Chapter 20 Chapter Twenty

1 That night a great fog descended suddenly on London.Chief Inspector Davy turned up his coat collar and walked into Bond Street.He walked slowly, like a man who is thinking of other things.He didn't look like he had any particular purpose, but anyone who knew him would realize that his mind was fully alert and he was prowling like a cat sneaks before plunging on its prey. Bond Street is very quiet tonight with few cars.The fog was still patchy at first, then almost cleared, and then deepened again.Vehicle noise from Parker Road is reduced to that of a suburban back road.Most buses stopped.Only now and then a private limousine continued on with resolute optimism.Chief Inspector Davy turned into a small alley, came to the end and turned back: he turned again, as if aimlessly, going first this way and then another.But he is not without purpose.In fact, his cat-like stealth circled around a specific building—the Bertram Hotel.He's looking carefully at what's to the east of it, what's to the west, what's to the south, what's to the north.He checks the cars parked on the sidewalk, he checks the cars parked in the alley.He examined one street with particular care.One car in particular interested him, and he stopped.He pursed his lips and said softly, "Ah, here you are again, beauty." He checked the number and nodded. "It's FAN2266 tonight, isn't it?" He bent down, carefully felt the license plate with his fingers, and nodded appreciatively. "They're pretty good at it," he whispered.

He went on, went out at the other end of the street, turned right and then again, and was again in Bond Street, fifty yards from the gate of Bertram's Hotel, and again he stopped, admiring the the graceful lines of another racing car. "You're a beauty, too," said Chief Inspector Davy. "Your number plate is exactly the same as the last time I saw you. I thought your number plate was always the same. And that means— —” He paused, “—does that mean anything?” he muttered.He looked up at what should be the sky. "The fog is getting heavier," he said to himself. Outside the gates of Bertram's Hotel, the Irish doorman was standing throwing his arms back and forth vigorously to warm himself.Chief Inspector Davy bade him good evening.

"Good evening, sir. What a nasty night." "That's right. I don't think anyone wants to go out to-night if they don't have to." The door was pushed open, and a middle-aged lady came out, and she stopped on the steps hesitantly. "Would you like a taxi, ma'am?" "Oh my God. I was going to walk." "I wouldn't if I were you, ma'am. The fog is very nasty. It's not easy to get out, even by taxi." "Do you think you can help me find an ancestral car?" the lady asked suspiciously. "I'll do my best. You go inside to warm up now, and I'll go in and let you know if I get one." His voice changed into a persuasive one. "I shall not go out at all to-night unless you must, ma'am."

"Oh, my God, maybe you're right. But some friends in Chelsea are waiting for me. I don't know. It must be very difficult to come back here. What do you think?" Michael Gorman took the initiative. "If I were you, ma'am," he said firmly, "I'd go in and call your friend. It's not good for a lady like you to go out on a foggy night like this." "Well—really—yes, well, maybe you're right." She went back to the hotel again. "I've got to take care of them," Mickey Gorman explained, turning to "Pop." "She'll get her bag robbed that way, yes. Out in the fog at this time of night, in Chelsea or West." Walking around Kensington or wherever she intended to be."

"I suppose you're quite experienced with older ladies, aren't you?" said David. "Ah, yes, it is. To them this place is a home away from home, bless the aging folks. And you, sir? Are you going to take a cab?" "I don't think you'd be able to find one for me if I wanted to," said Father. "There don't seem to be many taxis in the area. I don't blame them." "Ah, no, there's one I can assure you of. There's a place around the corner where a taxi driver usually parks his car to warm up and drink against the cold."

"Taxis don't do me any good," said Father with a sigh. He pointed his thumb to Bertram's Hotel. "I gotta go inside. I've got work to do." "Really? Or the missing Canon?" "No. He's been found." "Found it?" The man stared at him, "Where did you find it?" "Had a traffic accident, got a concussion, wandered around." "Ah, that's what one might expect. Must have been crossing the street without looking at the car, I thought." "That seems to be the reason," said "Father."

He nodded, then pushed the door and walked into the hotel.There are not too many people in the rest hall tonight.He saw Miss Marple sitting in a chair by the fire, and Miss Marple saw him too.However, she didn't show it.He goes to the counter.Miss Gorringe sat behind her register as usual.Seeing him—he thought so—she panicked a little.It was a very subtle reaction, but he noticed the fact. "You must remember me, Miss Gorringe," said he, "I was here a few days ago." "Yes, of course I remember you, Mr. Chief Inspector. Is there anything else you would like to know? Would you like to see Mr. Humphreys?"

