伯特伦旅馆之谜22
时间：2026-01-04 07:58:35
（单词翻译:单击）
Chapter Fifteen
Father drew a deep breath.
“No,” he said. “No, I suppose nobody would ask you. It’s as simple as
that.”
He relapsed into silence again.
“You think something has happened to him, don’t you?” asked Miss
Marple.
“It’s over a week now,” said Father. “He didn’t have a stroke and fall
down in the street. He’s not in a hospital as a result of an accident. So
where is he? His disappearance has been reported in the Press, but
nobody’s come forward with any information yet.”
“They may not have seen it. I didn’t.”
“It looks—it really looks—” Father was following out his own line of
thought—“as though he meant to disappear. Leaving this place like that in
the middle of the night. You’re quite sure about it, aren’t you?” he deman-
ded sharply. “You didn’t dream it?”
“I am absolutely sure,” said Miss Marple with finality.
Father heaved himself to his feet.
“I’d better go and see that chambermaid,” he said.
Father found Rose Sheldon on duty and ran an approving eye over her
pleasant person.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I know you’ve seen our sergeant
already. But it’s about that missing gentleman, Canon Pennyfather.”
“Oh yes, sir, a very nice gentleman. He often stays here.”
“Absentminded,” said Father.
Rose Sheldon permitted a discreet smile to appear on her respectful
mask of a face.
“Now let me see.” Father pretended to consult some notes. “The last time
you saw Canon Pennyfather—was—”
“On the Thursday morning, sir. Thursday the 19th. He told me that he
would not be back that night and possibly not the next either. He was go-
ing, I think, to Geneva. Somewhere in Switzerland, anyway. He gave me
two shirts he wanted washed and I said they would be ready for him on
the morning of the following day.”
“And that’s the last you saw of him, eh?”
“Yes, sir. You see, I’m not on duty in the afternoons. I come back again at
6 o’clock. By then he must have left, or at any rate he was downstairs. Not
in his room. He had left two suitcases behind.”
“That’s right,” said Father. The contents of the suitcases had been ex-
amined, but had given no useful lead. He went on: “Did you call him the
next morning?”
“Call him? No, sir, he was away.”
“What did you do ordinarily—take him early tea? Breakfast?”
“Early tea, sir. He breakfasted downstairs always.”
“So you didn’t go into his room at all the next day?”
“Oh yes, sir.” Rose sounded shocked. “I went into his room as usual. I
took his shirts in for one thing. And of course I dusted the room. We dust
all the rooms every day.”
“Had the bed been slept in?”
She stared at him. “The bed, sir? Oh no.”
“Was it rumpled—creased in any way?”
She shook her head.
“What about the bathroom?”
“There was a damp hand towel, sir, that had been used. I presume that
would be the evening before. He may have washed his hands last thing be-
fore going off.”
“And there was nothing to show that he had come back into the room—
perhaps quite late—after midnight?”
She stared at him with an air of bewilderment. Father opened his
mouth, then shut it again. Either she knew nothing about the Canon’s re-
turn or she was a highly accomplished actress.
“What about his clothes—suits. Were they packed up in his suitcases?”
“No, sir, they were hanging up in the cupboards. He was keeping his
room on, you see, sir.”
“Who did pack them up?”
“Miss Gorringe gave orders, sir. When the room was wanted for the new
lady coming in.”
A straightforward coherent account. But if that old lady was correct in
stating that she saw Canon Pennyfather leaving his room at 3 a.m. on Fri-
day morning, then he must have come back to that room sometime.
Nobody had seen him enter the hotel. Had he, for some reason, deliber-
ately avoided being seen? He had left no traces in the room. He hadn’t
even lain down on the bed. Had Miss Marple dreamed the whole thing? At
her age it was possible enough. An idea struck him.
“What about the airport bag?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“A small bag, dark blue—a BEA or BOAC bag—you must have seen it?”
“Oh that—yes, sir. But of course he’d take that with him abroad.”
“But he didn’t go abroad. He never went to Switzerland after all. So he
must have left it behind. Or else he came back and left it here with his
other luggage.”
“Yes—yes—I think—I’m not quite sure—I believe he did.”
Quite unsolicited, the thought raced into Father’s mind: They didn’t brief
you on that, did they?
