The Man in the Brown Suit - Agatha Christie [36]
‘Then there’s the queer business of the stewardess,’ she continued thoughtfully. ‘What was she like?’
‘I hardly noticed her. I was so excited and strung up–and a stewardess seemed such an anticlimax. But–yes–I did think her face was familiar. Of course it would be if I’d seen her about the ship.’
‘Her face seemed familiar to you,’ said Suzanne. ‘Sure she wasn’t a man?’
‘She was very tall,’ I admitted.
‘Hum. Hardly Sir Eustace, I should think, nor Mr Pagett–Wait!’
She caught up a scrap of paper and began drawing feverishly. She inspected the result with her head poised on one side.
‘A very good likeness of the Rev. Edward Chichester. Now for the etceteras.’ She passed the paper over to me. ‘Is that your stewardess?’
‘Why, yes,’ I cried. ‘Suzanne, how clever of you!’
She disdained the compliment with a light gesture.
‘I’ve always had suspicions about that Chichester creature. Do you remember how he dropped his coffee-cup and turned a sickly green when we were discussing Crippen the other day?’
‘And he tried to get Cabin 17!’
‘Yes, it all fits in so far. But what does it all mean? What was really meant to happen at one o’clock in Cabin 17? It can’t be the stabbing of the secretary. There would be no point in timing that for a special hour on a special day in a special place. No, it must have been some kind of appointment and he was on his way to keep it when they knifed him. But who was the appointment with? Certainly not with you. It might have been with Chichester. Or it might have been with Pagett.’
‘That seems unlikely,’ I objected; ‘they can see each other any time.’
We both sat silent for a minute or two, then Suzanne started off on another tack.
‘Could there have been anything hidden in the cabin?’
‘That seems more probable,’ I agreed. ‘It would explain my things being ransacked the next morning. But there was nothing hidden there, I’m sure of it.’
‘The young man couldn’t have slipped something into a drawer the night before?’
I shook my head.
‘I should have seen him.’
‘Could it have been your precious bit of paper they were looking for?’
‘It might have been, but it seems rather senseless. It was only a time and a date–and they were both past by then.’
Suzanne nodded.
‘That’s so, of course. No, it wasn’t the paper. By the way, have you got it with you? I’d rather like to see it.’
I had brought the paper with me as Exhibit A, and I handed it over to her. She scrutinized it, frowning.
‘There’s a dot after the 17. Why isn’t there a dot after the 1 too?’
‘There’s a space,’ I pointed out.
‘Yes, there’s a space, but–’
Suddenly she rose and peered at the paper, holding it as close under the light as possible. There was a repressed excitement in her manner.
‘Anne, that isn’t a dot! That’s a flaw in the paper! A flaw in the paper, you see? So you’ve got to ignore it, and just go by the spaces–the spaces!’
I had risen and was standing by her. I read out the figures as I now saw them.
‘1 71 22.’
‘You see,’ said Suzanne. ‘It’s the same, but not quite. It’s one o’clock still, and the 22nd–but it’s Cabin 71! My cabin, Anne!’
We stood staring at each other, so pleased with our new discovery and so rapt with excitement that you might have thought we had solved the whole mystery. Then I fell to earth with a bump.
‘But, Suzanne, nothing happened here at one o’clock on the 22nd?’
Her face fell also.
‘No–it didn’t.’
Another idea struck me.
‘This isn’t your own cabin, is it, Suzanne? I mean not the one you originally booked?’
‘No, the purser changed me into it.’
‘I wonder if it was booked before sailing for someone–someone who didn’t turn up. I suppose we could find out.’
‘We don’t need to find out, gipsy girl,’ cried Suzanne. ‘I know! The purser was telling me about it. The cabin was booked in the name of Mrs Grey–but it seems that Mrs Grey was merely a pseudonym for the famous Madame Nadina. She’s a celebrated Russian dancer, you know. She’s never appeared in London, but Paris has been quite mad about her. She had a terrific success there all through the