AgathaChristie-TheManInTheBrownSuit Read online

  I heard her voice, slightly raised, as she

  26

  entered the drawing-room below on the first

  floor.

  "Well, Henry, why on earth——" I lost the

  rest, but the acerbity of the tone was evident.

  And a few minutes later another phrase

  floated up to me, in an even more acid voice:

  "I agree with you! She is certainly very goodlooking."

  It

  is really a very hard life. Men will not be

  nice to you if you are not good-looking, and

  women will not be nice to you if you are.

  With a deep sigh I proceeded to do things

  to my hair. I have nice hair. It is black—a real

  black, not dark brown—and it grows well

  back from my forehead and down over the

  ears. With a ruthless hand I dragged it

  upwards. As ears, my ears are quite all right,

  but there is no doubt about it, ears are demode

  nowadays. They are like the "Queen of

  Spain's legs" in Professor Peterson's young

  day. When I had finished I looked almost

  unbelievably like the kind of orphan that

  walks out in a queue with a little bonnet and a

  red cloak.

  I noticed when I went down that Mrs.

  Flemming's eyes rested on my exposed ears

  with quite a kindly glance. Mr. Flemming

  seemed puzzled. I had no doubt that he was

  TMITBS3 27

  saying to himself. "What has the child done

  to herself?"

  On the whole the rest of the day passed off

  well. It was settled that I was to start at once

  to look for something to do.

  When I went to bed, I stared earnestly at

  my face in the glass. Was I really goodlooking?

  Honestly I couldn't say I thought so!

  I hadn't got a straight Grecian nose, or a

  rosebud mouth, or any of the things you

  ought to have. It is true that a curate once

  told me that my eyes were like "imprisoned

  sunshine in a dark, dark wood"—but curates

  always know so many quotations, and fire

  them off at random. I'd much prefer to have

  Irish blue eyes than dark green ones with

  yellow flecks! Still, green is a good colour for

  adventuresses.

  I wound a black garment tightly round me,

  leaving my arms and shoulders bare. Then I

  brushed back my hair and pulled it well down

  over my ears again. I put a lot of powder on

  my face, so that the skin seemed even whiter

  than usual. I fished about until I found some

  old lip-salve, and I put oceans of it on my

  lips. Then I did under my eyes with burnt

  cork. Finally, I draped a red ribbon over my

  bare shoulder, stuck a scarlet feather in my

  28

  hair, and placed a cigarette in one corner of

  my mouth. The whole effect pleased me very

  much.

  "Anna the Adventuress," I said aloud,

  nodding at my reflection. "Anna the

  Adventuress. Episode I, 'The House in

  Kensington'!"

  Girls are foolish things.

  29

  3

  IN the succeeding weeks I was a good deal

  bored. Mrs. Flemming and her friends

  seemed to be supremely uninteresting.

  They talked for hours of themselves and their

  children and of the difficulties of getting good

  milk for the children and of what they said to

  the dairy when the milk wasn't good. Then

  they would go on to servants, and the

  difficulties of getting good servants and of

  what they had said to the woman at the

  registry office and of what the woman at the

  registry office had said to them. They never

  seemed to read the papers or to care about

  what went on in the world. They disliked

  travelling--everything was so different to

  England. The Riviera was all right, of course,

  because one met all one's friends there.

  I listened and contained myself with difficulty.

  Most of these women were rich. The

  whole wide beautiful world was theirs to

  wander in and they deliberately stayed in

  dirty dull London and talked about milkmen

  and servants! I think now, looking back, that

  30

  I was perhaps a shade intolerant. But they were stupid--stupid even at their chosen job:

  most of them kept the most extraordinarily

  inadequate and muddled housekeeping

  accounts.

  My affairs did not progress very fast. The

  house and furniture had been sold, and the

  amount realized had just covered our debts.

  As yet, I had not been successful in finding a

  post. Not that I really wanted one! I had the

  firm conviction that, if I went about looking

  for adventure, adventure would meet me halfway.

  It is a theory of mine that one always

  gets what one wants.

  My theory was about to be proved in

  practice.

  It was early in January--the 8th, to be

  exact. I was returning from an unsuccessful

  interview with a lady who said she wanted a

  secretary-companion, but really seemed to

  require a strong charwoman who could work

  twelve hours a day for 25 pounds a year. Having

  parted with mutual veiled impolitenesses, I

  walked down Edgware Road (the interview

  had taken place in a house in St. John's

  Wood), and across Hyde Park to St. George's

  Hospital. There I entered Hyde Park Corner

  31

  Tube Station and took a ticket to Gloucester

  Road.

