The Man in the Brown Suit - Agatha Christie [26]
‘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 on 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 broadcast, 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 of it. I saved your life and I’m waiting for you to say “Thank you.”’
If looks could have killed, I think he would have liked to kill me then. He pushed roughly past me. At the door he turned back, and spoke over his shoulder.
‘I shall not thank you–now or at any other time. But I acknowledge the debt. Some day I will pay it.’
He was gone, leaving me with clenched hands, and my heart beating like a mill race.
Chapter 11
There were no further excitements that night. I had breakfast in bed and got up late the next morning. Mrs Blair hailed me as I came on deck.
‘Good morning, gipsy girl. Sit down here by me. You look as though you hadn’t slept well.’
‘Why do you call me that?’ I asked, as I sat down obediently.
‘Do you mind? It suits you somehow. I’ve called you that in my own mind from the beginning. It’s the gipsy element in you that makes you so different from anyone else. I decided in my own mind that you and Colonel Race were the only two people on board who wouldn’t bore me to death to talk to.’
‘That’s funny,’ I said. ‘I thought the same about you–only it’s more understandable in your case. You’re–you’re such an exquisitely finished product.’
‘Not badly put,’ said Mrs Blair, nodding her head. ‘Tell me about yourself, gipsy girl. Why are you going to South Africa?’
I told her something about Papa’s life work.
‘So you’re Charles Beddingfeld’s daughter? I thought you weren’t a mere provincial miss! Are you going to Broken Hill to grub up more skulls?’
‘I may,’ I said cautiously. ‘I’ve got other plans as well.’
‘What a mysterious minx you are. But you do look tired this morning. Didn’t you sleep well? I can’t keep awake on board a boat. Ten hours’ sleep for a fool, they say! I could do with twenty!’
She yawned, looking like a sleepy kitten. ‘An idiot of a steward woke