The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie (best detective novels of all time TXT) 📖

Therefore, misled by the dot as you were, he attempts to reach Cabin 17 at one o’clock on the 22nd, having previously tried to get possession of the cabin through Pagett. On the way there somebody knifes him——”

“Who?” I interpolated.

“Chichester. Yes, it all fits in. Cable to Lord Nasby that you have found ‘The Man in the Brown Suit,’ and your fortune’s made, Anne!”

“There are several things you’ve overlooked.”

“What things? Rayburn’s got a scar, I know—but a scar can be faked easily enough. He’s the right height and build. What’s the description of a head with which you pulverized them at Scotland Yard?”

I trembled. Suzanne was a well-educated, well-read woman, but I prayed that she might not be conversant with technical terms of anthropology.

“Dolichocephalic,” I said lightly.

Suzanne looked doubtful.

“Was that it?”

“Yes. Long-headed, you know. A head whose width is less than 75 per cent. of its length,” I explained fluently.

There was a pause. I was just beginning to breathe freely when Suzanne said suddenly:

“What’s the opposite?”

“What do you mean—the opposite?”

“Well, there must be an opposite. What do you call the heads whose breadth is more than 75 per cent. of their length.”

“Brachycephalic,” I murmured unwillingly.

“That’s it. I thought that was what you said.”

“Did I? It was a slip of the tongue. I meant dolichocephalic,” I said with all the assurance I could muster.

Suzanne looked at me searchingly. Then she laughed.

“You lie very well, Gipsy girl. But it will save time and trouble now if you tell me all about it.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I said unwillingly.

“Isn’t there?” said Suzanne gently.

“I suppose I shall have to tell you,” I said slowly. “I’m not ashamed of it. You can’t be ashamed of something that just—happens to you. That’s what he did. He was detestable—rude and ungrateful—but that I think I understand. It’s like a dog that’s been chained up—or badly treated—it’ll bite anybody. That’s what he was like—bitter and snarling. I don’t know why I care—but I do. I care horribly. Just seeing him has turned my whole life upside-down. I love him. I want him. I’ll walk all over Africa barefoot till I find him, and I’ll make him care for me. I’d die for him. I’d work for him, slave for him, steal for him, even beg or borrow for him! There—now you know!”

Suzanne looked at me for a long time.

“You’re very un-English, Gipsy girl,” she said at last. “There’s not a scrap of the sentimental about you. I’ve never met any one who was at once so practical and so passionate. I shall never care for any one like that—mercifully for me—and yet—and yet I envy you, Gipsy girl. It’s something to be able to care. Most people can’t. But what a mercy for your little doctor man that you didn’t marry him. He doesn’t sound at all the sort of individual who would enjoy keeping high explosive in the house! So there’s to be no cabling to Lord Nasby?”

I shook my head.

“And yet you believe him to be innocent?”

“I also believe that innocent people can be hanged.”

“Hm! yes. But, Anne dear, you can face facts, face them now. In spite of all you say, he may have murdered this woman.”

“No,” I said. “He didn’t.”

“That’s sentiment.”

“No, it isn’t. He might have killed her. He may even have followed her there with that idea in his mind. But he wouldn’t take a bit of black cord and strangle her with it. If he’d done it, he would have strangled her with his bare hands.”

Suzanne gave a little shiver. Her eyes narrowed appreciatively.

“Hm! Anne, I am beginning to see why you find this young man of yours so attractive!”

CHAPTER XVI

I got an opportunity of tackling Colonel Race on the following morning. The auction of the sweep had just been concluded, and we walked up and down the deck together.

“How’s the gipsy this morning? Longing for land and her caravan?”

I shook my head.

“Now that the sea is behaving so nicely, I feel I should like to stay on it for ever and ever.”

“What enthusiasm!”

“Well, isn’t it lovely this morning?”

We leant together over the rail. It was a glassy calm. The sea looked as though it had been oiled. There were great patches of colour on it, blue, pale green, emerald, purple and deep orange, like a cubist picture. There was an occasional flash of silver that showed the flying fish. The air was moist and warm, almost sticky. Its breath was like a perfumed caress.

“That was a very interesting story you told us last night,” I said, breaking the silence.

“Which one?”

“The one about the diamonds.”

“I believe women are always interested in diamonds.”

“Of course we are. By the way, what became of the other young man? You said there were two of them.”

“Young Lucas? Well, of course, they couldn’t prosecute one without the other, so he went scot-free too.”

“And what happened to him—eventually, I mean. Does any one know?”

Colonel Race was looking straight ahead of him out to sea. His face was as devoid of expression as a mask, but I had an idea that he did not like my questions. Nevertheless, he replied readily enough:

“He went to the War and acquitted himself bravely. He was reported Missing and Wounded—believed killed.”

That told me what I wanted to know. I asked no more. But more than ever I wondered how much Colonel Race knew. The part he was playing in all this puzzled me.

One other thing I did. That was to interview the night steward. With a little financial encouragement, I soon got him to talk.

“The lady wasn’t frightened, was she, miss? It seemed a harmless sort of joke. A bet, or so I understood.”

