伯特伦旅馆之谜37
时间：2026-01-04 08:05:05
（单词翻译:单击）
Chapter Twenty-seven
There was silence for about a minute and a half. Then Miss Marple spoke.
“How very interesting,” she said conversationally.
Bess Sedgwick turned on her. “You don’t seem surprised, Miss Marple.”
“I’m not. Not really. There were so many curious things that didn’t seem
quite to fit in. It was all too good to be true—if you know what I mean.
What they call in theatrical circles, a beautiful performance. But it was a
performance—not real.
“And there were a lot of little things, people claiming a friend or an ac-
quaintance—and turning out to be wrong.”
“These things happen,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “but they happened
too often. Is that right, Miss Marple?”
“Yes,” agreed Miss Marple. “People like Selina Hazy do make that kind of
mistake. But there were so many other people doing it too. One couldn’t
help noticing it.”
“She notices a lot,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, speaking to Bess Sedgwick
as though Miss Marple was his pet performing dog.
Bess Sedgwick turned on him sharply.
“What did you mean when you said this place was the headquarters of a
Crime Syndicate? I should have said that Bertram’s Hotel was the most re-
spectable place in the world.”
“Naturally,” said Father. “It would have to be. A lot of money, time, and
thought has been spent on making it just what it is. The genuine and the
phony are mixed-up very cleverly. You’ve got a superb actor manager run-
ning the show in Henry. You’ve got that chap, Humfries, wonderfully
plausible. He hasn’t got a record in this country but he’s been mixed-up in
some rather curious hotel dealings abroad. There are some very good
character actors playing various parts here. I’ll admit, if you like, that I
can’t help feeling a good deal of admiration for the whole setup. It has cost
this country a mint of money. It’s given the CID and the provincial police
forces constant headaches. Every time we seemed to be getting some-
where, and put our finger on some particular incident—it turned out to be
the kind of incident that had nothing to do with anything else. But we’ve
gone on working on it, a piece there, a piece here. A garage where stacks
of number plates were kept, transferable at a moment’s notice to certain
cars. A firm of furniture vans, a butcher’s van, a grocer’s van, even one or
two phony postal vans. A racing driver with a racing car covering incred-
ible distances in incredibly few minutes, and at the other end of the scale
an old clergyman jogging along in his old Morris Oxford. A cottage with a
market gardener in it who lends first aid if necessary and who is in touch
with a useful doctor. I needn’t go into it all. The ramifications seem unend-
ing. That’s one half of it. The foreign visitors who come to Bertram’s are
the other half. Mostly from America, or from the Dominions. Rich people
above suspicion, coming here with a good lot of luxury luggage, leaving
here with a good lot of luxury luggage which looks the same but isn’t. Rich
tourists arriving in France and not worried unduly by the Customs be-
cause the Customs don’t worry tourists when they’re bringing money into
the country. Not the same tourists too many times. The pitcher mustn’t go
to the well too often. None of it’s going to be easy to prove or to tie up, but
it will all tie up in the end. We’ve made a beginning. The Cabots, for in-
stance—”
“What about the Cabots?” asked Bess sharply.
“You remember them? Very nice Americans. Very nice indeed. They
stayed here last year and they’ve been here again this year. They wouldn’t
have come a third time. Nobody ever comes here more than twice on the
same racket. Yes, we arrested them when they arrived at Calais. Very well-
made job, that wardrobe case they had with them. It had over three hun-
dred thousand pounds neatly stashed. Proceeds of the Bedhampton train
robbery. Of course, that’s only a drop in the ocean.
“Bertram’s Hotel, let me tell you, is the headquarters of the whole thing!
Half the staff are in on it. Some of the guests are in on it. Some of the
guests are who they say they are—some are not. The real Cabots, for in-
stance, are in Yucatan just now. Then there was the identification racket.
Take Mr. Justice Ludgrove. A familiar face, bulbous nose and a wart. Quite
easy to impersonate. Canon Pennyfather. A mild country clergyman, with
a great white thatch of hair and notable absentminded behaviour. His
mannerisms, his way of peering over his spectacles—all very easily imit-
ated by a good character actor.”
“But what was the use of all that?” asked Bess.
“Are you really asking me? Isn’t it obvious? Mr. Justice Ludgrove is seen
near the scene of a bank holdup. Someone recognizes him, mentions it.
We go into it. It’s all a mistake. He was somewhere else at the time. But it
wasn’t for a while that we realized that these were all what is sometimes
called ‘deliberate mistakes.’ Nobody’s bothered about the man who had
looked so like him. And doesn’t look particularly like him really. He takes
off his makeup and stops acting his part. The whole thing brings about
confusion. At one time we had a High Court judge, an Archdeacon, an Ad-
miral, a Major-General, all seen near the scene of a crime.
