The Man in the Brown Suit - Agatha Christie [87]
‘I think that’s all, Sir Eustace, except some miscellaneous odds and ends, a motor-veil and some odd gloves–that sort of thing.’
‘If you hadn’t been a born idiot, Pagett, you would have seen from the start that those couldn’t possibly be my belongings.’
‘I thought some of them might belong to Miss Pettigrew.’
‘Ah, that reminds me–what do you mean by picking me out such a doubtful character as a secretary?’
And I told him about the searching cross-examination I had been put through. Immediately I was sorry, I saw a glint in his eye that I know only too well. I changed the conversation hurriedly. But it was too late. Pagett was on the war-path.
He next proceeded to bore me with a long pointless story about the Kilmorden. It was about a roll of films and a wager. The roll of films being thrown through a port-hole in the middle of the night by some steward who ought to have known better. I hate horse-play. I told Pagett so, and he began to tell me the story all over again. He tells a story extremely badly, anyway. It was a long time before I could make head or tail of this one.
I did not see him again until lunch-time. Then he came in brimming over with excitement, like a bloodhound on the scent. I never have cared for bloodhounds. The upshot of it all was that he had seen Rayburn.
‘What?’ I cried, startled.
Yes, he had caught sight of someone whom he was sure was Rayburn crossing the street. Pagett had followed him.
‘And who do you think I saw him stop and speak to? Miss Pettigrew!’
‘What?’
‘Yes, Sir Eustace. And that’s not all. I’ve been making inquiries about her–’
‘Wait a bit. What happened to Rayburn?’
‘He and Miss Pettigrew went into that corner curioshop–’
I uttered an involuntary exclamation. Pagett stopped inquiringly.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Go on.’
‘I waited outside for ages–but they didn’t come out. At last I went in. Sir Eustace, there was no one in the shop! There must be another way out.’
I stared at him.
‘As I was saying, I came back to the hotel and made some inquiries about Miss Pettigrew.’ Pagett lowered his voice and breathed hard as he always does when he wants to be confidential. ‘Sir Eustace, a man was seen coming out of her room last night.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘And I always regarded her as a lady of such eminent respectability,’ I murmured.
Pagett went on without heeding.
‘I went straight up and searched her room. What do you think I found?’
I shook my head.
‘This!’
Pagett held up a safety razor and a stick of shaving soap.
‘What should a woman want with these?’
I don’t suppose Pagett ever reads the advertisements in the high-class ladies’ papers. I do. Whilst not proposing to argue with him on the subject, I refused to accept the presence of the razor as proof positive of Miss Pettigrew’s sex. Pagett is so hopelessly behind the times. I should not have been at all surprised if he had produced a cigarette-case to support his theory. However, even Pagett has his limits.
‘You’re not convinced, Sir Eustace. What do you say to this?’
I inspected the article which he dangled aloft triumphantly.
‘It looks like hair,’ I remarked distastefully.
‘It is hair. I think it’s what they call a toupee.’
‘Indeed,’ I commented.
‘Now are you convinced that that Pettigrew woman is a man in disguise?’
‘Really, my dear Pagett, I think I am. I might have known it by her feet.’
‘Then that’s that. And now, Sir Eustace, I want to speak to you about my private affairs. I cannot doubt, from your hints and your continual allusions to the time I was in Florence, that you have found me out.’
At last the mystery of what Pagett did in Florence is going to be revealed!
‘Make a clean breast of it, my dear fellow,’ I said kindly. ‘Much the best way.’
‘Thank you, Sir Eustace.’
‘Is it her husband? Annoying fellows, husbands. Always turning up when they’re least expected.’
‘I fail to follow you, Sir Eustace. Whose husband?’
‘The lady’s husband.’
‘What lady?’
‘God bless my soul, Pagett, the lady you met in Florence. There must have been