I got it all out of him, little by little. On the voyage from Cape Town to England one of the passengers had handed him a roll of films with instructions that they were to be dropped onto the bunk in Cabin 71 at 1 a.m. on January 22nd on the outward journey. A lady would be occupying the cabin, and the affair was described as a bet. I gathered that the steward had been liberally paid for his part in the transaction. The lady’s name had not been mentioned. Of course, as Mrs. Blair went straight into Cabin 71, interviewing the purser as soon as she got on board, it never occurred to the steward that she was not the lady in question. The name of the passenger who had arranged the transaction was Carton, and his description tallied exactly with that of the man killed on the Tube.

So one mystery, at all events, was cleared up, and the diamonds were obviously the key to the whole situation.

Those last days on the Kilmorden seemed to pass very quickly. As we drew nearer and nearer to Cape Town, I was forced to consider carefully my future plans. There were so many people I wanted to keep an eye on. Mr. Chichester, Sir Eustace and his secretary, and—yes, Colonel Race! What was I to do about it? Naturally it was Chichester who had first claim on my attention. Indeed, I was on the point of reluctantly dismissing Sir Eustace and Mr. Pagett from their position of suspicious characters, when a chance conversation awakened fresh doubts in my mind.

I had not forgotten Mr. Pagett’s incomprehensible emotion at the mention of Florence. On the last evening on board we were all sitting on deck and Sir Eustace addressed a perfectly innocent question to his secretary. I forget exactly what it was, something to do with railway delays in Italy, but at once I noticed that Mr. Pagett was displaying the same uneasiness which had caught my attention before. When Sir Eustace claimed Mrs. Blair for a dance, I quickly moved into the chair next to the secretary. I was determined to get to the bottom of the matter.

“I have always longed to go to Italy,” I said. “And especially to Florence. Didn’t you enjoy it very much there?”

“Indeed I did, Miss Beddingfeld. If you will excuse me, there is some correspondence of Sir Eustace’s that——”

I took hold of him firmly by his coat sleeve.

“Oh, you mustn’t run away!” I cried with the skittish accent of an elderly dowager. “I’m sure Sir Eustace wouldn’t like you to leave me alone with no one to talk to. You never seem to want to talk about Florence. Oh, Mr. Pagett, I believe you have a guilty secret!”

I still had my hand on his arm, and I could feel the sudden start he gave.

“Not at all, Miss Beddingfeld, not at all,” he said earnestly. “I should be only too delighted to tell you all about it, but there really are some cables——”

“Oh, Mr. Pagett, what a thin pretence. I shall tell Sir Eustace——”

I got no further. He gave another jump. The man’s nerves seemed in a shocking state.

“What is it you want to know?”

The resigned martyrdom of his tone made me smile inwardly.

“Oh, everything! The pictures, the olive trees——”

I paused, rather at a loss myself.

“I suppose you speak Italian?” I resumed.

“Not a word, unfortunately. But of course, with hall porters and—er—guides.”

“Exactly,” I hastened to reply. “And which was your favourite picture?”

“Oh, er—the Madonna—er—Raphael, you know.”

“Dear old Florence,” I murmured sentimentally. “So picturesque on the banks of the Arno. A beautiful river. And the Duomo, you remember the Duomo?”

“Of course, of course.”

“Another beautiful river, is it not?” I hazarded. “Almost more beautiful than the Arno?”

“Decidedly so, I should say.”

Emboldened by the success of my little trap, I proceeded further. But there was little room for doubt. Mr. Pagett delivered himself into my hands with every word he uttered. The man had never been in Florence in his life.

But, if not in Florence, where had he been? In England? Actually in England at the time of the Mill House Mystery? I decided on a bold step.

“The curious thing is,” I said, “that I fancied I had seen you before somewhere. But I must be mistaken—since you were in Florence at the time. And yet——”

I studied him frankly. There was a hunted look in his eyes. He passed his tongue over his dry lips.

“Where—er—where——”

“—did I think I had seen you?” I finished for him. “At Marlow. You know Marlow? Why, of course, how stupid of me, Sir Eustace has a house there!”

But with an incoherent muttered excuse, my victim rose and fled.

That night I invaded Suzanne’s cabin, alight with excitement.

“You see, Suzanne,” I urged, as I finished my tale, “he was in England, in Marlow, at the time of the murder. Are you so sure now that ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’ is guilty.”

“I’m sure of one thing,” said Suzanne, twinkling unexpectedly.

“What’s that?”

“That ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’ is better looking than poor Mr. Pagett. No, Anne, don’t get cross. I was only teasing. Sit down here. Joking apart, I think you’ve made a very important discovery. Up till now, we’ve considered Pagett as having an alibi. Now we know he hasn’t.”

“Exactly,” I said. “We must keep an eye on him.”

“As well as everybody else,” she said ruefully. “Well, that’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. That—and finance. No, don’t stick your nose in the air. I know you are absurdly proud and independent, but you’ve got to listen to horse sense over this. We’re partners—I wouldn’t offer you a penny because I liked you, or because you’re a friendless girl—what I want is a thrill, and I’m prepared to pay for it. We’re going into this together regardless of expense. To begin with you’ll come with me to the Mount Nelson Hotel at my expense, and we’ll plan out our campaign.”

We argued the point. In the end I gave in. But I didn’t like it. I wanted to do the thing on my own.

“That’s settled,” said Suzanne at last, getting up and stretching herself with a big yawn. “I’m exhausted with my own eloquence. Now then, let us discuss our victims. Mr. Chichester is going on to Durban. Sir Eustace