The Man in the Brown Suit (8 page)

“No, you may have been fortunate enough to brain an unlucky steward in the deck below.”

A small boy who had arrived unobserved a few paces to our rear blew a deafening blast on a bugle.

“Lunch,” declared Mrs. Blair ecstatically. “I've had nothing to eat since breakfast, except two cups of beef tea. Lunch, Miss Beddingfeld?”

“Well,” I said waveringly. “Yes, I
do
feel rather hungry.”

“Splendid. You're sitting at the purser's table, I know. Tackle him about the cabin.”

I found my way down to the saloon, began to eat gingerly, and finished by consuming an enormous meal. My friend of yesterday congratulated me on my recovery. Everyone was changing cabins today, he told me, and he promised that my things should be moved to an outside one without delay.

There were only four at our table. Myself, a couple of elderly ladies, and a missionary who talked a lot about “our poor black brothers.”

I looked round at the other tables. Mrs. Blair was sitting at the Captain's table. Colonel Race next to her. On the other side of the Captain was a distinguished-looking, grey-haired man. A good many people I had already noticed on deck, but there was one man who had not previously appeared. Had he done so, he could hardly have escaped my notice. He was tall and dark, and had such a peculiarly sinister type of countenance that I was quite startled. I asked the purser, with some curiosity, who he was.

“That man? Oh, that's Sir Eustace Pedler's secretary. Been very seasick, poor chap, and not appeared before. Sir Eustace has got two secretaries with him, and the sea's been too much for both of them. The other fellow hasn't turned up yet. This man's name is Pagett.”

So Sir Eustace Pedler, the owner of the Mill House, was on board. Probably only a coincidence, and yet—

“That's Sir Eustace,” my informant continued, “sitting next to the Captain. Pompous old ass.”

The more I studied the secretary's face, the less I liked it. Its even pallor, the secretive, heavy-lidded eyes, the curiously flattened head—it all gave a feeling of distaste, of apprehension.

Leaving the saloon at the same time as he did, I was close behind him as he went up on deck. He was speaking to Sir Eustace, and I overheard a fragment or two.

“I'll see about the cabin at once then, shall I? It's impossible to work in yours, with all your trunks.”

“My dear fellow,” Sir Eustace replied. “My cabin is intended (
a
) for me to sleep in, and (
b
) to attempt to dress in. I never had any intentions of allowing you to sprawl about the place making an infernal clicking with that typewriter of yours.”

“That's just what I say, Sir Eustace, we must have somewhere to work—”

Here I parted company from them, and went below to see if my removal was in progress. I found my steward busy at the task.

“Very nice cabin, miss. On D deck. No. 13.”

“Oh, no!” I cried. “
Not
13.”

13 is the one thing I am superstitious about. It was a nice cabin too. I inspected it, wavered, but a foolish superstition prevailed. I appealed almost tearfully to the steward.

“Isn't there any other cabin I can have?”

The steward reflected.

“Well, there's 17, just along the starboard side. That was empty this morning, but I rather fancy it's been allotted to someone. Still, as the gentleman's things aren't in yet, and as gentlemen aren't anything like so superstitious as ladies, I daresay he wouldn't mind changing.”

I hailed the proposition gratefully, and the steward departed to obtain permission from the purser. He returned grinning.

“That's all right, miss. We can go along.”

He led the way to 17. It was not quite as large as No. 13, but I found it eminently satisfactory.

“I'll fetch your things right away, miss,” said the steward.

But at that moment the man with the sinister face (as I had nicknamed him) appeared in the doorway.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but this cabin is reserved for the use of Sir Eustace Pedler.”

“That's all right, sir,” explained the steward. “We're fitting up No. 13 instead.”

“No, it was No. 17 I was to have.”

“No. 13 is a better cabin, sir—larger.”

“I specially selected No. 17, and the purser said I could have it.”

“I'm sorry,” I said coldly. “But No. 17 has been allotted to me.”

“I can't agree to that.”

The steward put in his oar.

“The other cabin's just the same, only better.”

“I want No. 17.”

“What's all this?” demanded a new voice. “Steward, put my things in here. This is my cabin.”

It was my neighbour at lunch, the Rev. Edward Chichester.

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “It's my cabin.”

“It is allotted to Sir Eustace Pedler,” said Mr. Pagett.

We were all getting rather heated.

“I'm sorry to have to dispute the matter,” said Chichester with a meek smile which failed to mask his determination to get his own way. Meek men are always obstinate, I have noticed.

He edged himself sideways into the doorway.

“You're to have No. 28 on the 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 that 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 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. 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 asafoetida 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 it 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!

Ten

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 am or 1 pm something would happen. I plumped for 1 am. 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 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 at one o'clock, I should have made a fool of myself, and spent all the money I had in the world on a mare's nest. My heart beat painfully.

Two bells went overhead. One o'clock! And nothing. Wait—what was that? I heard the quick light patter of feet running—running along the passage.

Then with the suddenness of a bombshell my cabin door burst open and a man almost fell inside.

“Save me,” he said hoarsely. “They're after me.”

It was not a moment for argument or explanation. I could hear footsteps outside. I had about forty seconds in which to act. I had sprung to my feet and was standing facing the stranger in the middle of the cabin.

A cabin does not abound in hiding places for a six-foot man. With one arm I pulled out my cabin trunk. He slipped down behind it under the bunk. I raised the lid. At the same time, with the other hand I pulled down the washbasin. A deft movement and my hair was screwed into a tiny knot on the top of my head. From the point of view of appearance it was inartistic, from another standpoint it was supremely artistic. A lady, with her hair screwed into an unbecoming knob and in the act of removing a piece of soap from her trunk with which, apparently, to wash her neck, could hardly be suspected of harbouring a fugitive.

There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for me to say “Come in” it was pushed open.

I don't know what I expected to see. I think I had vague ideas of Mr. Pagett brandishing a revolver. Or my missionary friend with a sandbag, or some other lethal weapon. But I certainly did not expect to see a night stewardess, with an inquiring face and looking the essence of respectability.

“I beg your pardon, miss, I thought you called out.”

“No,” I said, “I didn't.”

“I'm sorry for interrupting you.”

“That's all right,” I said. “I couldn't sleep. I thought a wash would do me good.” It sounded rather as though it were a thing I never had as a general rule.

“I'm so sorry, miss,” said the stewardess again. “But there's a gentleman about who's rather drunk and we are afraid he might get into one of the ladies' cabins and frighten them.”

“How dreadful!” I said, looking alarmed. “He won't come in here, will he?”

“Oh, I don't think so, miss. Ring the bell if he does. Good night.”

“Good night.”

I opened the door and peeped down the corridor. Except for the retreating form of the stewardess, there was nobody in sight.

Drunk! So that was the explanation of it. My histrionic talents had been wasted. I pulled the cabin trunk out a little farther and said: “Come out at once, please,” in an acid voice.

There was no answer. I peered under the bunk. My visitor lay immoveable. He seemed to be asleep. I tugged at his shoulder. He did not move.

“Dead drunk,” I thought vexedly. “What
am
I to do?”

Then I saw something that made me catch my breath, a small scarlet spot on the floor.

Using all my strength, I succeeded in dragging the man out into the middle of the cabin. The dead whiteness of his face showed that he had fainted. I found the cause of his fainting easily enough. He had been stabbed under the left shoulder blade—a nasty deep wound. I got his coat off and set to work to attend to it.