The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie Page A

Pedler! One thing was clear, Mr. Chichester could not be exempted from my list of suspects. I was inclined to put him top of the three.
    After lunch, when I came up to the lounge for coffee, I noticed Sir Eustace and Pagett sitting with Mrs. Blair and Colonel Race. Mrs. Blair welcomed me with a smile, so I went over and joined them. They were talking about Italy.
    “But it is misleading,” Mrs. Blair insisted. “Aqua calda certainly ought to be cold water - not hot.”
    “You're not a Latin scholar,” said Sir Eustace, smiling.
    “Men are so superior about their Latin,” said Mrs. Blair. “But all the same I notice that when you ask them to translate inscriptions in old churches they never can do it! They hem and haw, and get out of it somehow.”
    “Quite right,” said Colonel Race. “I always do.”
    “But I love the Italians,” continued Mrs. Blair. “They're so obliging -though even that has its embarrassing side. You ask them the way somewhere, and instead of saying 'first to the right, second to the left' or something that one could follow, they pour out a flood of well-meaning directions, and when you look bewildered they take you kindly by the arm and walk all the way there with you.”
    “Is that your experience in Florence, Pagett?” asked Sir Eustace, turning with a smile to his secretary.
    For some reason the question seemed to disconcert Mr. Pagett. He stammered and flushed.
    “Oh, quite so, yes - er quite so.”
    Then with a murmured excuse, he rose and left the table.
    “I am beginning to suspect Guy Pagett of having committed some dark deed in Florence,” remarked Sir Eustace, gazing after his secretary's retreating figure. “Whenever Florence or Italy is mentioned, he changes the subject, or bolts precipitately.”
    “Perhaps he murdered someone there,” said Mrs. Blair hopefully. “He looks -1 hope I'm not hurting your feelings, Sir Eustace - but he does look as though he might murder someone.”
    “Yes, pure Cinquecento! It amuses me sometimes - especially when one knows as well as I do how essentially law-abiding and respectable the poor fellow really is.”
    “He's been with you some time, hasn't he, Sir Eustace?” asked Colonel Race.
    “Six years,” said Sir Eustace, with a deep sigh.
    “He must be quite invaluable to you,” said Mrs. Blair.
    “Oh, invaluable! Yes, quite invaluable.” The poor man sounded even more depressed, as though the invaluableness of Mr. Pagett was a secret grief to him. Then he added more briskly: “But his face should really inspire you with confidence, my dear lady. No self-respecting murderer would ever consent to look like one. Crippen, now, I believe, was one of the pleasantest fellows imaginable.”
    “He was caught on a liner, wasn't he?” murmured Mrs. Blair.
    There was a slight rattle behind us. I turned quickly. Mr. Chichester had dropped his coffee-cup.
    Our party soon broke up, Mrs. Blair went below to sleep and I went out on deck. Colonel Race followed me.
    “You're very elusive. Miss Beddingfield. I looked for you everywhere last night at the dance.”
    “I went to bed early,” I explained.
    “Are you going to run away tonight too? Or are you going to dance with me?”
    “I shall be very pleased to dance with you,” I murmured shyly. “But Mrs. Blair -”
    “Our friend, Mrs. Blair, doesn't care for dancing.”
    “And you do?”
    “I care for dancing with you.”
    “Oh!” I said nervously.
    I was a little afraid of Colonel Race.
    Nevertheless I was enjoying myself. This was better than discussing fossilized skulls with stuffy old professors! Colonel Race was really just my ideal of a stern silent Rhodesian. Possibly I might marry him! I hadn't been asked, it is true, but, as the Boy Scouts say, Be Prepared! And all women, without in the least meaning it, consider every man they meet as a possible husband for themselves or for their best friend.
    I danced several times with him that evening. He danced well. When the