  Once on the platform I walked to the

  extreme end of it. My inquiring mind wished

  to satisfy itself as to whether there really were

  points and an opening between the two

  tunnels just beyond the station in the

  direction of Down Street. I was foolishly

  pleased to find I was right. There were not

  many people on the platform, and at the

  extreme end there was only myself and one

  man. As I passed him, I sniffed dubiously. If

  there is one smell I cannot bear it is that of

  moth-balls! This man's heavy overcoat

  simply reeked of them. And yet most men

  begin to wear their winter overcoats before

  January, and consequently by this time the

  smell ought to have worn off. The man was

  beyond me, standing close to the edge of the

  tunnel. He seemed lost in thought, and I was

  able to stare at him without rudeness. He was

  a small thin man, very brown of face, with

  blue light eyes and a small dark beard.

  "Just come from abroad," I deduced.

  "That's why his overcoat smells so. He's

  come from India. Not an officer, or he

  wouldn't have a beard. Perhaps a

  tea-planter."

  32

  At this moment the man turned as though

  to retrace his steps along the platform. He

  glanced at me and then his eyes went on to

  something behind me, and his face changed.

  It was distorted by fear--almost panic. He

  took a step backwards as though involuntarily

 
recoiling from some danger, forgetting that

  he was standing on the extreme edge of the

  platform, and went down and over. There

  was a vivid flash from the rails and a

  crackling sound. I shrieked. People came

  running up. Two station officials seemed to

  materialize from nowhere and took

  command.

  I remained where I was, rooted to the spot

  by a sort of horrible fascination. Part of me

  was appalled at the sudden disaster, and

  another part of me was coolly and dispassionately

  interested in the methods employed for

  lifting the man off the live rail and back on to

  the platform.

  "Let me pass, please. I am a medical man."

  A tall man with a brown beard pressed past

  me and bent over the motionless body.

  As he examined it, a curious sense of

  unreality seemed to possess me. The thing

  wasn't real--couldn't be. Finally, the doctor

  stood upright and shook his head.

  33

  "Dead as a door-nail. Nothing to be done."

  We had all crowded nearer, and an

  aggrieved porter raised his voice. "Now then,

  stand back there, will you? What's the sense

  in crowding round?"

  A sudden nausea seized me, and I turned

  blindly and ran up the stairs again towards

  the lift. I felt that it was too horrible. I must

  get out into the open air. The doctor who had

  examined the body was just ahead of me. The

  lift was just about to go up, another having

  descended, and he broke into a run. As he did

  so, he dropped a piece of paper.

  I stopped, picked it up, and ran after him.

  But the lift gates clanged in my face, and I

  was left holding the paper in my hand. By the

  time the second lift reached the street level,

  there was no sign of my quarry. I hoped it

  was nothing important that he had lost, and

  for the first time I examined it. It was a plain

  half-sheet ofnotepaper with some figures and

  words scrawled upon it in pencil. This is a

  facsimile of it:

  17-122 Kilmorden Castle

  On the face of it, it certainly did not appear

  to be of any importance. Still, I hesitated to

  34

  throw it away. As I stood there holding it, I

  involuntarily wrinkled my nose in displeasure.

  Moth-balls again! I held the paper

  gingerly to my nose. Yes, it smelt strongly of

  them. But, then----

  I folded up the paper carefully and put it in

  my bag. I walked home slowly and did a good

  deal of thinking.

  I explained to Mrs. Flemming that I had

  witnessed a nasty accident-in the Tube and

  that I was rather upset and would go to my

  room and lie down. The kind woman insisted

  on my having a cup of tea. After that I was

  left to my own devices, and I proceeded to

  carry out a plan I had formed coming home. I

  wanted to know what it was that had

  produced that curious feeling of unreality

  whilst I was watching the doctor examine the

  body. First I lay down on the floor in the

  attitude of the corpse, then I laid a bolster

  down in my stead, and proceeded to

  duplicate, so far as I could remember, every

  motion and gesture of the doctor. When I had

  finished I had got what I wanted. I sat back

  on my heels and frowned at the opposite

  walls.

  There was a brief notice in the evening

  papers that a man had been killed in the

  35

  Tube, and a doubt was expressed whether it

  was suicide or accident. That seemed to me to

  make my duty clear, and when Mr.

  Flemming heard my story he quite agreed

  with me.

  "Undoubtedly you will be wanted at the

  inquest. You say no one else was near enough

  to see what happened?"

  <
  behind me, but I can't be sure--and, anyway,

  they wouldn't be as near as I was."

