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

out of the hotel and took the path to the bridge.

I crossed it and stood there waiting in the shadow. If anyone had followed me, I should see them crossing the bridge. But the minutes passed, and no one came. I had not been followed. I turned and took the path to the clearing. I took six paces or so and then stopped. Something had rustled behind me. It could not be anyone who had followed me from the hotel. It was someone who was already here, waiting.

And immediately, without rhyme or reason, but with the sureness of instinct, I knew that it was I myself who was threatened. It was the same feeling as I had had on the Kilmorden that night⁠—a sure instinct warning me of danger.

I looked sharply over my shoulder. Silence. I moved on a pace or two. Again I heard that rustle. Still walking, I looked over my shoulder again. A man’s figure came out of the shadow. He saw that I saw him, and jumped forward, hard on my track.

It was too dark to recognize anybody. All I could see was that he was tall, and a European, not a native. I took to my heels and ran. I heard him pounding behind. I ran quicker, keeping my eyes fixed on the white stones that showed me where to step, for there was no moon that night.

And suddenly my foot felt nothingness. I heard the man behind me laugh, an evil, sinister laugh. It rang in my ears, as I fell headlong⁠—down⁠—down⁠—down to destruction far beneath.

XXV

I came to myself slowly and painfully. I was conscious of an aching head and a shooting pain down my left arm when I tried to move, and everything seemed dreamlike and unreal. Nightmare visions floated before me. I felt myself falling⁠—falling again. Once Harry Rayburn’s face seemed to come to me out of the mist. Almost I imagined it real. Then it floated away again, mocking me. Once, I remember, someone put a cup to my lips and I drank. A black face grinned into mine⁠—a devil’s face, I thought it, and screamed out. Then dreams again⁠—long troubled dreams in which I vainly sought Harry Rayburn to warn him⁠—warn him⁠—what of? I did not know myself. But there was some danger⁠—some great danger⁠—and I alone could save him. Then darkness again, merciful darkness, and real sleep.

I woke at last myself again. The long nightmare was over. I remembered perfectly everything that had happened, my hurried flight from the hotel to meet Harry, the man in the shadows and that last terrible moment of falling.⁠ ⁠…

By some miracle or other I had not been killed. I was bruised and aching and very weak, but I was alive. But where was I? Moving my head with difficulty I looked round me. I was in a small room with rough wooden walls. On them were hung skins of animals and various tusks of ivory. I was lying on a kind of rough couch, also covered with skins, and my left arm was bandaged up and felt stiff and uncomfortable. At first I thought I was alone, and then I saw a man’s figure sitting between me and the light, his head turned toward the window. He was so still that he might have been carved out of wood. Something in the close-cropped black head was familiar to me, but I did not dare to let my imagination run astray. Suddenly he turned, and I caught my breath. It was Harry Rayburn. Harry Rayburn in the flesh.

He rose and came over to me.

“Feeling better?” he said a trifle awkwardly.

I could not answer. The tears were running down my face. I was weak still, but I held his hand in both of mine. If only I could die like this, whilst he stood there looking down on me with that new look in his eyes.

“Don’t cry, Anne. Please don’t cry. You’re safe now. No one shall hurt you.”

He went and fetched a cup and brought it to me.

“Drink some of this milk.”

I drank obediently. He went on talking in a low coaxing tone such as he might have used to a child.

“Don’t ask any more questions now. Go to sleep again. You’ll be stronger by and by. I’ll go away if you like.”

“No,” I said urgently. “No, no.”

“Then I’ll stay.”

He brought a small stool over beside me and sat there. He laid his hand over mine, and, soothed and comforted, I dropped off to sleep once more.

It must have been evening then, but when I woke again the sun was high in the heavens. I was alone in the hut, but as I stirred an old native woman came running in. She was hideous as sin, but she grinned at me encouragingly. She brought me water in a basin and helped me wash my face and hands. Then she brought me a large bowl of soup, and I finished it every drop! I asked her several questions, but she only grinned and nodded and chattered away in a guttural language, so I gathered she knew no English.

Suddenly she stood up and drew back respectfully as Harry Rayburn entered. He gave her a nod of dismissal and she went out leaving us alone. He smiled at me.

“Really better today!”

“Yes, indeed, but very bewildered still. Where am I?”

“You’re on a small island on the Zambesi about four miles up from the falls.”

“Do⁠—do my friends know I’m here?”

He shook his head.

“I must send word to them.”

“That is as you like of course, but if I were you I should wait until you are a little stronger.”

“Why?”

He did not answer immediately, so I went on.

“How long have I been here?”

His answer amazed me.

“Nearly a month.”

“Oh!” I cried. “I must send word to Suzanne. She’ll be terribly anxious.”

“Who is Suzanne?”

“Mrs. Blair. I was with her and Sir Eustace and Colonel Race at the hotel⁠—but you knew that surely?”

He shook his head.

“I know nothing,