The Man in the Brown Suit - Agatha Christie [30]
I tried kindness with him.
‘You look a perfect wreck still, my dear chap,’ I said easily. ‘What you need is a deck-chair in the sun. No–not another word. The work must wait.’
The next thing I knew he was worrying about an extra cabin. ‘There’s no room to work in your cabin, Sir Eustace. It’s full of trunks.’
From his tone, you might have thought the trunks were black beetles, something that had no business to be there.
I explained to him that, though he might not be aware of the fact, it was usual to take a change of clothing with one when travelling. He gave the wan smile with which he always greets my attempts at humour, and then reverted to the business in hand.
‘And we could hardly work in my little hole.’
I know Pagett’s ‘little holes’–he usually has the best cabin on the ship.
‘I’m sorry the Captain didn’t turn out for you this time,’ I said sarcastically. ‘Perhaps you’d like to dump some of your extra luggage in my cabin?’
Sarcasm is dangerous with a man like Pagett. He brightened up at once.
‘Well, if I could get rid of the typewriter and the stationery trunk–’
The stationery trunk weighs several solid tons. It causes endless unpleasantness with the porters, and it is the aim of Pagett’s life to foist it on me. It is a perpetual struggle between us. He seems to regard it as my special personal property. I, on the other hand, regard the charge of it as the only thing where a secretary is really useful.
‘We’ll get an extra cabin,’ I said hastily.
The thing seemed simple enough, but Pagett is a person who loves to make mysteries. He came to me the next day with a face like a Renaissance conspirator.
‘You know you told me to get Cabin 17 for an office?’
‘Well, what of it? Has the stationery trunk jammed in the doorway?’
‘The doorways are the same size in all the cabins,’ replied Pagett seriously. ‘But I tell you, Sir Eustace, there’s something very queer about that cabin.’
Memories of reading The Upper Berth floated through my mind.
‘If you mean that it’s haunted,’ I said, ‘we’re not going to sleep there, so I don’t see that it matters. Ghosts don’t affect typewriters.’
Pagett said that it wasn’t a ghost and that, after all, he hadn’t got Cabin 17. He told me a long, garbled story. Apparently, he and a Mr Chichester, and a girl called Beddingfeld, had almost come to blows over the cabin. Needless to say, the girl had won, and Pagett was apparently feeling sore over the matter.
‘Both 13 and 28 are better cabins,’ he reiterated. ‘But they wouldn’t look at them.’
‘Well,’ I said, stifling a yawn, ‘for that matter, no more would you, my dear Pagett.’
He gave me a reproachful look.
‘You told me to get Cabin 17.’
There is a touch of the ‘boy upon the burning deck’ about Pagett.
‘My dear fellow,’ I said testily, ‘I mentioned No. 17 because I happened to observe that it was vacant. But I didn’t mean you to make a stand to the death about it–13 or 28 would have done us equally well.’
He looked hurt.
‘There’s something more, though,’ he insisted. ‘Miss Beddingfeld got the cabin, but this morning I saw Chichester coming out of it in a furtive sort of way.’
I looked at him severely.
‘If you’re trying to get up a nasty scandal about Chichester, who is a missionary–though a perfectly poisonous person–and that attractive child, Anne Beddingfeld, I don’t believe a word of it,’ I said coldly. ‘Anne Beddingfeld is an extremely nice girl–with particularly good legs. I should say she had far and away the best legs on board.’
Pagett did not like my reference to Anne Beddingfeld’s legs. He is the sort of man who never notices legs himself–or, if he does, would die