Rose Sheldon had been calm and competent up till now. But that ques-
tion had rattled her. She hadn’t known the right answer to it. But she ought
to have known.
The Canon had taken his bag to the airport, had been turned away from
the airport. If he had come back to Bertram’s, the bag would have been
with him. But Miss Marple had made no mention of it when she had described
the Canon leaving his room and going down the stairs.
Presumably it was left in the bedroom, but it had not been put in the
baggage room with the suitcases. Why not? Because the Canon was sup-
posed to have gone to Switzerland?
He thanked Rose genially and went downstairs again.
Canon Pennyfather! Something of an enigma, Canon Pennyfather.
Talked a lot about going to Switzerland, muddled up things so that he
didn’t go to Switzerland, came back to his hotel so secretly that nobody
saw him, left it again in the early hours of the morning. (To go where? To
do what?)
Could absentmindedness account for all this?
If not, then what was Canon Pennyfather up to? And more important,
where was he?
From the staircase, Father cast a jaundiced eye over the occupants of the
lounge, and wondered whether anyone was what they seemed to be. He
had got to that stage! Elderly people, middle-aged people (nobody very
young) nice old-fashioned people, nearly all well-to-do, all highly respect-
able. Service people, lawyers, clergymen; American husband and wife
near the door, a French family near the fireplace. Nobody flashy, nobody
out of place; most of them enjoying an old-fashioned English afternoon
tea. Could there really be anything seriously wrong with a place that
served old-fashioned afternoon teas?
The Frenchman made a remark to his wife that fitted in appositively
enough.
“Le Five-o’-clock,” he was saying. “C’est bien Anglais ça, n’est ce pas?” He
looked round him with approval.
“Le Five-o’-clock,” thought Davy as he passed through the swing doors to
the street. “That chap doesn’t know that ‘le Five-o’-clock’ is as dead as the
Dodo!”
Outside, various vast American wardrobe cases and suitcases were be-
ing loaded on to a taxi. It seemed that Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Cabot were on
their way to the Hotel Vendôme, Paris.
Beside him on the kerb, Mrs. Elmer Cabot was expressing her views to
her husband.
“The Pendleburys were quite right about this place, Elmer. It just is old
England. So beautifully Edwardian. I just feel Edward the Seventh could
walk right in any moment and sit down there for his afternoon tea. I mean
to come back here next year—I really do.”
“If we’ve got a million dollars or so to spare,” said her husband dryly.
“Now, Elmer, it wasn’t as bad as all that.”
The baggage was loaded, the tall commissionaire helped them in, mur-
muring “Thank you, sir” as Mr. Cabot made the expected gesture. The taxi
drove off. The commissionaire transferred his attention to Father.
“Taxi, sir?”
Father looked up at him.
Over six feet. Good-looking chap. A bit run to seed. Ex-Army. Lot of
medals—genuine, probably. A bit shifty? Drinks too much.
Aloud he said: “Ex-Army man?”
“Yes, sir. Irish Guards.”
“Military Medal, I see. Where did you get that?”
“Burma.”
“What’s your name?”
“Michael Gorman. Sergeant.”
“Good job here?”
“It’s a peaceful spot.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer the Hilton?”
“I would not. I like it here. Nice people come here, and quite a lot of ra-
cing gentlemen—for Ascot and Newbury. I’ve had good tips from them
now and again.”
“Ah, so you’re an Irishman and gambler, is that it?”
“Och! Now, what would life be without a gamble?”
“Peaceful and dull,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “like mine.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Can you guess what my profession is?” asked Father.
The Irishman grinned.
“No offence to you, sir, but if I may guess I’d say you were a cop.”
“Right first time,” said Chief- Inspector Davy. “You remember Canon
Pennyfather?”
“Canon Pennyfather now, I don’t seem to mind the name—”
“Elderly clergyman.”
Michael Gorman laughed.
“Ah now, clergyman are as thick as peas in a pod in there.”
“This one disappeared from here.”
“Oh, that one!” The commissionaire seemed slightly taken aback.
“Did you know him?”
“I wouldn’t remember him if it hadn’t been for people asking me ques-
tions about him. All I know is, I put him into a taxi and he went to the
Athenaeum Club. That’s the last I saw of him. Somebody told me he’d gone
to Switzerland, but I hear he never got there. Lost himself, it seems.”
