A railway bridge at Little Puddecombe junction

The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. Chapter XXXI

CHAPTER 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 to-morrow, 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 war-path.

He next proceeded to bore me with a long pointless story about the Kilmorden. It was about a roll of films and a wager. The roll of films being thrown through a porthole in the middle of the night by some steward who ought to have known better. I hate horse-play. I told Pagett so, and he began to tell me the story all over again. He tells a story extremely badly, anyway. It was a long time before I could make head or tail of this one.

I did not see him again until lunch-time. Then he came in brimming over with excitement, like a bloodhound on the scent. I never have cared for bloodhounds. The upshot of it all was that he had seen Rayburn.

“What?” I cried, startled.

Yes, he had caught sight of some one whom he was sure was Rayburn crossing the street. Pagett had followed him.

“And who do you think I saw him stop and speak to? Miss Pettigrew!”

“What?”

“Yes, Sir Eustace. And that’s not all. I’ve been making inquiries about her——”

“Wait a bit. What happened to Rayburn?”

“He and Miss Pettigrew went into that corner curio-shop——”

I uttered an involuntary exclamation. Pagett stopped inquiringly.

“Nothing,” I said. “Go on.”

“I waited outside for ages—but they didn’t come out. At last I went in. Sir Eustace, there was no one in the shop! There must be another way out.”

I stared at him.

“As I was saying, I came back to the hotel and made some inquiries about Miss Pettigrew.” Pagett lowered his voice and breathed hard as he always does when he wants to be confidential. “Sir Eustace, a man was seen coming out of her room last night.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“And I always regarded her as a lady of such eminent respectability,” I murmured.

Pagett went on without heeding.

“I went straight up and searched her room. What do you think I found?”

I shook my head.

“This!”

Pagett held up a safety razor and a stick of shaving soap.

“What should a woman want with these?”

I don’t suppose Pagett ever reads the advertisements in the high-class ladies’ papers. I do. Whilst not proposing to argue with him on the subject, I refused to accept the presence of the razor as proof positive of Miss Pettigrew’s sex. Pagett is so hopelessly behind the times. I should not have been at all surprised if he had produced a cigarette-case to support his theory. However, even Pagett has his limits.

“You’re not convinced, Sir Eustace. What do you say to this?”

I inspected the article which he dangled aloft triumphantly.

“It looks like hair,” I remarked distastefully.

“It is hair. I think it’s what they call a toupee.”

“Indeed,” I commented.

“Now are you convinced that that Pettigrew woman is a man in disguise?”

“Really, my dear Pagett, I think I am. I might have known it by her feet.”

“Then that’s that. And now, Sir Eustace, I want to speak to you about my private affairs. I cannot doubt, from your hints and your continual allusions to the time I was in Florence, that you have found me out.”

At last the mystery of what Pagett did in Florence is going to be revealed!

“Make a clean breast of it, my dear fellow,” I said kindly. “Much the best way.”

“Thank you, Sir Eustace.”

“Is it her husband? Annoying fellows, husbands. Always turning up when they’re least expected.”

“I fail to follow you, Sir Eustace. Whose husband?”

“The lady’s husband.”

“What lady?”

“God bless my soul, Pagett, the lady you met in Florence. There must have been a lady. Don’t tell me that you merely robbed a church or stabbed an Italian in the back because you didn’t like his face.”

“I am quite at a loss to understand you, Sir Eustace. I suppose you are joking.”

“I am an amusing fellow sometimes, when I take the trouble, but I can assure you that I am not trying to be funny this minute.”

“I hoped that as I was a good way off you had not recognized me, Sir Eustace.”

“Recognized you where?”

“At Marlow, Sir Eustace?”

“At Marlow? What the devil were you doing at Marlow?”

“I thought you understood that——”

“I’m beginning to understand less and less. Go back to the beginning of the story and start again. You went to Florence——”

“Then you don’t know after all—and you didn’t recognize me!”

“As far as I can judge, you seem to have given yourself away needlessly—made a coward of by your conscience. But I shall be able to tell better when I’ve heard the whole story. Now, then, take a deep breath and start again. You went to Florence——”

“But I didn’t go to Florence. That is just it.”

“Well, where did you go, then?”

“I went home—to Marlow.”

“What the devil did you want to go to Marlow for?”

“I wanted to see my wife. She was in delicate health and expecting——”

“Your wife? But I didn’t know you were married?”

“No, Sir Eustace, that is just what I am telling you. I deceived you in this matter.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Just over eight years. I had been married just six months when I became your secretary. I did not want to lose the post. A resident secretary is not supposed to have a wife, so I suppressed the fact.”

“You take my breath away,” I remarked. “Where has she been all these years?”

“We have had a small bungalow on the river at Marlow, quite close to the Mill House, for over five years.”

“God bless my soul,” I muttered. “Any children?”

“Four children, Sir Eustace.”

I gazed at him in a kind of stupor. I might have known, all along, that a man like Pagett couldn’t have a guilty secret. The respectability of Pagett has always been my bane. That’s just the kind of secret he would have—a wife and four children.

“Have you told this to any one else?” I demanded at last, when I had gazed at him in fascinated interest for quite a long while.

“Only Miss Beddingfeld. She came to the station at Kimberley.”

I continued to stare at him. He fidgeted under my glance.

“I hope, Sir Eustace, that you are not seriously annoyed?”

“My dear fellow,” I said, “I don’t mind telling you here and now that you’ve blinking well torn it!”

I went out seriously ruffled. As I passed the corner curio-shop, I was assailed by a sudden irresistible temptation and went in. The proprietor came forward obsequiously, rubbing his hands.

“Can I show you something? Furs, curios?”

“I want something quite out of the ordinary,” I said. “It’s for a special occasion. Will you show me what you’ve got?”

“Perhaps you will come into my back room? We have many specialties there?”

That is where I made a mistake. And I thought I was going to be so clever. I followed him through the swinging portières.

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