  The inquest was held. Mr. Flemming made

  all the arrangements and took me there with

  him. He seemed to fear that it would be a

  great ordeal to me, and I had to conceal from

  him my complete composure.

  The deceased had been identified as L. B.

  Carton. Nothing had been found in his

  pockets except a house-agent's order to view a

  house on the river near Marlow. It was in the

  name of L. B. Carton, Russell Hotel. The

  bureau clerk from the hotel identified the

  man as having arrived the day before and

  booked a room under that name. He had

  registered as L. B. Carton, Kimberley, S.

  Africa. He had evidently come straight off the

  steamer.

  36

  I was the only person who had seen

  anything of the affair.

  "You think it was an accident?" the

  coroner asked me.

  "I am positive of it. Something alarmed

  him, and he stepped backwards blindly

  without thinking what he was doing."

  "But what could have alarmed him?"

  "That I don't know. But there was something.

  He looked panic-stricken."

  A stolid juryman suggested that some men

  were terrified of cats. The man might have

  seen a cat. I didn't think his suggestion a very

  brilliant one, but it seemed to pass muster

  with the jury, who were obviously impatient

  to get home and only too pleased at being able

  to give a verdict of accident as opposed to

  suicide.

  "It is extraordinary to me," said the

  coroner, "that the doctor who first examined

  the body has not come forward. His name

  and address should have been taken at the

  time. It was most irregular not to do so."

  I smiled to myself. I had my own theory in

  regard to the doctor. In pursuance of it, I

  determined to make a call upon Scotland

  Yard at an early date.

  But the next morning brought a surprise.

  37

  Tube, and a doubt was expressed whether it

  was suicide or accident. That seemed to me to

  make my duty clear, and when Mr.

  Flemming heard my story he quite agreed

  with me.

  "Undoubtedly you will be wanted at the

  inquest. You say no one else was near enough

  to see what happened?"

  "I had the feeling someone was coming up

  behind me, but I can't be sure—and, anyway,

  they wouldn't be as near as I was."

  The inquest was held. Mr. Flemming made

  all the arrangements and took me there with

  him. He seemed to fear that it would be a

  great ordeal to me, and I had to conceal from

  him my complete composure.

  The deceased had been identified as L. B.

  Carton. Nothing had been found in his

  pockets except a house-agent's order to view a

  house on the river near Marlow. It was in the

  name of L. B. Carton, Russell Hotel. The

  bureau clerk from the hotel identified the />
  man as having arrived the day before and

  booked a room under that name. He had

  registered as L. B. Carton, Kimberley, S.

  Africa. He had evidently come straight off the

  steamer.

  36

  I was the only person who had seen

  anything of the affair.

  "You think it was an accident?" the

  coroner asked me.

  "I am positive of it. Something alarmed

  him, and he stepped backwards blindly

  without thinking what he was doing."

  "But what could have alarmed him?"

  "That I don't know. But there was something.

  He looked panic-stricken."

  A stolid juryman suggested that some men

  were terrified of cats. The man might have

  seen a cat. I didn't think his suggestion a very

  brilliant one, but it seemed to pass muster

  with the jury, who were obviously impatient

  to get home and only too pleased at being able

  to give a verdict of accident as opposed to

  suicide.

  "It is extraordinary to me," said the

  coroner, "that the doctor who first examined

  the body has not come forward. His name

  and address should have been taken at the

  time. It was most irregular not to do so."

  I smiled to myself. I had my own theory in

  regard to the doctor. In pursuance of it, I

  determined to make a call upon Scotland

  Yard at an early date.

  But the next morning brought a surprise.

  37

  The Flemmings took in the Daily Budget, and

  the Daily Budget was having a day after its

  own heart.

  EXTRAORDINARY SEQUEL TO TUBE

  ACCIDENT.

  WOMAN FOUND STRANGLED IN

  LONELY HOUSE.

  I read eagerly.

  "A sensational discovery was made

  yesterday at the Mill House, Marlow. The

  Mill House, which is the property of Sir

  Eustace Pedler, M.P., is to be let

  unfurnished, and an order to view this

  property was found in the pocket of the man

  who was at first thought to have committed

  suicide by throwing himself on the live rail at

  Hyde Park Corner Tube Station. In an upper

  room of the Mill House the body of a

  beautiful young woman was discovered

  yesterday, strangled. She is thought to be a

  foreigner, but so far has not been identified.

  The police are reported to have a clue. Sir

  Eustace Pedler, the owner of the Mill House,

  is wintering on the Riviera."

  38

  4

  NOBODY came forward to identify