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　　I

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

　　Pond Street was quiet tonight. There were few carsabout. 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 waywith determined optimism. Chief-Inspector Davy turned up a cul-de-sac, went to the end ofit and came back again. He turned again, aimlessly as it seemed, first one way, then theother, but he was not aimless. Actually his cat prowl was taking him in a circle round oneparticular building. Bertram‘s Hotel. He was appraising carefully just what lay to theeast of it, to the west of it, to the north of it and to the south of it. He examined thecars 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 numberand nodded to himself. "FAN 2266 tonight, are you?" He bent down and ran his fingers over the number plate delicately, thennodded 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 theentrance of Bertram‘s Hotel. Once again he paused, admiring the handsome lines of yetanother racing car.

　　"You’re a beauty, too,"said Chief-Inspector Davy. "Your numberplate‘s the same as the last time I saw you. I rather fancyyour 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 Irishcommissionaire was standing swinging his arms backwards and forwards with some violence tokeep himself warm. Chief-Inspector Davy said good evening to him.

　　"Good evening, sir. Nasty night."

　　"Yes. I shouldn’tthink anyone would want to go out tonight who hadn‘t got to."

　　The swing doors were pushed open and a middle-agedlady came out and paused uncertainly on the step.

　　"Want a taxi, ma’am?"

　　"Oh dear. I mean to walk."

　　"I wouldn‘t if I wereyou, ma’am. It‘s very nasty, thisfog. 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. Yougo inside now, and keep warm and I’ll come in and tell you ifI‘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’reright. 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 notnice 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 nightin a fog and wandering about Chelsea or West Kensington or wherever she‘s trying to go."

　　"I suppose you’ve hada good deal of experience of dealing with elderly ladies?" saidDavy.

　　"Ah yes, indeed. This place is a home from home tothem, bless their ageing hearts. How about you, sir. Were you wanting a taxi?"

　　"Don‘t suppose youcould get me one if I did," said Father. "There don’t seem to be many about in this. And Idon‘t blame them."

　　"Ah, now, I might lay my hand on one for you.There’s a place round the corner where there‘s usually a taxi driver got his cab parked, having a warm up and a drop ofsomething to keep the cold out."

　　"A taxi’s no good tome," said Father with a sigh.

　　He jerked his thumb towards Bertram‘s Hotel.

　　"I’ve got to goinside. I‘ve got a job to do."

　　"Indeed now? Would it be still the missing Canon?"

　　"Not exactly. He’sbeen found."

　　"Found?" The manstared at him. "Found where?"

　　"Wandering about with concussion after anaccident."

　　"Ah, that‘s just whatone might expect of him. Crossed the road without looking, I expect."

　　"That seems to be the idea," said Father.

　　He nodded, and pushed through the doors into thehotel. There were not very many people in the lounge this evening. He saw Miss Marplesitting in a chair near the fire and Miss Marple saw him. She made, however, no sign ofrecognition. He went towards the desk. Miss Gorringe, as usual, was behind her books. Shewas, he thought, faintly discomposed to see him. It was a very slight reaction, but henoted the fact.

　　"You remember me, Miss Gorringe," he said. "I came here the other day."

　　"Yes, of course I remember you, Chief-Inspector.Is there anything more you want to know. Do you want to see Mr. Humfries?"

　　"No thank you. I don’tthink that‘ll be necessary. I’djust like one more look at your register if I may."

"Of course." Shepushed it along to him.