“After the Bedhampton train robbery at least four vehicles were con-
cerned before the loot arrived in London. A racing car driven by Malin-
owski took part in it, a false Metal Box lorry, an old-fashioned Daimler
with an admiral in it, and an old clergyman with a thatch of white hair in
a Morris Oxford. The whole thing was a splendid operation, beautifully
planned.
“And then one day the gang had a bit of bad luck. That muddle-headed
old ecclesiastic, Canon Pennyfather, went off to catch his plane on the
wrong day, they turned him away from the air station, he wandered out
into Cromwell Road, went to a film, arrived back here after midnight,
came up to his room, of which he had the key in his pocket, opened the
door, and walked in to get the shock of his life when he saw what ap-
peared to be himself sitting in a chair facing him! The last thing the gang
expected was to see the real Canon Pennyfather, supposed to be safely in
Lucerne, walk in! His double was just getting ready to start off to play his
part at Bedhampton when in walked the real man. They didn’t know what
to do but there was a quick reflex action from one member of the party.
Humfries, I suspect. He hit the old man on the head, and he went down
unconscious. Somebody, I think, was angry over that. Very angry. How-
ever, they examined the old boy, decided he was only knocked out, and
would probably come round later and they went on with their plans. The
false Canon Pennyfather left his room, went out of the hotel and drove to
the scene of activities where he was to play his part in the relay race.
What they did with the real Canon Pennyfather I don’t know. I can only
guess. I presume he too was moved later that night, driven down in a car,
taken to the market gardener’s cottage which was at a spot not too far
from where the train was to be held up and where a doctor could attend
to him. Then, if reports came through about Canon Pennyfather having
been seen in the neighbourhood, it would all fit in. It must have been an
anxious moment for all concerned until he regained consciousness and
they found that at least three days had been knocked out of his remem-
brance.”
“Would they have killed him otherwise?” asked Miss Marple.
“No,” said Father. “I don’t think they would have killed him. Someone
wouldn’t have let that happen. It had seemed very clear all along that
whoever ran this show had an objection to murder.”
“It sounds fantastic,” said Bess Sedgwick. “Utterly fantastic! And I don’t
believe you have any evidence whatever to link Ladislaus Malinowski
with this rigmarole.”
“I’ve got plenty of evidence against Ladislaus Malinowski,” said Father.
“He’s careless, you know. He hung around here when he shouldn’t have.
On the first occasion he came to establish connection with your daughter.
They had a code arranged.”
“Nonsense. She told you herself that she didn’t know him.”
“She may have told me that but it wasn’t true. She’s in love with him.
She wants the fellow to marry her.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“You’re not in a position to know,” Chief-Inspector Davy pointed out.
“Malinowski isn’t the sort of person who tells all his secrets and your
daughter you don’t know at all. You admitted as much. You were angry,
weren’t you, when you found out Malinowski had come to Bertram’s
Hotel.”
“Why should I be angry?”
“Because you’re the brains of the show,” said Father. “You and Henry. The
financial side was run by the Hoffman brothers. They made all the ar-
rangements with the Continental banks and accounts and that sort of
thing, but the boss of the syndicate, the brains that run it, and plan it, are
your brains, Lady Sedgwick.”
Bess looked at him and laughed. “I never heard anything so ridiculous!”
she said.
“Oh no, it’s not ridiculous at all. You’ve got brains, courage and daring.
You’ve tried most things; you thought you’d turn your hand to crime.
Plenty of excitement in it, plenty of risk. It wasn’t the money that attracted
you, I’d say, it was the fun of the whole thing. But you wouldn’t stand for
murder, or for undue violence. There were no killings, no brutal assaults,
only nice quiet scientific taps on the head if necessary. You’re a very inter-
esting woman, you know. One of the few really interesting great crimin-
als.”
There was silence for some few minutes. Then Bess Sedgwick rose to her
feet.
“I think you must be mad.” She put her hand out to the telephone.
“Going to ring up your solicitor? Quite the right thing to do before you
say too much.”
With a sharp gesture she slammed the receiver back on the hook.
“On second thoughts I hate solicitors…All right. Have it your own way.
Yes, I ran this show. You’re quite correct when you say it was fun. I loved
every minute of it. It was fun scooping money from banks, trains and post
offices and so-called security vans! It was fun planning and deciding; glori-
ous fun and I’m glad I had it. The pitcher goes to the well once too often?
