The Man in the Brown Suit Agatha Christie (i read books .TXT) 📖

unlikely,” I objected, “they can see each other any time.”

We both sat silent for a minute or two, then Suzanne started off on another tack.

“Could there have been anything hidden in the cabin?”

“That seems more probable,” I agreed. “It would explain my things being ransacked the next morning. But there was nothing hidden there, I’m sure of it.”

“The young man couldn’t have slipped something into a drawer the night before?”

I shook my head.

“I should have seen him.”

“Could it have been your precious piece of paper they were looking for?”

“It might have been, but it seems rather senseless. It was only a time and a date⁠—and they were both past by then.”

Suzanne nodded.

“That’s so of course. No, it wasn’t the paper. By the way, have you got it with you? I’d rather like to see it.”

I had brought the paper with me as exhibit A, and I handed it over to her. She scrutinized it, frowning.

“There’s a dot after the 17. Why isn’t there a dot after the 1 too?”

“There’s a space,” I pointed out.

“Yes, there’s a space, but⁠—”

Suddenly she rose and peered at the paper, holding it as close under the light as possible. There was a repressed excitement in her manner.

“Anne, that isn’t a dot! That’s a flaw in the paper! A flaw in the paper, you see? So you’ve got to ignore it, and just go by the spaces⁠—the spaces!”

I had risen and was standing by her. I read out the figures as I now saw them.

“1 71 22.”

“You see,” said Suzanne, “it’s the same, but not quite. It’s one o’clock still, and the 22nd⁠—but it’s cabin 71! My cabin, Anne!”

We stood staring at each other, so pleased with our new discovery and so rapt with excitement that you might have thought we had solved the whole mystery. Then I fell to earth with a bump.

“But, Suzanne, nothing happened here at one o’clock on the 22nd?”

Her face fell also. “No⁠—it didn’t.”

Another idea struck me.

“This isn’t your own cabin, is it, Suzanne? I mean not the one you originally booked?”

“No, the purser changed me into it.”

“I wonder if it was booked before sailing for someone⁠—someone who didn’t turn up. I suppose we could find out.”

“We don’t need to find out, gipsy girl,” cried Suzanne. “I know! The purser was telling me about it. The cabin was booked in the name of Mrs. Grey⁠—but it seems that Mrs. Grey was merely a pseudonym for the famous Madame Nadina. She’s a celebrated Russian dancer, you know. She’s never appeared in London, but Paris has been quite mad about her. She had a terrific success there all through the War. A thoroughly bad lot, I believe, but most attractive. The purser expressed his regrets that she wasn’t on board in a most heartfelt fashion when he gave me her cabin, and then Colonel Race told me a lot about her. It seems there were very queer stories afloat in Paris. She was suspected of espionage, but they couldn’t prove anything. I rather fancy Colonel Race was over there simply on that account. He’s told me some very interesting things. There was a regular organized gang, not German in origin at all. In fact the head of it, a man always referred to as ‘the Colonel’ was thought to be an Englishman, but they never got any clue as to his identity. But there is no doubt that he controlled a considerable organization of international crooks. Robberies, espionages, assaults, he undertook them all⁠—and usually provided an innocent scapegoat to pay the penalty. Diabolically clever, he must have been! This woman was supposed to be one of his agents, but they couldn’t get hold of anything to go upon. Yes, Anne, we’re on the right tack. Nadina is just the woman to be mixed up in this business. The appointment on the morning of the 22nd was with her in this cabin. But where is she? Why didn’t she sail?”

A light flashed upon me.

“She meant to sail,” I said slowly.

“Then why didn’t she?”

“Because she was dead. Suzanne, Nadina was the woman murdered at Marlow!”

My mind went back to the bare room in the empty house, and there swept over me again that indefinable sensation of menace and evil. With it came the memory of the falling pencil and the discovery of the roll of films. A roll of films⁠—that struck a more recent note. Where had I heard of a roll of films? And why did I connect that thought with Mrs. Blair?

Suddenly I flew at her and almost shook her in my excitement.

“Your films! The ones that were passed to you through the ventilator? Wasn’t that on the 22nd?”

“The ones I lost?”

“How do you know they were the same? Why would anyone return them to you that way⁠—in the middle of the night? It’s a mad idea. No⁠—they were a message, the films had been taken out of the yellow tin case, and something else put inside. Have you got it still?”

“I may have used it. No, here it is. I remember I tossed it into the rack at the side of the bunk.”

She held it out to me.

It was an ordinary round tin cylinder, such as films are packed in for the tropics. I took it with trembling hand, but even as I did so my heart leapt. It was noticeably heavier than it should have been.

With shaking fingers I peeled off the strip of adhesive plaster that kept it airtight. I pulled off the lid, and a stream of dull glassy pebbles rolled onto the bed.

“Pebbles,” I said, keenly disappointed.

“Pebbles?” cried Suzanne.

The ring in her voice excited me.

“Pebbles? No, Anne, not pebbles! Diamonds!”

XV

Diamonds!

I stared, fascinated, at the glassy heap on the bunk. I picked up one which, but for the weight, might have been a fragment of broken bottle.

“Are you sure, Suzanne?”

“Oh, yes, my dear. I’ve seen rough diamonds too often to have any doubts. They’re beauties too, Anne⁠—and some of them are unique, I should say. There’s