"No, thank you. I don't think it's necessary. I'd like to have another look at your register if I can." "Of course." She pushed the register towards him. He opened it and slowly scrolled through the pages.It seemed to Miss Gorringe that he was looking for a special project.And it is not. Papa learned a craft at a young age that has now grown into a highly skilled art.He can remember names and addresses intact like a photograph.He can retain this memory for twenty-four or even forty-eight hours.He shook his head, closed the register and returned it to her.

"Canon Pennyfather didn't live in, I suppose?" he said softly. "Canon Pennyfather?" "Did you know that he has appeared?" "No idea. No one ever told me. Where?" "A place in the country. Looks like it was hit by a car. It wasn't reported to us. Two good Samaritans took him home and looked after him." "Oh! I'm very happy. Yes, I'm really very happy. I'm worried about him." "His friends were worried about him, too," said Father, "and I actually started to see if any of them might live here now. A archdeacon or something, I don't remember him now name, but I'll know it when I see it."

"Tomlinson?" said Miss Gorringe, wishing to be of assistance. "Come next week. From Salisbury." "No, not Tomlinson. Well, that's all right." He turned and walked away. It was very quiet in the rest hall tonight. An ascetic-looking, middle-aged man is poring over a poorly typed dissertation, occasionally scribbling a few comments in the margins in small, barely legible handwriting .Every time he wrote, he showed a satisfied and cruel smile. A couple of couples who had been married for years had little need to talk to each other, and now and then a few people would gather together because of the weather and discuss anxiously how they or their families planned to get where they wanted to go.

