At Bertram’s Hotel. Агата Кристи
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just what you start with,’ Elvira explained.
Colonel Luscombe had an odd feeling of being relegated to his place.
‘These cousins of mine, the Melfords. You think you’ll like living with them? If not—’
‘Oh I think so. I like Nancy quite well. And Cousin Mildred is rather a dear.’
‘That’s all right then?’
‘Quite, for the present.’
Luscombe did not know what to say to that. Whilst he was considering what next to say, Elvira spoke. Her words were simple and direct.
‘Have I any money?’
Again he took his time before answering, studying her thoughtfully. Then he said:
‘Yes. You’ve got quite a lot of money. That is to say, you will have when you are twenty-one.’
‘Who has got it now?’
He smiled. ‘It’s held in trust for you; a certain amount is deducted each year from the income to pay for your maintenance and education.’
‘And you are the trustee?’
‘One of them. There are three.’
‘What happens if I die?’
‘Come, come, Elvira, you’re not going to die. What nonsense!’
‘I hope not—but one never knows, does one? An airliner crashed only last week and everyone was killed.’
‘Well, it’s not going to happen to you,’ said Luscombe firmly.
‘You can’t really know that,’ said Elvira. ‘I was just wondering who would get my money if I died?’
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ said the Colonel irritably. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘It might be interesting,’ said Elvira thoughtfully. ‘I wondered if it would be worth anyone’s while to kill me.’
‘Really, Elvira! This is a most unprofitable conversation. I can’t understand why your mind dwells on such things.’
‘Oh. Just ideas. One wants to know what the facts really are.’
‘You’re not thinking of the Mafia—or something like that?’
‘Oh no. That would be silly. Who would get my money if I was married?’
‘Your husband, I suppose. But really—’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘No, I’m not in the least sure. It depends on the wording of the Trust. But you’re not married, so why worry?’
Elvira did not reply. She seemed lost in thought. Finally she came out of her trance and asked:
‘Do you ever see my mother?’
‘Sometimes. Not very often.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Oh—abroad.’
‘Where abroad?’
‘France—Portugal. I don’t really know.’
‘Does she ever want to see me?’
Her limpid gaze met his. He didn’t know what to reply. Was this a moment for truth? Or for vagueness? Or for a good thumping lie? What could you say to a girl who asked a question of such simplicity, when the answer was of great complexity? He said unhappily:
‘I don’t know.’
Her eyes searched him gravely. Luscombe felt thoroughly ill at ease. He was making a mess of this. The girl must wonder—clearly was wondering. Any girl would.
He said, ‘You mustn’t think—I mean it’s difficult to explain. Your mother is, well, rather different from—’ Elvira was nodding energetically.
‘I know. I’m always reading about her in the papers. She’s something rather special, isn’t she? In fact, she’s rather a wonderful person.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the Colonel. ‘That’s exactly right. She’s a wonderful person.’ He paused and then went on. ‘But a wonderful person is very often—’ He stopped and started again—‘it’s not always a happy thing to have a wonderful person for a mother. You can take that from me because it’s the truth.’
‘You don’t like speaking the truth very much, do you? But I think what you’ve just said is the truth.’
They both sat staring towards the big brass-bound swing doors that led to the world outside.
Suddenly the doors were pushed open with violence—a violence quite unusual in Bertram’s Hotel—and a young man strode in and went straight across to the desk. He wore a black leather jacket. His vitality was such that Bertram’s Hotel took on the atmosphere of a museum by way of contrast. The people were the dust-encrusted relics of a past age. He bent towards Miss Gorringe and asked:
‘Is Lady Sedgwick staying here?’
Miss Gorringe on this occasion had no welcoming smile. Her eyes were flinty. She said:
‘Yes.’ Then, with definite unwillingness, she stretched out her hand towards the telephone. ‘Do you want to—?’
‘No,’ said the young man. ‘I just wanted to leave a note for her.’
He produced it from a pocket of his leather coat and slid it across the mahogany counter.
‘I only wanted to be sure this was the right hotel.’
There might have been some slight incredulity in his voice as he looked round him, then turned back towards the entrance. His eyes passed indifferently over the people sitting round him. They passed over Luscombe and Elvira in the same way, and Luscombe felt a sudden unsuspected anger. ‘Dammit all,’ he thought to himself, ‘Elvira’s a pretty girl. When I was a young chap I’d have noticed a pretty girl, especially among all these fossils.’ But the young man seemed to have no interested eyes to spare for pretty girls. He turned back to the desk and asked, raising his voice slightly as though to call Miss Gorringe’s attention:
‘What’s the telephone number here? 1129 isn’t it?’
‘No,’ said Miss Gorringe, ‘3925.’
‘Regent?’
‘No. Mayfair.’
He nodded. Then swiftly he strode across to the door and passed out, swinging the doors to behind him with something of the same explosive quality he had shown on entering.
Everybody seemed to draw a deep breath; to find difficulty in resuming their interrupted conversations.
‘Well,’ said Colonel Luscombe, rather inadequately, as if at a loss for words. ‘Well, really! These young fellows nowadays …’
Elvira was smiling.
‘You recognized him, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘You know who he is?’ She spoke in a slightly awed voice. She proceeded to enlighten him. ‘Ladislaus Malinowski.’
‘Oh, that chap.’ The name was indeed faintly familiar to Colonel Luscombe. ‘Racing driver.’
‘Yes. He was world champion two years running. He had a bad crash a year ago. Broke lots of things. But I believe he’s driving again now.’ She raised her head to listen. ‘That’s a racing car he’s driving now.’
The roar of the engine had penetrated through to Bertram’s Hotel from the street outside. Colonel Luscombe perceived that Ladislaus Malinowski was one of Elvira’s heroes. ‘Well,’ he thought to himself, ‘better that than one of those pop singers or crooners or long-haired Beatles or whatever they call themselves.’ Luscombe was old-fashioned in his views of young men.