‘I believe I know that old boy,’ said Luscombe, peering at him. ‘Who is he now? Stays here fairly often, I believe. Abercrombie? Archdeacon Abercrombie—no, it’s not Abercrombie, though he’s rather like Abercrombie.’
Elvira glanced round at Canon Pennyfather without interest. Compared with a racing driver he had no appeal at all. She was not interested in ecclesiastics of any kind although, since being in Italy, she admitted to a mild admiration for Cardinals whom she considered as at any rate properly picturesque.
Canon Pennyfather’s face cleared and he nodded his head appreciatively. He had recognized where he was. In Bertram’s Hotel, of course; where he was going to spend the night on his way to—now where was he on his way to? Chadminster? No, no, he had just come from Chadminster. He was going to—of course—to the Congress at Lucerne. He stepped forward, beaming, to the reception desk and was greeted warmly by Miss Gorringe.
‘So glad to see you, Canon Pennyfather. How well you are looking.’
‘Thank you—thank you—I had a severe cold last week but I’ve got over it now. You have a room for me. I did write?’
Miss Gorringe reassured him.
‘Oh yes, Canon Pennyfather, we got your letter. We’ve reserved No. 19 for you, the room you had last time.’
‘Thank you—thank you. For—let me see—I shall want it for four days. Actually I am going to Lucerne and I shall be away for one night, but please keep the room. I shall leave most of my things here and only take a small bag to Switzerland. There won’t be any difficulty over that?’
Again Miss Gorringe reassured him.
‘Everything’s going to be quite all right. You explained very clearly in your letter.’
Other people might not have used the word ‘clearly’. ‘Fully’ would have been better, since he had certainly written at length.
All anxieties set at rest, Canon Pennyfather breathed a sigh of relief and was conveyed, together with his baggage, to Room 19.
In Room 28 Mrs Carpenter had removed her crown of violets from her head and was carefully adjusting her nightdress on the pillow of her bed. She looked up as Elvira entered.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear. Would you like me to help you with your unpacking?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Elvira politely. ‘I shan’t unpack very much, you know.’
‘Which of the bedrooms would you like to have? The bathroom is between them. I told them to put your luggage in the far one. I thought this room might be a little noisy.’
‘That was very kind of you,’ said Elvira in her expressionless voice.
‘You’re sure you wouldn’t like me to help you?’
‘No, thanks, really I wouldn’t. I think I might perhaps have a bath.’
‘Yes, I think that’s a very good idea. Would you like to have the first bath? I’d rather finish putting my things away.’
Elvira nodded. She went into the adjoining bathroom, shut the door behind her and pushed the bolts across. She went into her own room, opened her suitcase and flung a few things on the bed. Then she undressed, put on a dressing-gown, went into the bathroom and turned the taps on. She went back into her own room and sat down on the bed by the telephone. She listened a moment or two in case of interruptions, then lifted the receiver.
‘This is Room 29. Can you give me Regent 1129 please?’
Within the confines of Scotland Yard a conference was in progress. It was by way of being an informal conference. Six or seven men were sitting easily around a table and each of those six men was a man of some importance in his own line. The subject that occupied the attention of these guardians of the law was a subject that had grown terrifically in importance during the last two or three years. It concerned a branch of crime whose success had been overwhelmingly disquieting. Robbery on a big scale was increasing. Bank hold-ups, snatches of pay-rolls, thefts of consignments of jewels sent through the mail, train robberies. Hardly a month passed but some daring and stupendous coup was attempted and brought off successfully.
Sir Ronald Graves, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, was presiding at the head of the table. According to his usual custom he did more listening than talking. No formal reports were being presented on this occasion. All that belonged to the ordinary routine of CID work. This was a high level consultation, a general pooling of ideas between men looking at affairs from slightly different points of view. Sir Ronald Graves’ eyes went slowly round his little group, then he nodded his head to a man at the end of the table.
‘Well, Father,’ he said, ‘let’s hear a few homely wisecracks from you.’
The man addressed as ‘Father’ was Chief-Inspector Fred Davy. His retirement lay not long ahead and he appeared to be even more elderly than he was. Hence his nickname of ‘Father’. He had a comfortable spreading presence, and such a benign and kindly manner that many criminals had been disagreeably surprised to find him a less genial and gullible man that he had seemed to be.
‘Yes, Father, let’s hear your views,’ said another Chief-Inspector.
‘It’s big,’ said Chief-Inspector Davy with a deep sigh. ‘Yes, it’s big. Maybe it’s growing.’
‘When you say big, do you mean numerically?’
‘Yes, I do.’
Another man, Comstock, with a sharp, foxy face and alert eyes, broke in to say:
‘Would you say that was an advantage to them?’
‘Yes and no,’ said Father. ‘It could be a disaster. But so far, devil take it, they’ve got it all well under control.’
Superintendent Andrews, a fair, slight, dreamy-looking man said, thoughtfully:
‘I’ve always thought there’s a lot more to size than people realize. Take a little one-man business. If that’s well run and if it’s the right size, it’s a sure and certain winner. Branch out, make it bigger, increase personnel, and perhaps you’ll get it suddenly to the wrong size and down the hill it goes. The same way with a great big chain of stores. An empire in industry. If that’s big enough it will succeed. If it’s not big enough it just won’t manage it. Everything has got its right size. When it is its right size and well run it’s the tops.’
‘How big do you think this show is?’ Sir Ronald barked.
‘Bigger than we thought at first,’ said Comstock.
A tough looking man, Inspector McNeill, said:
‘It’s growing, I’d say. Father’s right. Growing all the time.’
‘That may be a good thing,’ said Davy. ‘It may grow a bit too fast, and then it’ll get out of hand.’
‘The question is, Sir Ronald,’ said McNeill, ‘who we pull in and when?’
‘There’s a round dozen or so we could pull in,’ said Comstock. ‘The Harris lot are mixed up in it, we know that. There’s a nice little pocket down Luton way. There’s a garage at Epsom, there’s a pub near Maidenhead, and there’s a farm on the Great North