"—I called Susan to ask Susan not to drive... because the MI Freeway is always dangerous in the fog—" "It is said that the fog on the Midlands is thinner." Chief Inspector Davy watched them as he passed them.He walked unhurriedly, seemingly aimlessly, to his target. Miss Marple was sitting near the fire, watching him come forward. "Oh, you're still here, Miss Marple. I'm glad." "I'm leaving tomorrow," said Miss Marple. This fact is, in part, hinted at in her gestures.She sat tensely, the way people sit in an airport terminal or a train station waiting room.Her luggage, he believed, was already packed, and it was only necessary to add sanitary products and pajamas. "My two-week vacation is over," she explained. "I hope you're having a great vacation." Miss Marple made no immediate answer. "In a sense—it's been good..." She broke off. "Having a bad day, in another sense?" "It's hard to explain what I mean—" "Perhaps, are you too close to the fire? It's too hot in here. Would you like to move somewhere—perhaps the corner?" Miss Marple looked at the corner he pointed to, then at Chief Inspector Davy. "I think you're quite right," she said. He reached out to help her to her feet, took her handbag and book, and seated her in the quiet corner he had begun to suggest. "How about it?" "very good." "Do you know why I made this suggestion?" "It's kind of you to think--it's too hot for me by the fire. And," she went on, "we won't be overheard talking here." "Is there anything you want to tell me, Miss Marple?" "Why do you think so?" "You look like something's up," David said. "I'm sorry I made it so obvious," said Miss Marple, "I didn't mean it." "Then, what's the matter?" "I don't know if I should. I want you to believe, Mr Inspector, that I don't really like meddling in other people's affairs. I'm against meddling in other people's affairs. Though usually well-intentioned, it does a great deal of harm. " "It's like that, isn't it? I can understand. Yes, it's a real problem for you." "Sometimes you see people doing things that in your opinion are unwise — even dangerous. But do you have the right to interfere? I think generally not." "Are you talking about Canon Pennyfather?" "Canon Pennyfather?" Miss Marple sounded very surprised. "Oh, no. Oh no, it has nothing to do with him. It has something to do with - a girl." "A girl, really? Do you think I can help?" "I don't know," said Miss Marple, "I don't know at all. But I'm worried, very worried." "Papa" didn't force her.There he sat, looking big and comfortable and rather stupid.He let her take it easy.She had been willing to help him as much as she could, and he had been willing to help her as best as he could.Maybe, he wasn't very interested.But no one knows for sure. "There are many in the papers," whispered Miss Marple clearly, "of unlawful happenings in the courts: about young people, children and girls 'in need of care and protection'. I suppose it's just a legal term." , but it could mean something real." "The girl you mentioned, do you think she needs care and protection?" "Yes. I feel that way." "An orphan?" "Oh no," said Miss Marple, "largely not, if I may put it that way. Outwardly she is very well guarded and very well cared for." "Sounds interesting." "She's staying at this hotel," said Miss Marple, "with a Mrs. Carpenter, I think. I checked the names in the register, and the girl's name is Elvira Black." Papa was immediately interested, and he looked up. "She's a lovely girl. Very young, very young, cared for and protected, as I say. Her guardian is called Colonel Luscombe, a very nice fellow, quite charming. Of course she went. Young people, but I'm afraid they are extremely naive." "Girl or guardian?" "I mean the Guardian," said Miss Marple. "I don't know the girl well. But I do think she is in danger. I came across her quite by chance in Battersea Park. She was with a young man Sitting in a tea and pastry shop in the park." "Oh, that's it?" said "Pop." "I think it must be a persona non grata. A punk, a swindler, a thug . . . " "A very handsome man," said Miss Marple, "not so young. In his thirties, the kind of man I suppose would be attractive to a woman, but he had a terrible face. Cold, greedy, treacherous." "Maybe he's not as bad as he looks," said Father reassuringly. "If anything, he's worse than he looks," said Miss Marple. "I'm sure of that. He drives a big race car." "Father" raised his head quickly. "Race racing?" "Yes. I've seen it parked near the hotel a few times." "You don't remember its license plate number, do you?" "No, I remember. FAN2266. I have a cousin who stutters," explained Miss Marple. "That's how I remember." "Daddy" looked confused. "Do you know who he is?" asked Miss Marple. "Actually, I know him," said Father slowly, "half French, half Polish. Very famous racing driver, world champion three years ago. His name is Ladislaus Marley Noski. You're quite right about some of his things. He has a bad reputation with women. That is, he's not a good friend for a young girl, but it's hard to do something like this Take any measures. I think she went to see him secretly, didn't she?" "Almost certainly," said Miss Marple. "Have you had contact with her guardian?" "I don't know much about him," said Miss Marple, "except that a mutual friend of ours introduced me to him once. I don't want to go to him as if to spread rumors. I don't know if you can Take some action in some way." "I'll try," said "Pop." "By the way, I thought you might be glad to know that your friend—Canon Pennyfather—has turned up again." "Really!" Miss Marple looked angry, "Where is it?" "A place called Milton Bible John." "That's strange. What is he there for? Does he know it?" "On the face of it—" Chief Inspector Davy drew out his voice for emphasis, "—something happened to him." "What kind of accident?" "Get hit by a car - got a concussion - of course, it could have been something else, he could have had a blow to the head." "Oh, I see." Miss Marple thought about this question, "Don't he know?" "He said—" the Chief Inspector emphasized the word again, "—that he knew nothing." "Very unusual." "Isn't it? The last thing he remembers is taking a taxi to Kensington Airport." Miss Marple shook her head in bewilderment. "I know that's what happens with concussions," she murmured to him. "He didn't say anything—helped?" "He muttered something about the 'Wall of Jericho'." "Joshua?" guessed Miss Marple. "Either archaeological... finds... or... I remember, a play from quite some time ago—Mr. Sutro, I think." "This week north of the Thames there's Gormont Films' 'Walls of Jericho,' starring Olga Radburn and Bart Levine," said Papa. Miss Marple looked at him incredulously. "He might have seen the film in Cromwell Street. He might come out here about eleven o'clock—but if that were the case someone would have seen him—it was not very close to midnight then. For a long time..." "Take the wrong car," suggested Miss Marple. "Things like that..." "If he came back here after midnight," said Father, "he'd probably go upstairs to his room without anybody seeing him. But if that's the job, what happened next?" —why did he go out again after three hours?" Miss Marple was looking for a suitable answer. "The