The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie (best detective novels of all time TXT) 📖
- Author: Agatha Christie
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“Good,” I approved. “You keep an eye on Sir Eustace and Pagett, and I take on Chichester. But what about Colonel Race?”
Suzanne looked at me queerly.
“Anne, you can’t possibly suspect——”
“I do. I suspect everybody. I’m in the mood when one looks round for the most unlikely person.”
“Colonel Race is going to Rhodesia too,” said Suzanne thoughtfully. “If we could arrange for Sir Eustace to invite him also——”
“You can manage it. You can manage anything.”
“I love butter,” purred Suzanne.
We parted on the understanding that Suzanne should employ her talents to the best advantage.
I felt too excited to go to bed immediately. It was my last night on board. Early to-morrow morning we should be in Table Bay.
I slipped up on deck. The breeze was fresh and cool. The boat was rolling a little in the choppy sea. The decks were dark and deserted. It was after midnight.
I leaned over the rail, watching the phosphorescent trail of foam. Ahead of us lay Africa, we were rushing towards it through the dark water. I felt alone in a wonderful world. Wrapped in a strange peace, I stood there, taking no heed of time, lost in a dream.
And suddenly I had a curious intimate premonition of danger. I had heard nothing, but I swung round instinctively. A shadowy form had crept up behind me. As I turned, it sprang. One hand gripped my throat, stifling any cry I might have uttered. I fought desperately, but I had no chance. I was half choking from the grip on my throat, but I bit and clung and scratched in the most approved feminine fashion. The man was handicapped by having to keep me from crying out. If he had succeeded in reaching me unawares it would have been easy enough for him to sling me overboard with a sudden heave. The sharks would have taken care of the rest.
Struggle as I would, I felt myself weakening. My assailant felt it too. He put out all his strength. And then, running on swift noiseless feet, another shadow joined in. With one blow of his fist, he sent my opponent crashing headlong to the deck. Released, I fell back against the rail, sick and trembling.
My rescuer turned to me with a quick movement.
“You’re hurt!”
There was something savage in his tone—a menace against the person who had dared to hurt me. Even before he spoke I had recognized him. It was my man—the man with the scar.
But that one moment in which his attention had been diverted to me had been enough for the fallen enemy. Quick as a flash he had risen to his feet and taken to his heels down the deck. With an oath Rayburn sprang after him.
I always hate being out of things. I joined the chase—a bad third. Round the deck we went to the starboard side of the ship. There by the saloon door lay the man in a crumpled heap. Rayburn was bending over him.
“Did you hit him again?” I called breathlessly.
“There was no need,” he replied grimly. “I found him collapsed by the door. Or else he couldn’t get it open and is shamming. We’ll soon see about that. And we’ll see who he is too.”
With a beating heart I drew near. I had realized at once that my assailant was a bigger man than Chichester. Anyway, Chichester was a flabby creature who might use a knife at a pinch, but who would have little strength in his bare hands.
Rayburn struck a match. We both uttered an ejaculation. The man was Guy Pagett.
Rayburn appeared absolutely stupefied by the discovery.
“Pagett,” he muttered. “My God, Pagett.”
I felt a slight sense of superiority.
“You seem surprised.”
“I am,” he said heavily. “I never suspected——” He wheeled suddenly round on me. “And you? You’re not? You recognized him, I suppose, when he attacked you?”
“No, I didn’t. All the same, I’m not so very surprised.” He stared at me suspiciously.
“Where do you come in, I wonder? And how much do you know?”
I smiled.
“A good deal, Mr.—er—Lucas!”
He caught my arm, the unconscious strength of his grip made me wince.
“Where did you get that name?” he asked hoarsely.
“Isn’t it yours?” I demanded sweetly. “Or do you prefer to be called ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’?”
That did stagger him. He released my arm and fell back a pace or two.
“Are you a girl or a witch?” he breathed.
“I’m a friend.” I advanced a step towards him. “I offered you my help once—I offer it again. Will you have it?”
The fierceness of his answer took me aback.
“No. I’ll have no truck with you or with any woman. Do your damnedest.”
As before, my own temper began to rise.
“Perhaps,” I said, “you don’t realize how much in my power you are? A word from me to the Captain——”
“Say it,” he sneered. Then advancing with a quick step: “And whilst we’re realizing things, my girl, do you realize that you’re in my power this minute? I could take you by the throat like this.” With a swift gesture he suited the action to the word. I felt his two hands clasp my throat and press—ever so little. “Like this—and squeeze the life out of you! And then—like our unconscious friend here, but with more success—fling your dead body to the sharks. What do you say to that?”
I said nothing. I laughed. And yet I knew that the danger was real. Just at that moment he hated me. But I knew that I loved the danger, loved the feeling of his hands on my throat. That I would not have exchanged that moment for any other moment in my life. . . .
With a short laugh he released me.
“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.
“Anne Beddingfeld.”
