At Bertram's Hotel - Christie Agatha (читаем полную версию книг бесплатно .TXT) 📗

"Any other directors?"

"Lord Pomfret, Abel Isaacstein." Hoffman's voice was suddenly edged. "Do you really need to know all these things? Just because you are looking into the Case of the Disappearing Clergyman?"

Father shook his head and looked apologetic. "I suppose it's really curiosity. Looking for my disappearing clergyman was what took me to Bertram's, but then I got-well, interested if you understand what I mean. One thing leads to another sometimes, doesn't it?"

"I suppose that could be so, yes. And now," he smiled, "your curiosity is satisfied?"

"Nothing like coming to the horse's mouth when you want information, is there?" said Father genially.

He rose to his feet. "There's only one thing I'd really like to know-and I don't suppose you'll tell me that."

"Yes, Chief Inspector?" Hoffman's voice was wary. "Where do Bertram's get hold of their staff? Wonderful! That fellow what's-his-name-Henry. The one that looks like an archduke or an archbishop, I'm not sure which. Anyway, he serves you tea and muffins- most wonderful muffins! An unforgettable experience."

"You like muffins with much butter, yes?" Mr. Hoffman's eyes rested for a moment on the rotundity of Father's figure with disapprobation.

"I expect you can see I do," said Father. "Well, I mustn't be keeping you. I expect you're pretty busy taking over take-over bids, or something like that."

"Ah. It amuses you to pretend to be ignorant of all these things. No, I am not busy. I do not let business absorb me too much. My tastes are simple. I live simply, with leisure, with growing of roses, and my family to whom I am much devoted."

"Sounds ideal," said Father. "Wish I could live like that."

Mr. Hoffman smiled and rose ponderously to shake hands with him.

"I hope you will find your disappearing clergyman very soon."

"Oh! that's all right. I'm sorry I didn't make myself clear. He's found-disappointing case, really. Had a car accident and got concussion-simple as that."

Father went to the door, then turned. "By the way, is Lady Sedgwick a director of your company?" he asked.

"Lady Sedgwick?" Hoffman took a moment or two. "No. Why should she be?"

"Oh well, one hears things. Just a shareholder?"

"I-yes."

"Well, good-bye, Mr. Hoffman. Thanks very much." Father went back to the Yard and straight to the Assistant Commissioner.

"The two Hoffman brothers are the ones behind Bertram's Hotel-financially."

"What? Those scoundrels?" demanded Sir Ronald.

"Yes."

"They've kept it very dark."

"Yes-and Robert Hoffman didn't half like our finding it out. It was a shock to him."

"What did he say?"

"Oh, we kept it all very formal and polite. He tried, not too obviously, to learn how I found out about it."

"And you didn't oblige him with that information, I suppose."

"I certainly did not."

"What excuse did you give for going to see him?"

"I didn't give any," said Father.

"Didn't he think that a bit odd?"

"I expect he did. On the whole I thought that was a good way to play it, sir."

"If the Hoffmans are behind all this, it accounts for a lot. They're never concerned in anything crooked themselves-oh no! They don't organize crime-they finance it though!

"Wilhelm deals with the banking side from Switzerland. He was behind those foreign currency rackets just after the war. We knew it, but we couldn't prove it. Those two brothers control a great deal of money and they use it for backing all kinds of enterprises- some legitimate, some not. But they're careful-they know every trick of the trade. Robert's diamond broking is straightforward enough, but it makes a suggestive picture-diamonds, banking interests, and property-clubs, cultural foundations, office buildings, restaurants, hotels-all apparently owned by somebody else."

"Do you think Hoffman is the planner of these organized robberies?"

"No, I think those two deal only with finance. No, you'll have to look elsewhere for your planner. Somewhere there's a first-class brain at work."

20

The fog had come down over London suddenly that evening. Chief Inspector Davy pulled up his coat collar and turned into Pond Street. Walking slowly like a man who was thinking of something else, he did not look particularly purposeful but anyone who knew him well would realize that his mind was wholly alert. He was prowling as a cat prowls before the moment comes for it to pounce on its prey.

Pond Street was quiet tonight. There were few cars about. The fog had been patchy to begin with, had almost cleared, then had deepened again. The noise of the traffic from Park Lane was muted to the level of a suburban side road. Most of the buses had given up. Only from time to time individual cars went on their way with determined optimism. Chief Inspector Davy turned up a cul-de-sac, went to the end of it and came back again. He turned again, aimlessly as it seemed, first one way, then the other, but he was not aimless. Actually his cat prowl was taking him in a circle round one particular building. Bertram's Hotel. He was appraising carefully just what lay to the east of it, to the west of it, to the north of it, and to the south of it. He examined the cars that were parked by the pavement, he examined the cars that were in the cul-de-sac. He examined a mews with special care. One car in particular interested him and he stopped. He pursed up his lips and said softly, "So you're here again, you beauty." He checked the number and nodded to himself. "FAN 2266 tonight, are you?" He bent down and ran his fingers over the number plate delicately, then nodded approval. "Good job they made of it," he said under his breath.

He went on, came out at the other end of the mews, turned right and right again and came out in Pond Street once more, fifty yards from the entrance of Bertram's Hotel. Once again he paused, admiring the handsome lines of yet another racing car.

"You're a beauty, too," said Chief Inspector Davy. "Your number plate's the same as the last time I saw you. I rather fancy your number plate always is the same. And that should mean"-he broke off-"or should it?" he muttered. He looked up towards what could have been the sky. "Fog's getting thicker," he said to himself.

Outside the door to Bertram's, the Irish commissionaire was standing swinging his arms backwards and forwards with some violence to keep himself warm. Chief Inspector Davy said good evening to him.

"Good evening, sir. Nasty night."

"Yes. I shouldn't think anyone would want to go out tonight who hadn't got to."

The swing doors were pushed open and a middleaged lady came out and paused uncertainly on the step.

"Want a taxi, ma'am?"

"Oh dear. I meant to walk."

"I wouldn't if I were you, ma'am. It's very nasty, this fog. Even in a taxi it won't be too easy."

"Do you think you could find me a taxi?" asked the lady doubtfully.

"I'll do my best. You go inside now, and keep warm and I'll come in and tell you if I've got one." His voice changed, modulated to a persuasive tone. "Unless you have to, ma'am, I wouldn't go out tonight at all."

"Oh dear. Perhaps you're right. But I'm expected at some friends in Chelsea. I don't know. It might be very difficult getting back here. What do you think?"

Michael Gorman took charge.

"If I were you, ma'am," he said firmly, "I'd go in and telephone to your friends. It's not nice for a lady like you to be out on a foggy night like this."

"Well-really-yes, well, perhaps you're right."

She went back in again.

"I have to look after them," said Micky Gorman, turning in an explanatory manner to Father. "That kind would get her bag snatched, she would. Going out this time of night in a fog and wandering about Chelsea or West Kensington or wherever she's trying to go."