only answer I can think of is—Ro!" A loud bang from the street outside startled her. "The car is suffocating." "Father" comforted. "Sorry for being so jumpy...I'm feeling nervous tonight - an inexplicable feeling..." "Is it a premonition that something will happen? I don't think you need to worry." "I never liked fog." "I want to tell you," said Chief Inspector Davy, "that you've been of great help to me. The things you've noticed here—little things—are quite reasonable." "So what's really wrong with this place?" "Everything has been here before, and there are still problems." Miss Marple sighed. "It's starting to look amazing...you know, nothing has changed...it's like going back in time...to a time when people loved and enjoyed it." She stopped. "But of course, it's not really like that. I realized (I thought I knew it already) that people can never go back, and shouldn't even try to go back—the essence of life is progress. Life really is a one-way street, isn't it?" "Almost." "Father" agreed. "I remember," said Miss Marple, digging characteristically from the main topic, "I remember when I was in Paris with my mother and grandmother, we went to the Elysee for tea. My grandmother looked around, Suddenly said: 'Clara, I definitely think I'm the only woman here with a bonnet!' And she really was! When she got home, she packed all the bonnets—and the ones with them cloaks, and sent them all away..." "Send to a charity bazaar for used clothes?" "Dad" asked with concern. "Oh no. No one at a used clothes sale would ever need these. She sent them to a theater troupe. They appreciated them very much. Let me see—" Miss Marple got her bearings again. "—Where did I start?" "Sums up this place." "Yeah. It looks good—but it's not. It's a mess—real people and unreal people. You can't tell them apart." "What do you mean unreal?" "There are retired servicemen, but there are men who look like servicemen but have never been in the military. Chaplains who are not priests. And admirals and lieutenants who have never been in the navy. My friend, Selina Hartz... at first I found it funny how she was always eager to recognize people she knew (naturally, of course) and how often she got it wrong and they weren't who she thought they were. But it happened So much so, that I started to wonder. Even Rose, the waitress...such a nice person...I started to think maybe she wasn't real either." "She was an actress, a good one, if you're interested to know. She makes more money here than she did when she was an actress." "But—why?" "Mostly, for a little decoration. Maybe there are other reasons." "I'm glad I'm leaving here," said Miss Marple.She trembled slightly, "Before anything happened." Chief Inspector Davy looked at her curiously. "What do you think is going to happen?" he asked. "Something wicked," said Miss Marple. "Evil is a pretty big word..." "Do you think that's an exaggeration? But I've had some experiences...that seem to be connected...often...with murder." "Murder?" Chief Inspector Davy shook his head. "I don't suspect murder. It's just a safe haven for a bunch of smart criminals." "That's not the same thing. Murder — attempted murder — is very different. It's... how should I put it? ... It's rebellion against God." He looked at her and shook his head slightly in reassurance. "There will be no murder," he said. Suddenly there was a loud bang, louder than the first bang, from outside.Then there was a scream and another loud bang. Chief Inspector Davy was on his feet, moving his bulky body with astonishing speed.A few seconds later, he walked through the hotel door and out onto the street. 2 A scream—a woman's scream—cut through the fog with terror.Chief Inspector Davy rushed down Bond Street in the direction of the screams.He could vaguely make out the figure of a woman leaning on the railing, and after a dozen steps, he was beside her.She was wearing a long coat with a light-coloured fur collar, and her shiny blond hair hung down the sides of her face.For a moment he thought he knew who she was, then realized it was just a tiny girl.A man in uniform crouches on the sidewalk at her feet.Chief Inspector Davy recognized him. It was Michael Gorman. David came up to the girl, who clutched at him, trembling, and stuttered incoherently. "Somebody tried to kill me...someone...they shot at me...if it wasn't for him—" she said, pointing down at the motionless body at her feet, "he pushed me behind me in front of me—and then The second bullet came...so he fell...he saved my life and I think he got hurt - pretty badly...” Chief Inspector Davy was on one knee, flashlight in hand.The tall Irish doorman fell like a warrior.There was a wet patch on the left side of his jacket, which was getting wetter as the blood seeped into the material.David rolled up one of his eyelids and touched his wrist again.He stood up again. "The bullet hit too squarely," he said. The girl burst into tears. "You mean he's dead? Oh no, no! He can't die." "Who shot you?" "I don't know... I parked the car around the corner and was groping my way along the railing... I was going to the Bertram Hotel. Then suddenly someone fired... a bullet went past my ear and... He... the doorman at Bertram's Hotel... came running up the road towards me, pushed me behind me, and fired another shot... I think... I think whoever it was, he must be hiding over there an area." Chief Inspector Davy looked in the direction she pointed.At the end of Bertram's Hotel, below the level of the high street, was an old-fashioned quarter, accessible through a door and down a few steps.There are only a few warehouses and most of the area is unused.But it is still easy to hide a person. "Didn't you see him?" "Didn't see clearly. He passed me like a shadow. It's all because of the fog." David nodded. The girl began to sob hysterically. "But who could possibly want to kill me? Why would anyone want to kill me? It's the second time. I don't understand . . . why . . . " Chief Inspector Davy had one arm around the girl, and with the other he was groping in his pocket. Screeching police whistles cut through the fog. 3 In the lobby of the Bertram Hotel, Miss Gorringe looked up abruptly from the counter. Several guests also raised their heads.The older ones and the ones with poor ears didn't look up. Henry was about to put a glass of aged brandy on the table, but he also stopped moving, just standing there with the wine in his hand. Miss Marple sat up straight, clutching the arms of her chair with both hands.A retired admiral quipped: "Accident! I think the cars collided in the fog." The door of the hotel facing the main street was pushed open, and a man who looked like a foreign policeman came in, who looked much bigger than he was in real life. He was holding a girl in a light-colored fur-collared coat.She seemed to be barely able to walk.The police look around for help, somewhat embarrassed. Miss Gorringe came out from behind the counter, ready to deal.But at this moment, the elevator came down, and a tall figure appeared.So the girl swayed, broke free from the support of the police, and ran frantically across the rest hall. "Mother," she cried, "oh mother, mother..." and fell into Bess Sedgwick's arms, sobbing.