The Man in the Brown Suit - Agatha Christie [25]
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 Ito 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