AgathaChristie-TheManInTheBrownSuit

by The Man In The Brown Suit (lit)

  you could call them stations. It seemed to me

  that the train just stopped whenever it felt

  like it, and no sooner had it done so than a

  horde of natives materialized out of the

  empty landscape, holding up mealie bowls

  and sugar canes and fur karosses and adorable

  carved wooden animals. Suzanne began at

  once to make a collection of the latter. I

  imitated her example—most of them cost a

  "ttki" (threepence) and each was different.

  There were giraffes and tigers and snakes and

  a melancholy-looking eland and absurd little

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  black warriors. We enjoyed ourselves

  enormously.

  Sir Eustace tried to restrain us—but in

  vain. I still think it was a miracle we were not

  left behind at some oasis of the line. South

  African trains don't hoot or get excited when

  they are going to start off again. They just

  glide quietly away, and you look up from

  your bargaining and run for your life.

  Suzanne's amazement at seeing me climb

  upon the train at Cape Town can be

  imagined. We held an exhaustive survey of

  the situation on the first evening out. We

  talked half the night.

  It had become clear to me that defensive

  tactics must be adopted as well as aggressive

  ones. Travelling with Sir Eustace Pedler and

  his party, I was fairly safe. Both he and

  Colonel Race were powerful protectors, and I

  judged that my enemies would not wish to

  stir up a hornet's nest about my ears. Also, as

  long as I was near Sir Eustace, I was more or

  less in touch with Guy Pagett—and Guy

  Pagett was the heart of the mystery. I asked

  Suzanne whether in her opinion it was

  Possible that Pagett himself was the

  mysterious "Colonel." His subordinate

  position was, of course, against the

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  assumption, but it had struck me once or

  twice that, for all his autocratic ways. Sir

  Eustace was really very much influenced by

  his secretary. He was an easy-going man, and

  one whom an adroit secretary might be able

  to twist round his little finger. The

  comparative obscurity of his position might

  in reality be useful to him, since he would be

  anxious to be well out of the limelight.

  Suzanne, however, negatived these ideas

  very strongly. She refused to believe that Guy

  Pagett was the ruling spirit. The real

  head—the "Colonel"—was somewhere in the

  background and had probably been already in

  Africa at the time of our arrival.

  I agreed that there was much to be said for

  her view, but I was not entirely satisfied. For

  in each suspicious instance Pagett had been

  shown as the directing genius. It was true that

  his personality seemed to lack the assurance

  and decision that one would expect from a

  master criminal—but after all, according to

  Colonel Race, it was brain-work only that this

  mysterious leader supplied, and creative

  genius is often allied to a weak and timorous

  physical constitution.

  "There speaks the Professor's daughter,"

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  interrupted Suzanne, when I had got to this

  point in my argument.

  "It's true, all the same. On the other hand,

  pagett may be the Grand Vizier, so to speak,

  of the All Highest." I was silent for a minute

  or two, and then went on musingly: "I wish I

  knew how Sir Eustace made his money!"

  "Suspecting him again?"

  "Suzanne, I've got into that state that I

  can't help suspecting somebody! I don't

  really suspect him—but, after all, he is

  Pagett's employer, and he did own the Mill

  House."

  "I've always heard that he made his money

  in some way he isn't anxious to talk about,"

  said Suzanne thoughtfully. "But that doesn't

  necessarily mean crime—it might be tin-tacks

  or hair restorer!"

  I agreed ruefully.

  "I suppose," said Suzanne doubtfully,

  "that we're not barking up the wrong tree?

  Being led completely astray, I mean, by

  assuming Pagett's complicity? Supposing

  that, after all, he is a perfectly honest man?"

  I considered that for a minute or two, then

  I shook my head.

  "I can't believe that."

  TMITBS17 951

  "After all, he has his explanations for

  everything."

  "Y—es, but they're not very convincing.

  For instance, the night he tried to throw me

  overboard on the Kilmorden, he says he

  followed Rayburn up on deck and Rayburn

  turned and knocked him down. Now we

  know that's not true."

  "No," said Suzanne unwillingly. "But we

  only heard the story at second-hand from Sir

  Eustace. If we'd heard it direct from Pagett

  himself, it might have been different. You

  know how people always get a story a little

  wrong when they repeat it."

  I turned the thing over in my mind.

  "No," I said at last, "I don't see any way

  out. Pagett's guilty. You can't get away from

  the fact that he tried to throw me overboard,

  and everything else fits in. Why are you so

  persistent in this new idea of yours?"

  "Because of his face."

