The Man in the Brown Suit - Agatha Christie [59]
‘H’m!’ said Colonel Race. ‘His idea is, I think, to give her sufficient work to chain her to her typewriter in her own compartment for the rest of the day.’
I laughed. Then, followed by the other two, I sought out Sir Eustace. He was striding up and down the circumscribed space, hurling a flood of words at the unfortunate secretary whom I now saw for the first time. A tall, square woman in drab clothing, with pince-nez and an efficient air. I judged that she was finding it difficult to keep pace with Sir Eustace, for her pencil was flying along, and she was frowning horribly.
I stepped into the compartment.
‘Come aboard, sir,’ I said saucily.
Sir Eustace paused dead in the middle of a complicated sentence on the labour situation, and stared at me. Miss Pettigrew must be a nervous creature, in spite of her efficient air, for she jumped as though she had been shot.
‘God bless my soul!’ ejaculated Sir Eustace. ‘What about the young man in Durban?’
‘I prefer you,’ I said softly.
‘Darling,’ said Sir Eustace. ‘You can start holding my hand at once.’
Miss Pettigrew coughed, and Sir Eustace hastily withdrew his hand.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Let me see, where were we? Yes. Tylman Roos, in his speech at–What’s the matter? Why aren’t you taking it down?’
‘I think,’ said Colonel Race gently, ‘that Miss Pettigrew has broken her pencil.’
He took it from her and sharpened it. Sir Eustace stared, and so did I. There was something in Colonel Race’s tone that I did not quite understand.
Chapter 22
(Extract from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)
I am inclined to abandon my Reminiscences. Instead, I shall write a short article entitled ‘Secretaries I have had’. As regards secretaries, I seem to have fallen under a blight. At one minute I have no secretaries, at another I have too many. At the present minute I am journeying to Rhodesia with a pack of women. Race goes off with the two best-looking, of course, and leaves me with the dud. That is what always happens to me–and, after all, this is my private car, not Race’s.
Also Anne Beddingfeld is accompanying me to Rhodesia on the pretext of being my temporary secretary. But all this afternoon she has been out on the observation platform with Race exclaiming at the beauty of the Hex River Pass. It is true that I told her her principal duty would be to hold my hand. But she isn’t even doing that. Perhaps she is afraid of Miss Pettigrew. I don’t blame her if so. There is nothing attractive about Miss Pettigrew–she is a repellent female with large feet, more like a man than a woman.
There is something very mysterious about Anne Beddingfeld. She jumped on board the train at the last minute, puffing like a steam-engine, for all the world as though she’s been running a race–and yet Pagett told me that he’d seen her off to Durban last night! Either Pagett has been drinking again, or else the girl must have an astral body.
And she never explains. Nobody ever explains. Yes, ‘Secretaries I have had’. No. 1, a murderer fleeing from justice. No. 2, a secret drinker who carries on disreputable intrigues in Italy. No. 3, a beautiful girl who possesses the useful faculty of being in two places at once. No. 4, Miss Pettigrew, who, I have no doubt, is really a particularly dangerous crook in disguise! Probably one of Pagett’s Italian friends that he has palmed off on me. I shouldn’t wonder if the world found some day that it had been grossly deceived by Pagett. On the whole, I think Rayburn was the best of the bunch. He never worried me or got in my way. Guy Pagett has had the impertinence to have the stationery trunk put in here. None of us can move without falling over it.
I went out on the observation platform just now, expecting my appearance to be greeted with hails of delight. Both the women were listening spellbound to one of Race’s traveller’s tales. I shall label this car–not ‘Sir Eustace Pedler and Party’, but ‘Colonel Race and Harem.’
Then Mrs Blair must needs begin taking silly photographs. Every time we went round a particularly appalling curve, as we