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

him solemnly. “And how are you, Mr. Pagett?”

“Very well, thank you⁠—looking forward to taking up my work again with Sir Eustace.”

“Mr. Pagett,” I said, “there is something I want to ask you. I hope that you won’t be offended, but a lot hangs on it, more than you can possibly guess. I want to know what you were doing at Marlow on the 8th of January last?”

He started violently.

“Really, Miss Beddingfeld⁠—I⁠—indeed⁠—”

“You were there, weren’t you?”

“I⁠—for reasons of my own I was in the neighbourhood, yes.”

“Won’t you tell me what those reasons were?”

“Sir Eustace has not already told you?”

“Sir Eustace? Does he know?”

“I am almost sure that he does. I hoped he had not recognized me, but from the hints he has let drop, and his remarks, I fear it is only too certain. In any case, I meant to make a clean breast of the matter and offer him my resignation. He is a peculiar man, Miss Beddingfeld, with an abnormal sense of humour. It seems to amuse him to keep me on tenterhooks. All the time, I dare say, he was perfectly well aware of the true facts. Possibly he has known them for years.”

I hoped that sooner or later I should be able to understand what Pagett was talking about. He went on fluently:

“It is difficult for a man of Sir Eustace’s standing to put himself in my position. I know that I was in the wrong, but it seemed a harmless deception. I would have thought it better taste on his part to have tackled me outright⁠—instead of indulging in covert jokes at my expense.”

A whistle blew, and the people began to surge back into the train.

“Yes, Mr. Pagett,” I broke in, “I’m sure I quite agree with all you’re saying about Sir Eustace. But why did you go to Marlow?”

“It was wrong of me, but natural under the circumstances⁠—yes, I still feel natural under the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” I cried desperately.

For the first time Pagett seemed to recognize that I was asking him a question. His mind detached itself from the peculiarities of Sir Eustace and his own justification and came to rest on me.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Beddingfeld,” he said stiffly, “but I fail to see your concern in the matter.”

He was back in the train now, leaning down to speak to me. I felt desperate. What could one do with a man like that?

“Of course, if it’s so dreadful that you’d be ashamed to speak of it to me⁠ ⁠…” I began spitefully.

At last I had found the right stop. Pagett stiffened and flushed.

“Dreadful? Ashamed? I don’t understand you.”

“Then tell me.”

In three short sentences he told me. At last I knew Pagett’s secret! It was not in the least what I expected.

I walked slowly back to the hotel. There a wire was handed to me. I tore it open. It contained full and definite instructions for me to proceed forthwith to Johannesburg, or rather to a station this side of Johannesburg, where I should be met by a car. It was signed, not Andy, but Harry.

I sat down in a chair to do some very serious thinking.

XXXI

(From the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)

Johannesburg,
March 7th.

Pagett has arrived. He is in a blue funk of course. Suggested at once that we should go off to Pretoria. Then, when I had told him kindly but firmly that we were going to remain here, he went to the other extreme, wished he had his rifle here, and began bucking about some bridge he guarded during the Great War. A railway bridge at Little Puddecombe junction, or something of that sort.

I soon cut that short by telling him to unpack the big typewriter. I thought that that would keep him employed for some time, because the typewriter was sure to have gone wrong⁠—it always does⁠—and he would have to take it somewhere to be mended. But I had forgotten Pagett’s powers of being in the right.

“I’ve already unpacked all the cases, Sir Eustace. The typewriter is in perfect condition.”

“What do you mean⁠—all the cases?”

“The two small cases as well.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so officious, Pagett. Those small cases were no business of yours. They belong to Mrs. Blair.”

Pagett looked crestfallen. He hates to make a mistake.

“So you can just pack them up again neatly,” I continued. “After that you can go out and look around you. Jo’burg will probably be a heap of smoking ruins by tomorrow, so it may be your last chance.”

I thought that that would get rid of him successfully for the morning, at any rate.

“There is something I want to say to you when you have the leisure, Sir Eustace.”

“I haven’t got it now,” I said hastily. “At this minute I have absolutely no leisure whatsoever.”

Pagett retired.

“By the way,” I called after him, “what was there in those cases of Mrs. Blair’s?”

“Some fur rugs, and a couple of fur⁠—hats, I think.”

“That’s right,” I assented. “She bought them on the train. They are hats⁠—of a kind⁠—though I hardly wonder at your not recognizing them. I dare say she’s going to wear one of them at Ascot. What else was there?”

“Some rolls of films and some baskets⁠—a lot of baskets⁠—”

“There would be,” I assured him. “Mrs. Blair is the kind of woman who never buys less than a dozen or so of anything.”

“I think that’s all, Sir Eustace, except some miscellaneous odds and ends, a motor-veil and some odd gloves⁠—that sort of thing.”

“If you hadn’t been a born idiot, Pagett, you would have seen from the start that those couldn’t possibly be my belongings.”

“I thought some of them might belong to Miss Pettigrew.”

“Ah, that reminds me⁠—what do you mean by picking me out such a doubtful character as a secretary?”

And I told him about the searching cross-examination I had been put through. Immediately I was sorry, I saw a glint in his eye that I knew only too well. I changed the conversation hurriedly. But it was too late. Pagett was on the warpath.

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