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

informed me. Again I felt a stir of uneasiness pass over me. What was this shadow of which I was so conscious between us?

After breakfast I sat out on the stoep, a book in my hand which I did not read. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I never saw Colonel Race ride up and dismount from his horse. It was not until he said “Good morning, Anne,” that I became aware of his presence.

“Oh,” I said, with a flush, “it’s you.”

“Yes. May I sit down?”

He drew a chair up beside me. It was the first time we had been alone together since that day at the Matoppos. As always, I felt that curious mixture of fascination and fear that he never failed to inspire in me.

“What is the news?” I asked.

“Smuts will be in Johannesburg to-morrow. I give this outbreak three days more before it collapses utterly. In the meantime the fighting goes on.”

“I wish,” I said, “that one could be sure that the right people were the ones to get killed. I mean the ones who wanted to fight—not just all the poor people who happen to live in the parts where the fighting is going on.”

He nodded.

“I know what you mean, Anne. That’s the unfairness of war. But I’ve other news for you.”

“Yes?”

“A confession of incompetency on my part. Pedler has managed to escape.”

“What?”

“Yes. No one knows how he managed it. He was securely locked up for the night—in an upper-story room of one of the farms roundabouts which the Military have taken over, but this morning the room was empty and the bird had flown.”

Secretly I was rather pleased. Never, to this day, have I been able to rid myself of a sneaking fondness for Sir Eustace. I dare say it’s reprehensible, but there it is. I admired him. He was a thorough-going villain, I dare say—but he was a pleasant one. I’ve never met any one half so amusing since.

I concealed my feelings, of course. Naturally Colonel Race would feel quite differently about it. He wanted Sir Eustace brought to justice. There was nothing very surprising in his escape when one came to think of it. All round Jo’burg he must have innumerable spies and agents. And, whatever Colonel Race might think, I was exceedingly doubtful that they would ever catch him. He probably had a well-planned line of retreat. Indeed, he had said as much to us.

I expressed myself suitably, though in a rather lukewarm manner, and the conversation languished. Then Colonel Race asked suddenly for Harry. I told him that he had gone off at dawn and that I hadn’t seen him this morning.

“You understand, don’t you, Anne, that apart from formalities, he is completely cleared? There are technicalities, of course, but Sir Eustace’s guilt is well assured. There is nothing now to keep you apart.”

He said this without looking at me, in a slow, jerky voice.

“I understand,” I said gratefully.

“And there is no reason why he should not at once resume his real name.”

“No, of course not.”

“You know his real name?”

The question surprised me.

“Of course I do. Harry Lucas.”

He did not answer, and something in the quality of his silence struck me as peculiar.

“Anne, do you remember that, as we drove home from the Matoppos that day, I told you that I knew what I had to do?”

“Of course I remember.”

“I think that I may fairly say I have done it. The man you love is cleared of suspicion.”

“Was that what you meant?”

“Of course.”

I hung my head, ashamed of the baseless suspicion I had entertained. He spoke again in a thoughtful voice:

“When I was a mere youngster, I was in love with a girl who jilted me. After that I thought only of my work. My career meant everything to me. Then I met you, Anne—and all that seemed worth nothing. But youth’s call to youth. . . . I’ve still got my work.”

I was silent. I suppose one can’t really love two men at once—but you can feel like it. The magnetism of this man was very great. I looked up at him suddenly.

“I think that you’ll go very far,” I said dreamily. “I think that you’ve got a great career ahead of you. You’ll be one of the world’s big men.”

I felt as though I was uttering a prophecy.

“I shall be alone, though.”

“All the people who do really big things are.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

He took my hand and said in a low voice:

“I’d rather have had—the other.”

Then Harry came striding round the corner of the house. Colonel Race rose.

“Good morning—Lucas,” he said.

For some reason Harry flushed up to the roots of his hair.

“Yes,” I said gaily, “you must be known by your real name now.”

But Harry was still staring at Colonel Race.

“So you know, sir,” he said at last.

“I never forget a face. I saw you once as a boy.”

“What’s all this about?” I asked, puzzled, looking from one to the other.

It seemed a conflict of wills between them. Race won. Harry turned slightly away.

“I suppose you’re right, sir. Tell her my real name.”

“Anne, this isn’t Harry Lucas. Harry Lucas was killed in the War. This is John Harold Eardsley.”

CHAPTER XXXV

With his last words Colonel Race had swung away and left us. I stood staring after him. Harry’s voice recalled me to myself.

“Anne, forgive me, say you forgive me.”

He took my hand in his and almost mechanically I drew it away.

“Why did you deceive me?”

“I don’t know that I can make you understand. I was afraid of all that sort of thing—the power and fascination of wealth. I wanted you to care for me just for myself—for the man I was—without ornaments and trappings.”

“You mean you didn’t trust me?”

“You can put it that way if you like, but it isn’t quite true. I’d become embittered, suspicious—always prone to look for ulterior motives—and it was so wonderful to be cared for in the way you cared for me.”