  "His face? But——"

  "Yes, I know what you're going to say. It's

  a sinister face. That's just it. No man with a

  face like that could be really sinister. It must

  be a colossal joke on the part of Nature."

  I did not believe much in Suzanne's

  argument. I know, a lot about Nature in past

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  ages. If she's got a sense of humour, she

  doesn't show it much. Suzanne is just the sort

  of person who would clothe Nature with all

  her own attributes.

  We passed on to discuss our immediate

  plans. It was clear to me that I must have

  some kind of standing. I couldn't go on

  avoiding explanations for ever. The solution

  of all my difficulties lay ready to my hand,

  though I didn't think of it for some time. The

  Daily Budget My silence or my speech could

  no longer affect Harry Rayburn. He was

  marked down as "The Man in the Brown

  Suit" through no fault of mine. I could help

  him best by seeming to be against him. The

  "Colonel" and his gang must have no

  suspicion that there existed any friendly

  feeling between me and the man they had

  elected to be the scapegoat of the murder at

  Marlow. As far as I knew, the woman killed

  was still unidentified. I would cable to Lord

  Nasby, suggesting that she was no other than

  the famous Russian dancer "Nadina" who

  had been delighting Paris for so long. It

  seemed incredible to me that she had not

  been identified already—but when I learnt

  "^ore of the case long afterwards I saw how

  natural it rea
lly was.

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  Nadina had never been to England, during

  her successful career in Paris. She was

  unknown to London audiences. The pictures

  in the papers of the Marlow victim were so

  blurred and unrecognizable that it is small

  wonder no one identified them. And, on the

  other hand, Nadina had kept her intention of

  visiting England a profound secret from

  everyone. The day after the murder, a letter

  had been received by her manager purporting

  to be from the dancer, in which she said that

  she was returning to Russia on urgent private

  affairs and that he must deal with her broken

  contract as best he could.

  All this, of course, I only learned afterwards.

  With Suzanne's full approval, I sent a

  long cable from De Aar. It arrived at a

  psychological moment (this again, of course, I

  learned afterwards). The Daily Budget was

  hard up for a sensation. My guess was

  verified and proved to be correct and the Daily Budget had the scoop of its lifetime.

  "Victim of the Mill House Murder identified

  by our special reporter." And so on. "Our

  reporter makes voyage with the murderer.

  The Man in the Brown Suit. What he is

  really like."

  The main facts were, of course, cabled to

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  the South African papers, but I only read my

  own lengthy articles at a much later date! I

  received approval and full instructions by

  cable at Bulawayo. I was on the staff of the

  Daily Budget, and I had a private word of

  congratulation from Lord Nasby himself. I

  was definitely accredited to hunt down the

  murderer, and I, and only I, knew that the

  murderer was not Harry Rayburn! But let

  the world think that it was he—best so for the

  present.

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  24

  WE arrived at Bulawayo early on

  Saturday morning. I was disappointed

  in the place. It was very

  hot, and I hated the hotel. Also Sir Eustace

  was what I can only describe as thoroughly

  sulky. I think it was all our wooden animals

  that annoyed him--especially the big giraffe.

  It was a colossal giraffe with an impossible

  neck, a mild eye and a dejected tail. It had

  character. It had charm. A controversy was

  already arising as to whom it belonged

  to--me or Suzanne. We had each contributed

  a tiki to its purchase. Suzanne advanced the

  claims of seniority and the married state, I

  stuck to the position that I had been the first

  to behold its beauty.

  In the meantime, I must admit, it occupied

  a good deal of this three-dimensional space of

  ours. To carry forty-nine wooden animals, all

  of awkward shape, and all of extremely brittle

  wood, is somewhat of a problem. Two porters

  were laden with a bunch of animals each--

  and one promptly dropped a ravishing group

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  of ostriches and broke their heads off.

  Warned by this, Suzanne and I carried all we

  could. Colonel Race helped, and I pressed the

  big giraffe into Sir Eustace's arms. Even the

  correct Miss Pettigrew did not escape, a large

  hippopotamus and two black warriors fell to

  her share. I had a feeling Miss Pettigrew

  didn't like me. Perhaps she fancied I was a

  bold hussy. Anyway, she avoided me as much

  as she could. And the funny thing was, her

  face seemed vaguely familiar to me, though I

  couldn't quite place it.

  We reposed ourselves most of the morning,

  and in the afternoon we drove out to the

  Matoppos to see Rhodes's grave. That is to

  say, we were to have done so, but at the last

  moment Sir Eustace backed out. He was very

  nearly in as bad a temper as the morning we

  arrived at Cape Town—when he bounced the

  peaches on the floor and they squashed!