That’s what you said just now, wasn’t it? I suppose it’s true. Well, I’ve had
a good run for my money! But you’re wrong about Ladislaus Malinowski
shooting Michael Gorman! He didn’t. I did.” She laughed a sudden high,
excited laugh. “Never mind what it was he did, what he threatened…I told
him I’d shoot him—Miss Marple heard me—and I did shoot him. I did very
much what you suggested Ladislaus did. I hid in that area. When Elvira
passed, I fired one shot wild, and when she screamed and Micky came
running down the street, I’d got him where I wanted him, and I let him
have it! I’ve got keys to all the hotel entrances, of course. I just slipped in
through the area door and up to my room. It never occurred to me you’d
trace the pistol to Ladislaus—or would even suspect him. I’d pinched it
from his car without his knowing. But not, I can assure you, with any idea
of throwing suspicion on him.”
She swept round on Miss Marple. “You’re a witness to what I’ve said, re-
member. I killed Gorman.”
“Or perhaps you are saying so because you’re in love with Malinowski,”
suggested Davy.
“I’m not.” Her retort came sharply. “I’m his good friend, that’s all. Oh
yes, we’ve been lovers in a casual kind of way, but I’m not in love with
him. In all my life, I’ve only loved one person—John Sedgwick.” her voice
changed and softened as she pronounced the name.
“But Ladislaus is my friend. I don’t want him railroaded for something
he didn’t do. I killed Michael Gorman. I’ve said so, and Miss Marple has
heard me… And now, dear Chief- Inspector Davy —” her voice rose ex-
citedly, and her laughter rang out—“catch me if you can.”
With a sweep of her arm, she smashed the window with the heavy tele-
phone set, and before Father could get to his feet, she was out of the win-
dow and edging her way rapidly along the narrow parapet. With surpris-
ing quickness in spite of his bulk, Davy had moved to the other window
and flung up the sash. At the same time he blew the whistle he had taken
from his pocket.
Miss Marple, getting to her feet with rather more difficulty a moment or
two later, joined him. Together they stared out along the façade of Ber-
tram’s Hotel.
“She’ll fall. She’s climbing up a drainpipe,” Miss Marple exclaimed. “But
why up?”
“Going to the roof. It’s her only chance and she knows it. Good God, look
at her. Climbs like a cat. She looks like a fly on the side of the wall. The
risks she’s taking!”
Miss Marple murmured, her eyes half closing, “She’ll fall. She can’t do
it….”
The woman they were watching disappeared from sight. Father drew
back a little into the room.
Miss Marple asked:
“Don’t you want to go and—”
Father shook his head. “What good am I with my bulk? I’ve got my men
posted ready for something like this. They know what to do. In a few
minutes we shall know…I wouldn’t put it past her to beat the lot of them!
She’s a woman in a thousand, you know.” He sighed. “One of the wild
ones. Oh, we’ve some of them in every generation. You can’t tame them,
you can’t bring them into the community and make them live in law and
order. They go their own way. If they’re saints they go and tend lepers or
something, or get themselves martyred in jungles. If they’re bad lots they
commit the atrocities that you don’t like hearing about: and sometimes—
they’re just wild! They’d have been all right, I suppose, born in another
age when it was everyone’s hand for himself, everyone fighting to keep
life in their veins. Hazards at every turn, danger all round them, and they
themselves perforce dangerous to others. That world would have suited
them; they’d have been at home in it. This one doesn’t.”
“Did you know what she was going to do?”
“Not really. That’s one of her gifts. The unexpected. She must have
thought this out, you know. She knew what was coming. So she sat looking
at us — keeping the ball rolling — and thinking. Thinking and planning
hard. I expect—ah—” He broke off as there came the sudden roar of a
car’s exhaust, the screaming of wheels, and the sound of a big racing en-
gine. He leaned out. “She’s made it, she’s got to her car.”
There was more screaming as the car came round the corner on two
wheels, a great roar, and the beautiful white monster came tearing up the
street.
“She’ll kill someone,” said Father, “she’ll kill a lot of people…even if she
doesn’t kill herself.”
“I wonder,” said Miss Marple.
“She’s a good driver, of course. A damn good driver. Whoof, that was a
near one!”
They heard the roar of the car racing away with the horn blaring, heard
it grow fainter. Heard cries, shouts, the sound of brakes, cars hooting and
pulling up and finally a great scream of tyres and a roaring exhaust and—
“She’s crashed,” said Father.
He stood there very quietly waiting with the patience that was charac-
teristic of his whole big patient form. Miss Marple stood silent beside him.
Then, like a relay race, word came down along the street. A man on the
pavement opposite looked up at Chief- Inspector Davy and made rapid
signs with his hands.