“You didn’t see him later that day?”
“Later—No, indeed.”
“What time do you go off duty?”
“Eleven-thirty.”
Chief-Inspector Davy nodded, refused a taxi and moved slowly away
along Pond Street. A car roared past him close to the kerb, and pulled up
outside Bertram’s Hotel, with a scream of brakes. Chief-Inspector Davy
turned his head soberly and noted the number plate. FAN 2266. There was
something reminiscent about that number, though he couldn’t for the mo-
ment place it.
Slowly he retraced his steps. He had barely reached the entrance before
the driver of the car, who had gone through the doors a moment or two
before, came out again. He and the car matched each other. It was a ra-
cing model, white with long gleaming lines. The young man had the same
eager greyhound look with a handsome face and a body with not a super-
fluous inch of flesh on it.
The commissionaire held the car door open, the young man jumped in,
tossed a coin to the commissionaire and drove off with a burst of powerful
engine.
“You know who he is?” said Michael Gorman to Father.
“A dangerous driver, anyway.”
“Ladislaus Malinowski. Won the Grand Prix two years ago — world
champion he was. Had a bad smash last year. They say he’s all right again
now.”
“Don’t tell me he’s staying at Bertram’s. Highly unsuitable.”
Michael Gorman grinned.
“He’s not staying here, no. But a friend of his is—” He winked.
A porter in a striped apron came out with more American luxury travel
equipment.
Father stood absentmindedly watching them being ensconced in a
Daimler Hire Car whilst he tried to remember what he knew about Ladis-
laus Malinowski. A reckless fellow—said to be tied up with some well-
known woman—what was her name now? Still staring at a smart ward-
robe case, he was just turning away when he changed his mind and
reentered the hotel again.
He went to the desk and asked Miss Gorringe for the hotel register. Miss
Gorringe was busy with departing Americans, and pushed the book along
the counter towards him. He turned the pages.
Lady Selina Hazy, Little Cottage, Merryfield, Hants.
Mr. and Mrs. Hennessey King, Elderberries, Essex.
Sir John Woodstock, 5 Beaumont Crescent, Cheltenham.
Lady Sedgwick, Hurstings House, Northumberland.
Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Cabot, Connecticut.
General Radley, 14, The Green, Chichester.
Mr. and Mrs. Woolmer Pickington, Marble Head, Con-
necticut.
La Comtesse de Beauville, Les Sapins, St. Germain en
Laye.
Miss Jane Marple, St. Mary Mead, Much Benham.
Colonel Luscombe, Little Green, Suffolk.
Mrs. Carpenter, The Hon. Elvira Blake.
Canon Pennyfather, The Close, Chadminster.
Mrs. Holding, Mr. Holding, Miss Audrey Holding, The
Manor House, Carmanton.
Mr. and Mrs. Ryesville, Valley Forge, Pennsylvania.
The Duke of Barnstable, Doone Castle, N. Devon….
A cross section of the kind of people who stayed at Bertram’s Hotel.
They formed, he thought, a kind of pattern….
As he shut the book, a name on an earlier page caught his eye. Sir Wil-
liam Ludgrove.
Mr. Justice Ludgrove who had been recognized by a probation officer
near the scene of a bank robbery. Mr. Justice Ludgrove—Canon Penny-
father—both patrons of Bertram’s Hotel….
“I hope you enjoyed your tea, sir?” It was Henry, standing at his elbow.
He spoke courteously, and with the slight anxiety of the perfect host.
“The best tea I’ve had for years,” said Chief-Inspector Davy.
He remembered he hadn’t paid for it. He attempted to do so; but Henry
raised a deprecating hand.
“Oh no, sir. I was given to understand that your tea was on the house.
Mr. Humfries’ orders.”
Henry moved away. Father was left uncertain whether he ought to have
offered Henry a tip or not. It was galling to think that Henry knew the an-
swer to that social problem much better than he did!
As he moved away along the street, he stopped suddenly. He took out his
notebook and put down a name and an address—no time to lose. He went
into a telephone box. He was going to stick out his neck. Come hell or high
water, he was going all out on a hunch.
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