The Man in the Brown Suit - Agatha Christie (free novel 24 TXT) 📗

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 certainly I 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 immovable. 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.

At the sting of the cold water he stirred, then sat up.

“Keep still, please,” I said.

He was the kind of young man who recovers his faculties very quickly. He pulled himself to his feet and stood there swaying a little.

“Thank you, I don’t need anything done for me.”

His manner was defiant, almost aggressive. Not a word of thanks⁠—of even common gratitude!

“That is a nasty wound. You must let me dress it.”

“You will do nothing of the kind.”

He flung the words in my face as though I had been begging a favour of him. My temper, never placid, rose.

“I cannot congratulate you upon your manners,” I said coldly.

“I can at least relieve you of my presence.” He started for the door, but reeled as he did so. With an abrupt movement I pushed him down upon the sofa.

“Don’t be a fool,” I said unceremoniously. “You don’t want to go bleeding all over the ship, do you?”

He seemed to see the sense of that, for he sat quietly whilst I bandaged up the wound as best I could.

“There,” I said, bestowing a pat on my handiwork, “that will have to do for the present. Are you better tempered now and do you feel inclined to tell me what it’s all about?”

“I’m sorry that I can’t satisfy your very natural curiosity.”

“Why not?” I said, chagrined.

He smiled nastily.

“If you want a thing broadcasted, tell a woman. Otherwise keep your mouth shut.”

“Don’t you think I could keep a secret?”

“I don’t think⁠—I know.”

He rose to his feet.

“At any rate,” I said spitefully, “I shall be able to do a little broadcasting about the events of this evening.”

“I’ve no doubt you will too,” he said indifferently.

“How dare you?” I cried angrily.

We were facing each other, glaring at each other with the ferocity of bitter enemies. For the first time, I took in the details of his appearance, the close-cropped dark head, the lean jaw, the scar on the brown cheek, the curious light grey eyes that looked into mine with a sort of reckless mockery hard to describe. There was something dangerous about him.

“You haven’t thanked me yet for saving your life?” I said with false sweetness.

I hit him there. I saw him flinch distinctly. Intuitively I knew that he hated above all to be reminded that he owed his life to me. I didn’t care. I wanted to hurt him. I had never wanted to hurt anyone so much.

“I wish to God you hadn’t!” he said explosively. “I’d be better dead and out of it.”

“I’m glad you acknowledge the debt. You can’t get out