“I see,” I said slowly. I was going over in my own mind the story he had told me. For the first time I noted discrepancies in it which I had disregarded—an assurance of money, the power to buy back the diamonds of Nadina, the way in which he had preferred to speak of both men from the point of view of an outsider. And when he had said “my friend” he had meant, not Eardsley, but Lucas. It was Lucas, the quiet fellow, who had loved Nadina so deeply.

“How did it come about?” I asked.

“We were both reckless—anxious to get killed. One night we exchanged identification discs—for luck! Lucas was killed the next day—blown to pieces.”

I shuddered.

“But why didn’t you tell me now? This morning? You couldn’t have doubted my caring for you by this time?”

“Anne, I didn’t want to spoil it all. I wanted to take you back to the island. What’s the good of money? It can’t buy happiness. We’d have been happy on the island. I tell you I’m afraid of that other life—it nearly rotted me through once.”

“Did Sir Eustace know who you really were?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And Carton?”

“No. He saw us both with Nadina at Kimberley one night, but he didn’t know which was which. He accepted my statement that I was Lucas, and Nadina was deceived by his cable. She was never afraid of Lucas. He was a quiet chap—very deep. But I always had the devil’s own temper. She’d have been scared out of her life if she’d known that I’d come to life again.”

“Harry, if Colonel Race hadn’t told me, what did you mean to do?”

“Say nothing. Go on as Lucas.”

“And your father’s millions?”

“Race was welcome to them. Anyway, he would make a better use of them than I ever shall. Anne, what are you thinking about? You’re frowning so.”

“I’m thinking,” I said slowly, “that I almost wish Colonel Race hadn’t made you tell me.”

“No. He was right. I owed you the truth.”

He paused, then said suddenly:

“You know, Anne, I’m jealous of Race. He loves you too—and he’s a bigger man than I am or ever shall be.”

I turned to him, laughing.

“Harry, you idiot. It’s you I want—and that’s all that matters.”

As soon as possible we started for Cape Town. There Suzanne was waiting to greet me, and we disembowelled the big giraffe together. When the Revolution was finally quelled, Colonel Race came down to Cape Town and at his suggestion the big villa at Muizenberg that had belonged to Sir Lawrence Eardsley was reopened and we all took up our abode in it.

There we made our plans. I was to return to England with Suzanne and to be married from her house in London. And the trousseau was to be bought in Paris! Suzanne enjoyed planning all these details enormously. So did I. And yet the future seemed curiously unreal. And sometimes, without knowing why, I felt absolutely stifled—as though I couldn’t breathe.

It was the night before we were to sail. I couldn’t sleep. I was miserable, and I didn’t know why. I hated leaving Africa. When I came back to it, would it be the same thing? Would it ever be the same thing again?

And then I was startled by an authoritative rap on the shutter. I sprang up. Harry was on the stoep outside.

“Put some clothes on, Anne, and come out. I want to speak to you.”

I huddled on a few garments, and stepped out into the cool night air—still and scented, with its velvety feel. Harry beckoned me out of earshot of the house. His face looked pale and determined and his eyes were blazing.

“Anne, do you remember saying to me once that women enjoyed doing the things they disliked for the sake of some one they liked?”

“Yes,” I said, wondering what was coming.

He caught me in his arms.

“Anne, come away with me—now—to-night. Back to Rhodesia—back to the island. I can’t stand all this tomfoolery. I can’t wait for you any longer.”

I disengaged myself a minute.

“And what about my French frocks?” I lamented mockingly.

To this day Harry never knows when I’m in earnest and when I’m only teasing him.

“Damn your French frocks. Do you think I want to put frocks on you? I’m a damned sight more likely to want to tear them off you. I’m not going to let you go, do you hear? You’re my woman. If I let you go away, I may lose you. I’m never sure of you. You’re coming with me now—to-night—and damn everybody.”

He held me to him, kissing me until I could hardly breathe.

“I can’t do without you any longer, Anne. I can’t indeed. I hate all this money. Let Race have it. Come on. Let’s go.”

“My toothbrush?” I demurred.

“You can buy one. I know I’m a lunatic, but for God’s sake, come!”

He stalked off at a furious pace. I followed him as meekly as the Barotsi woman I had observed at the Falls. Only I wasn’t carrying a frying-pan on my head. He walked so fast that it was very difficult to keep up with him.

“Harry,” I said at last, in a meek voice, “are we going to walk all the way to Rhodesia?”

He turned suddenly and with a great shout of laughter gathered me up in his arms.

“I’m mad, sweetheart, I know it. But I do love you so.”

“We’re a couple of lunatics. And, oh, Harry, you never asked me, but I’m not making a sacrifice at all! I wanted to come!”

CHAPTER XXXVI

That was two years ago. We still live on the island. Before me, on the rough wooden table, is the letter that Suzanne wrote me.

Dear Babes in the Wood—Dear Lunatics in Love,

I’m not surprised—not at all. All the time we’ve been talking Paris and frocks I felt that it wasn’t a bit real—that you’d vanish into the blue some day to be married over the tongs in the good old gipsy fashion. But you are a couple of lunatics! This idea of renouncing a vast fortune is absurd. Colonel Race wanted to argue the