  Evidently arriving early in the morning at

  places is bad for his temperament. He cursed

  the porters, he cursed the waiter at breakfast,

  he cursed the whole hotel management, he

  would doubtless have liked to curse Miss

  ^ttigrew, who hovered around with her

  Pencil and pad, but I don't think even Sir

  Eustace would have dared to curse Miss

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  Pettigrew. She's just like the efficient

  secretary in a book. I only just rescued our

  dear giraffe in time. I feel Sir Eustace would

  have liked to dash him to the ground.

  To return to our expedition, after Sir

  Eustace had backed out, Miss Pettigrew said

  she would remain at home in case he might

  want her. And at the very last minute

  Suzanne sent down a message to say she had a

  headache. So Colonel Race and I drove off

  alone.

  He is a strange man. One doesn't notice it

  so much in a crowd. But when one is alone

  with him the sense of his personality seems

  really almost overpowering. He becomes

  more taciturn, and yet his silence seems to say

  more than speech might do.

  It was so that day that we drove to the

  Matoppos through the soft yellow-brown

  scrub. Everything seemed strangely silent—

  except our car, which I should think was the

  first Ford ever made by man! The upholstery

  of it was torn to ribbons and, though I know

  nothing about engines, even I could guess

  that all was not as it should be in its interior.

  By and by the character of the country

  changed. Great boulders appeared, piled up

  into fantastic shapes. I felt suddenly that I

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  had got into a primitive era. Just for a

  moment Neanderthal men seemed quite as

  real to me as they had to Papa. I turned to

  Colonel Race.

  "There must have been giants once," I said

  dreamily. "And their children were just like

  children are to-day—they played with

  handfuls of pebbles, piling them up and

  knocking them down, and the more cleverly

  they balanced them, the better pleased they

  were. If I were to give a name to this place I

  should call it The Country of Giant

  Children."

  "Perhaps you're nearer the mark than you

  know," said Colonel Race gravely. "Simple,

  primitive, big—that is Africa."

  I nodded appreciatively.

  "You love it, don't you?" I asked.

  "Yes. But to live in it long—well, it makes

  one what you would call cruel. One comes to

  hold life and death very lightly."

  "Yes," I said, thinking of Harry Rayburn.

  He had been like that too. "But not cruel to

  weak things?"

  'Opinions differ as to what are and are not

  'weak things,' Miss Anne."

  There was a note of seriousness in his voice

  which almost startled me. I felt that I knew

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  very little really of this man at my side.

  "I meant children and d
ogs, I think."

  "I can truthfully say I've never been cruel

  to children or dogs. So you don't class women

  as 'weak things'?"

  I considered.

  "No, I don't think I do—though they are, I

  suppose. That is, they are nowadays. But

  Papa always said that in the beginning men

  and women roamed the world together, equal

  in strength—like lions and tigers——"

  "And giraffes?" interpolated Colonel Race

  slyly.

  I laughed. Everyone makes fun of that

  giraffe.

  "And giraffes. They were nomadic, you

  see. It wasn't till they settled down in

  communities, and women did one kind of

  thing and men another, that women got

  weak. And of course, underneath, one is still

  the same—one feels the same, I mean—and

  that is why women worship physical strength

  in men: it's what they once had and have

  lost."

  "Almost ancestor worship, in fact?"

  "Something of the kind."

  "And you really think that's true? That

  women worship strength, I mean?"

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  FR1;"I think it's quite true--if one's honest.

  You think you admire moral qualities, but

  when you fall in love, you revert to the

  primitive where the physical is all that

  counts. But I don't think that's the end, if

  you lived in primitive conditions it would be

  all right, but you don't--and so, in the end, the other thing wins after all. It's the things

  that are apparently conquered that always do

  win, isn't it? They win in the only way that

  counts. Like what the Bible says about losing

  your life and finding it."

  "In the end," said Colonel Race thoughtfully, "you fall in love--and you fall out of it,

  is that what you mean?"

  "Not exactly, but you can put it that way if

  you like."

  "But I don't think you've ever fallen out of

  love. Miss Anne?"

  "No, I haven't," I admitted frankly.

  "Or fallen in love, either?"

  I did not answer.

  The car drew up at our destination and

  brought the conversation to a close. We got

  out and began the slow ascent to the World's

  View. Not for the first time, I felt a slight

  discomfort in Colonel Race's company. He

  veiled his thoughts so well behind those

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  impenetrable black eyes. He frightened me a

  little. He had always frightened me. I never

  knew where I stood with him.