The Man in the Brown Suit, Agatha Christie [free e novels TXT] 📗

port side,” said the steward. “A very good cabin, sir.”

“I am afraid that I must insist. No. 17 was the cabin promised to me.”

We had come to an impasse. Each one of us was determined not to give way. Strictly speaking, I, at any rate, might have retired from the contest and eased matters by offering to accept cabin 28. So long as I did not have 13 it was immaterial to me what other cabin I had. But my blood was up. I had not the least intention of being the first to give way. And I disliked Chichester. He had false teeth which clicked when he ate. Many men have been hated for less.

We all said the same things over again. The steward assured us, even more strongly, that both the other cabins were better cabins. None of us paid any attention to him.

Pagett began to lose his temper. Chichester kept his serenely. With an effort I also kept mine. And still none of us would give way an inch.

A wink and a whispered word from the steward gave me my cue. I faded unobtrusively from the scene. I was lucky enough to encounter the purser almost immediately.

“Oh, please,” I said, “you did say I could have cabin 17? And the others won’t go away. Mr. Chichester and Mr. Pagett. You will let me have it, won’t you?”

I always say that there are no people like sailors for being nice to women. My little purser came to the scratch splendidly. He strode to the scene, informed the disputants that no. 17 was my cabin, they could have nos. 13 and 28 respectively or stay where they were⁠—whichever they chose.

I permitted my eyes to tell him what a hero he was and then installed myself in my new domain. The encounter had done me worlds of good. The sea was smooth, the weather growing daily warmer. Seasickness was a thing of the past!

I went up on deck and was initiated into the mysteries of deck quoits. I entered my name for various sports. Tea was served on deck, and I ate heartily. After tea, I played shovelboard with some pleasant young men. They were extraordinarily nice to me. I felt that life was satisfactory and delightful.

The dressing bugle came as a surprise and I hurried to my new cabin. The stewardess was awaiting me with a troubled face.

“There’s a terrible smell in your cabin, miss. What it is, I’m sure I can’t think, but I doubt if you’ll be able to sleep here. There’s a deck cabin up on C deck, I believe. You might move into that⁠—just for the night, anyway.”

The smell really was pretty bad⁠—quite nauseating. I told the stewardess I would think over the question of moving whilst I dressed. I hurried over my toilet, sniffing distastefully as I did so.

What was the smell? Dead rat? No, worse than that⁠—and quite different. Yet I knew it! It was something I had smelt before. Something⁠—Ah! I had got it. Asafoetida! I had worked in a hospital dispensary during the war for a short time and had become acquainted with various nauseous drugs.

Asafoetida, that was it. But how⁠ ⁠…

I sank down on the sofa, suddenly realizing the thing. Somebody had put a pinch of asafœtida in my cabin. Why? So that I should vacate it? Why were they so anxious to get me out? I thought of the scene this afternoon from a rather different point of view. What was there about cabin 17 that made so many people anxious to get hold of it? The other two cabins were better cabins, why had both men insisted on sticking to 17?

17. How the number persisted. It was on the 17th I had sailed from Southampton. It was a 17⁠—I stopped with a sudden gasp. Quickly I unlocked my suitcase, and took my precious paper from its place of concealment in some rolled stockings.

17 1 22⁠—I had taken that for a date, the date of departure of the Kilmorden Castle. Supposing I was wrong. When I came to think of it, would anyone, writing down a date, think it necessary to put the year as well as the month? Supposing 17 meant cabin 17? And 1? The time⁠—one o’clock. Then 22 must be the date. I looked up at my little almanac.

Tomorrow was the 22nd!

X

I was violently excited. I was sure that I had hit on the right trail at last. One thing was clear, I must not move out of the cabin. The asafoetida had got to be borne. I examined my facts again.

Tomorrow was the 22nd, and at 1 a.m. or 1 p.m. something would happen. I plumped for 1 a.m. It was now seven o’clock. In six hours I should know.

I don’t know how I got through the evening. I retired to my cabin fairly early. I had told the stewardess that I had a cold in the head and didn’t mind smells. She still seemed distressed, but I was firm.

The evening seemed interminable. I duly retired to bed, but in view of emergencies I swathed myself in a thick flannel dressing gown, and encased my feet in slippers. Thus attired I felt that I could spring up and take an active part in anything that happened.

What did I expect to happen? I hardly knew. Vague fancies, most of them wildly improbable, flitted through my brain. But one thing I was firmly convinced of, at one o’clock something would happen.

At various times, I heard my fellow-passengers coming to bed. Fragments of conversation, laughing good nights, floated in through the open transom. Then, silence. Most of the lights went out. There was still one in the passage outside, and there was therefore a certain amount of light in my cabin. I heard eight bells go. The hour that followed seemed the longest I had ever known. I consulted my watch surreptitiously to be sure I had not overshot the time.

If my deductions were wrong, if nothing happened