
“She’s sitting over there, by the fireplace,” said Miss Gorringe.
“The one with white fluffy hair and the knitting?” said Father, taking a
look. “Might almost be on the stage, mightn’t she? Everybody’s universal
great-aunt.”
“Great-aunts aren’t much like that nowadays,” said Miss Gorringe, “nor
grandmothers nor great- grandmothers, if it comes to that. We had the
Marchioness of Barlowe in yesterday. She’s a great-grandmother. Hones-
tly, I didn’t know her when she came in. Just back from Paris. Her face a
mask of pink and white and her hair platinum blonde and I suppose an
entirely false figure, but it looked wonderful.”
“Ah,” said Father, “I prefer the old-fashioned kind myself. Well, thank
you, ma’am.” He turned to Campbell. “I’ll look after it, shall I, sir? I know
you’ve got an important appointment.”
“That’s right,” said Campbell, taking his cue. “I don’t suppose anything
much will come of it, but it’s worth trying.”
Mr. Humfries disappeared into his inner sanctum, saying as he did so:
“Miss Gorringe—just a moment, please.”
Miss Gorringe followed him in and shut the door behind her.
Humfries was walking up and down. He demanded sharply:
“What do they want to see Rose for? Wadell asked all the necessary
questions.”
“I suppose it’s just routine,” said Miss Gorringe, doubtfully.
“You’d better have a word with her first.”
Miss Gorringe looked a little startled.
“But surely Inspector Campbell—”
“Oh, I’m not worried about Campbell. It’s the other one. Do you know
who he is?”
“I don’t think he gave his name. Sergeant of some kind, I suppose. He
looks rather a yokel.”
“Yokel, my foot,” said Mr. Humfries, abandoning his elegance. “That’s
Chief-Inspector Davy, an old fox if there ever was one. They think a lot of
him at the Yard. I’d like to know what he’s doing here, nosing about and
playing the genial hick. I don’t like it at all.”
“You can’t think—”
“I don’t know what to think. But I tell you I don’t like it. Did he ask to see
anyone else besides Rose?”
“I think he’s going to have a word with Henry.”
Mr. Humfries laughed. Miss Gorringe laughed too.
“We needn’t worry about Henry.”
“No, indeed.”
“And the visitors who knew Canon Pennyfather?”
Mr. Humfries laughed again.
“I wish him joy of old Radley. He’ll have to shout the place down and
then he won’t get anything worth having. He’s welcome to Radley and that
funny old hen, Miss Marple. All the same, I don’t much like his poking his
nose in….”
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