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

veranda, a piazza, and a ha-ha. Then again, there are pawpaws. I had often read of pawpaws. I discovered at once what they were, because I had one plumped down in front of me for breakfast. I thought at first that it was a melon gone bad. The Dutch waitress enlightened me, and persuaded me to use lemon juice and sugar and try again. I was very pleased to meet a pawpaw. I had always vaguely associated it with a hula-hula, which, I believe, though I may be wrong, is a kind of straw skirt that Hawaiian girls dance in. No, I think I am wrong⁠—that is a lava-lava.

At any rate, all these things are very cheering after England. I can’t help thinking that it would brighten our cold island life if one could have a breakfast of “bacon-bacon,” and then go out clad in a “jumper-jumper” to pay the books.

Suzanne was a little tamer after breakfast. They had given me a room next to hers with a lovely view right out over Table Bay. I looked at the view whilst Suzanne hunted for some special face cream. When she had found it and started an immediate application, she became capable of listening to me.

“Did you see Sir Eustace?” I asked. “He was marching out of the breakfast room as we went in. He’d had some bad fish or something and was just telling the head waiter what he thought about it, and he bounced a peach on the floor to show how hard it was⁠—only it wasn’t quite as hard as he thought and it squashed.”

Suzanne smiled.

“Sir Eustace doesn’t like getting up early any more than I do. But, Anne, did you see Mr. Pagett? I ran against him in the passage. He’s got a black eye. What can he have been doing?”

“Only trying to push me overboard,” I replied nonchalantly.

It was a distinct score for me. Suzanne left her face half anointed and pressed for details. I gave them to her.

“It all gets more and more mysterious,” she cried. “I thought I was going to have the soft job sticking to Sir Eustace, and that you would have all the fun with the Rev. Edward Chichester, but now I’m not so sure. I hope Pagett won’t push me off the train some dark night.”

“I think you’re still above suspicion, Suzanne. But, if the worst happens, I’ll wire to Clarence.”

“That reminds me⁠—give me a cable form. Let me see now, what shall I say. ‘Implicated in the most thrilling mystery please send me a thousand pounds at once Suzanne.’ ”

I took the form from her, and pointed out that she could eliminate a “the,” an “a,” and possibly, if she didn’t care about being polite, a “please.” Suzanne, however, appears to be perfectly reckless in money matters. Instead of attending to my economical suggestions, she added three words more: “enjoying myself hugely.”

Suzanne was engaged to lunch with friends of hers, who came to the hotel about eleven o’clock to fetch her. I was left to my own devices. I went down through the grounds of the hotel, crossed the tramlines and followed a cool shady avenue right down till I came to the main street. I strolled about, seeing the sights, enjoying the sunlight and the black-faced sellers of flowers and fruits. I also discovered a place where they had the most delicious ice-cream sodas. Finally, I bought a sixpenny basket of peaches and retraced my steps to the hotel.

To my surprise and pleasure I found a note awaiting me. It was from the curator of the museum. He had read of my arrival on the Kilmorden, in which I was described as the daughter of the late Professor Beddingfeld. He had known my father slightly and had had a great admiration for him. He went on to say that his wife would be delighted if I would come out and have tea with them that afternoon at their villa at Muizenberg. He gave me instructions for getting there.

It was pleasant to think that poor Papa was still remembered and highly thought of. I foresaw that I would have to be personally escorted round the museum before I left Cape Town, but I risked that. To most people it would have been a treat⁠—but one can have too much of a good thing if one is brought up on it, morning, noon and night.

I put on my best hat (one of Suzanne’s castoffs) and my least crumpled white linen and started off after lunch. I caught a fast train to Muizenberg and got there in about half an hour. It was a nice trip. We wound slowly round the base of Table Mountain, and some of the flowers were lovely. My geography being weak, I had never fully realized that Cape Town is on a peninsula, consequently I was rather surprised on getting out of the train to find myself facing the sea once more. There was some perfectly entrancing bathing going on. The people had short curved boards and came floating in on the waves. It was far too early to go to tea. I made for the bathing pavilion, and when they said would I have a surf board, I said “Yes, please.” Surfing looks perfectly easy. It isn’t. I say no more. I got very angry and fairly hurled my plank from me. Nevertheless, I determined to return on the first possible opportunity and have another go. I would not be beaten. Quite by mistake I then got a good run on my board, and came out delirious with happiness. Surfing is like that. You are either vigorously cursing or else you are idiotically pleased with yourself.

I found the Villa Medgee after some little difficulty. It was right up on the side of the mountain, isolated from the other cottages and villas. I rang the bell, and a smiling Kafir boy answered it.

“Mrs. Raffini?” I inquired.

He ushered me in, preceded me down the passage and flung open a