“Does nothing frighten you, Anne Beddingfeld?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, with an assumption of coolness I was far from feeling. “Wasps, sarcastic women, very young men, cockroaches, and superior shop assistants.”
He gave the same short laugh as before. Then he stirred the unconscious form of Pagett with his feet.
“What shall we do with this junk? Throw it overboard?” he asked carelessly.
“If you like,” I answered with equal calm.
“I admire your whole-hearted, blood-thirsty instincts, Miss Beddingfeld. But we will leave him to recover at his leisure. He is not seriously hurt.”
“You shrink from a second murder, I see,” I said sweetly.
“A second murder?”
He looked genuinely puzzled.
“The woman at Marlow,” I reminded him, watching the effect of my words closely.
An ugly brooding expression settled down on his face. He seemed to have forgotten my presence.
“I might have killed her,” he said. “Sometimes I believe that I meant to kill her. . . .”
A wild rush of feeling, hatred of the dead woman, surged through me. I could have killed her that moment, had she stood before me. . . . For he must have loved her once—he must—he must—to have felt like that!
I regained control of myself and spoke in my normal voice:
“We seem to have said all there is to be said—except good night.”
“Good night and good-bye, Miss Beddingfeld.”
“Au revoir, Mr. Lucas.”
Again he flinched at the name. He came nearer.
“Why do you say that—au revoir, I mean?”
“Because I have a fancy that we shall meet again.”
“Not if I can help it!”
Emphatic as his tone was, it did not offend me. On the contrary I hugged myself with secret satisfaction. I am not quite a fool.
“All the same,” I said gravely, “I think we shall.”
“Why?”
I shook my head, unable to explain the feeling that had actuated my words.
“I never wish to see you again,” he said suddenly and violently.
It was really a very rude thing to say, but I only laughed softly and slipped away into the darkness.
I heard him start after me, and then pause, and a word floated down the deck. I think it was a “witch”!
CHAPTER XVIIIt is really the greatest relief to get off the Kilmorden.
The whole time that I was on board I was conscious of being surrounded by a network of intrigue. To put the lid on everything, Guy Pagett must needs engage in a drunken brawl the last night. It is all very well to explain it away, but that is what it actually amounts to. What else would you think if a man comes to you with a lump the size of an egg on the side of his head and an eye coloured all the tints of the rainbow?
Of course Pagett would insist on trying to be mysterious about the whole thing. According to him, you would think his black eye was the direct result of his devotion to my interests. His story was extraordinarily vague and rambling, and it was a long time before I could make head or tail of it.
To begin with, it appears he caught sight of a man behaving suspiciously. Those are Pagett’s words. He has taken them straight from the pages of a German Spy Story. What he means by a man behaving suspiciously he doesn’t know himself. I said so to him.
“He was slinking along in a very furtive manner, and it was the middle of the night, Sir Eustace.”
“Well, what were you doing yourself? Why weren’t you in bed and asleep like a good Christian?” I demanded irritably.
“I had been coding those cables of yours, Sir Eustace, and typing the diary up to date.”
Trust Pagett to be always in the right and a martyr over it!
“Well?”
“I just thought I would have a look around before turning in, Sir Eustace. The man was coming down the passage from your cabin. I thought at once there was something wrong by the way he looked about him. He slunk up the stairs by the saloon. I followed him.
“My dear Pagett,” I said, “why shouldn’t the poor chap go on deck without having his footsteps dogged? Lots of people even sleep on deck—very uncomfortable, I’ve always thought. The sailors wash you down with the rest of the deck at five in the morning.” I shuddered at the idea.
“Anyway,” I continued, “if you went worrying some poor devil who was suffering from insomnia, I don’t wonder he landed you one.”
Pagett looked patient.
“If you would hear me out, Sir Eustace. I was convinced the man had been prowling about near your cabin where he had no business to be. The only two cabins down that passage are yours and Colonel Race’s.”
“Race,” I said, lighting a cigar carefully, “can look after himself without your assistance, Pagett.” I added as an afterthought: “So can I.”
Pagett came nearer and breathed heavily as he always does before imparting a secret.
“You see, Sir Eustace, I fancied—and now indeed I am sure—it was Rayburn.”
“Rayburn?”
“Yes, Sir Eustace.”
I shook my head.
“Rayburn has far too much sense to attempt to wake me up in the middle of the night.”
“Quite so, Sir Eustace. I think it was Colonel Race he went to see. A secret meeting—for orders!”
“Don’t hiss at me, Pagett,” I said, drawing back a little, “and do control your breathing. Your idea is absurd. Why should they want to have a secret meeting in the middle of the night? If they’d anything to say to each other, they could hob-nob over beef-tea in a perfectly casual and natural manner.”
I could see that Pagett was not in the least convinced.
“Something was going on last night, Sir Eustace,” he urged, “or why should Rayburn assault me so brutally.”
“You’re quite sure it was Rayburn?”
Pagett appeared to be perfectly convinced of that. It was the only part of the story that he wasn’t vague about.
“There’s something very queer about all this,” he
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