Free At Bertram's Hotel by Agatha Christie

came open and spilled various oddments. A waitress rushed to assist her in picking them up, and Miss Marple was forced to show a great shakiness and dropped coins and keys a second time.
    She did not get very much by these subterfuges but they were not entirely in vain - and it was interesting that neither of the two objects of her curiosity spared as much as a glance for the dithery old lady who kept dropping things.
    As Miss Marple waited for the elevator down she memorized such scraps as she had heard.
    “What about the weather forecast?”
    “O.K. No fog.”
    “All set for Lucerne?”
    “Yes. Plane leaves 9:40.”
    That was all she had got the first time. On the way back it had lasted a little longer.
    Bess Sedgwick had been speaking angrily. “What possessed you to come to Bertram's yesterday - you shouldn't have come near the place.”
    “It's all right. I asked if you were staying there and everyone knows we're close friends -”
    “That's not the point. Bertram's is all right for me - not for you. You stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone stares at you.”
    “Let them!”
    “You really are an idiot. Why - why? What reasons did you have? You had a reason - I know you...”
    “Calm down, Bess.”
    “You're such a liar!”
    That was all Miss Marple had been able to hear. She found it interesting.

At Bertram's Hotel

Chapter 7
    On the evening of November 19 Canon Pennyfather had finished an early dinner at the Athenaeum, he had nodded to one or two friends, had had a pleasant acrimonious discussion on some crucial points of the dating of the Dead Sea scrolls and now, glancing at his watch, saw that it was time to leave to catch his plane to Lucerne. As he passed through the hall he was greeted by one more friend: Dr Whittaker, of the S.O.A.S., who said cheerfully, “How are you, Pennyfather? Haven't seen you for a long time. How did you get on at the Congress? Any points of interest come up?”
    “I am sure there will be.”
    “Just come back from it, haven't you?”
    “No, no, I am on my way there. I'm catching a plane this evening.”
    “Oh I see.” Whittaker looked slightly puzzled. “Somehow or other I thought the Congress was today.”
    “No, no. Tomorrow, the nineteenth.”
    Canon Pennyfather passed out through the door while his friend, looking after him, was just saying,
    “But my dear chap, today is the nineteenth, isn't it?”
    Canon Pennyfather, however, was gone beyond earshot. He picked up a taxi in Pall Mall, and was driven to the air terminal in Kensington. There was quite a fair crowd this evening. Presenting himself at the desk it at last came to his turn. He managed to produce ticket and passport and other necessities for the journey. The girl behind the desk, about to stamp these credentials, paused abruptly.
    “I beg your pardon, sir, this seems to be the wrong ticket.”
    “The wrong ticket? No, no, that is quite right. Flight one hundred and - well, I can't really read without my glasses - one hundred and something to Lucerne.”
    “It's the date, sir. This is dated Wednesday the eighteenth.”
    “No, no, surely. At least - I mean - today is Wednesday the eighteenth.”
    “I'm sorry, sir. Today is the nineteenth.”
    “The nineteenth!” The Canon was dismayed. He fished out a small diary, turning the pages eagerly. In the end he had to be convinced. Today was the nineteenth. The plane he had meant to catch had gone yesterday.
    “Then that means - that means - dear me, it means the Congress at Lucerne has taken place today.”
    He stared in deep dismay across the counter; but there were many others travelling; the canon and his perplexities were elbowed aside. He stood sadly, holding the useless ticket in his hand. His mind ranged over various possibilities. Perhaps his ticket could be changed? But that would be no use - no indeed - what time was it now? Going on for nine o'clock? The conference had actually taken place; starting at ten o'clock this morning. Of course, that