“She’s had it,” said Father heavily. “Dead! Went about ninety miles an
hour into the park railings. No other casualties bar a few slight collisions.
Magnificent driving. Yes, she’s dead.” He turned back into the room and
said heavily, “Well, she told her story first. You heard her.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “I heard her.” There was a pause. “It wasn’t
true, of course,” said Miss Marple quietly.
Father looked at her. “You didn’t believe her, eh?”
“Did you?”
“No,” said Father. “No, it wasn’t the right story. She thought it out so that
it would meet the case exactly, but it wasn’t true. She didn’t shoot Michael
Gorman. D’you happen to know who did?”
“Of course I know,” said Miss Marple. “The girl.”
“Ah! When did you begin to think that?”
“I always wondered,” said Miss Marple.
“So did I,” said Father. “She was full of fear that night. And the lies she
told were poor lies. But I couldn’t see a motive at first.”
“That puzzled me,” said Miss Marple. “She had found out her mother’s
marriage was bigamous, but would a girl do murder for that? Not
nowadays! I suppose there was a money side to it?”
“Yes, it was money,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “Her father left her a co-
lossal fortune. When she found out that her mother was married to Mi-
chael Gorman she realized that the marriage to Coniston hadn’t been
legal. She thought that meant that the money wouldn’t come to her be-
cause, though she was his daughter, she wasn’t legitimate. She was wrong,
you know. We had a case something like that before. Depends on the
terms of a will. Coniston left it quite clearly to her, naming her by name.
She’d get it all right, but she didn’t know that. And she wasn’t going to let
go of the cash.”
“Why did she need it so badly?”
Chief- Inspector Davy said grimly, “To buy Ladislaus Malinowski. He
would have married her for her money. He wouldn’t have married her
without it. She wasn’t a fool, that girl. She knew that. But she wanted him
on any terms. She was desperately in love with him.”
“I know,” said Miss Marple. She explained: “I saw her face that day in
Battersea Park….”
“She knew that with the money she’d get him, and without the money
she’d lose him,” said Father. “And so she planned a cold-blooded murder.
She didn’t hide in the area, of course. There was nobody in the area. She
just stood by the railings and fired a shot and screamed, and when Mi-
chael Gorman came racing down the street from the hotel, she shot him at
close quarters. Then she went on screaming. She was a cool hand. She’d
no idea of incriminating young Ladislaus. She pinched his pistol because it
was the only way she could get hold of one easily; and she never dreamed
that he would be suspected of the crime, or that he would be anywhere in
the neighbourhood that night. She thought it would be put down to some
thug taking advantage of the fog. Yes, she was a cool hand. But she was
afraid that night—afterwards! And her mother was afraid for her….”
“And now—what will you do?”
“I know she did it,” said Father, “but I’ve no evidence. Maybe she’ll have
beginner’s luck…Even the law seems to go on the principle now of allow-
ing a dog to have one bite—translated into human terms. An experienced
counsel could make great play with the sob stuff—so young a girl, unfortu-
nate upbringing—and she’s beautiful, you know.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “The children of Lucifer are often beautiful—
And as we know, they flourish like the green bay tree.”
“But as I tell you, it probably won’t even come to that—there’s no evid-
ence—take yourself—you’ll be called as a witness—a witness to what her
mother said—to her mother’s confession of the crime.”
“I know,” said Miss Marple. “She impressed it on me, didn’t she? She
chose death for herself, at the price of her daughter going free. She forced
it on me as a dying request….”
The connecting door to the bedroom opened. Elvira Blake came
through. She was wearing a straight shift dress of pale blue. Her fair hair
fell down each side of her face. She looked like one of the angels in an
early primitive Italian painting. She looked from one to the other of them.
She said:
“I heard a car and a crash and people shouting…Has there been an acci-
dent?”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Miss Blake,” said Chief-Inspector Davy formally,
“that your mother is dead.”
Elvira gave a little gasp. “Oh no,” she said. It was a faint uncertain
protest.
“Before she made her escape,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “because it was
an escape—she confessed to the murder of Michael Gorman.”
“You mean—she said—that it was she—”
“Yes,” said Father. “That is what she said. Have you anything to add?”
Elvira looked for a long time at him. Very faintly she shook her head.
“No,” she said, “I haven’t anything to add.”
Then she turned and went out of the room.
“Well,” said Miss Marple. “Are you going to let her get away with it?”
There was a pause, then Father brought down his fist with a crash on
the table.
“No,” he roared—“No, by God I’m not!”
Miss Marple nodded her head slowly and gravely.
“May God have mercy on her soul,” she said.
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