The Man in the Brown Suit
that. In some way, unknown to myself, I was a menace, a danger!
Some knowledge that I had, or that they thought I had, made them
anxious to remove me at all costs—and that knowledge was bound up
somehow with the diamonds. There was one person, I felt sure, who
could enlighten me—if he would! The Man in the Brown Suit—Harry
Rayburn. He knew the other half of the story. But he had vanished
into the darkness, he was a hunted creature flying from pursuit.
In all probability he and I would never meet again. . . .
I brought myself back with a jerk to the actualities of the moment.
It was no good thinking sentimentally of Harry Rayburn. He had
displayed the greatest antipathy to me from the first. Or, at
least——There I was again—dreaming! The real problem was what to
do—_now!_
I, priding myself upon my rôle of watcher, had become the watched.
And I was afraid! For the first time I began to lose my nerve. I
was the little bit of grit that was impeding the smooth working of
the great machine—and I fancied that the machine would have a short
way with little bits of grit. Once Harry Rayburn had saved me, once
I had saved myself—but I felt suddenly that the odds were heavily
against me. My enemies were all around me in every direction, and
they were closing in. If I continued to play a lone hand I was
doomed.
I rallied myself with an effort. After all, what could they do? I
was in a civilized city—with policemen every few yards. I would be
wary in future. They should not trap me again as they had done in
Muizenberg.
As I reached this point in my meditations, the train arrived at
Adderly Street. I got out. Undecided what to do, I walked slowly
up the left-hand side of the street. I did not trouble to look if
my watcher was behind me. I knew he was. I walked into Cartwright’s
and ordered two coffee ice-cream sodas—to steady my nerves. A man,
I suppose, would have had a stiff peg; but girls derive a lot of
comfort from ice-cream sodas. I applied myself to the end of the
straw with gusto. The cool liquid went trickling down my throat in
the most agreeable manner. I pushed the first glass aside empty.
I was sitting on one of the little high stools in front of the
counter. Out of the tail of my eye, I saw my tracker come in and
sit down unostentatiously at a little table near the door. I
finished the second coffee soda and demanded a maple one. I can
drink practically an unlimited amount of ice-cream sodas.
Suddenly the man by the door got up and went out. That surprised
me. If he was going to wait outside, why not wait outside from the
beginning. I slipped down from my stool and went cautiously to the
door. I drew back quickly into the shadow. The man was talking to
Guy Pagett.
If I had ever had any doubts, that would have settled it. Pagett
had his watch out and was looking at it. They exchanged a few brief
words, and then the secretary swung on down the street towards the
station. Evidently he had given his orders. But what were they?
Suddenly my heart leapt into my mouth. The man who had followed me
crossed to the middle of the road and spoke to a policeman. He
spoke at some length, gesticulating towards Cartwright’s and
evidently explaining something. I saw the plan at once. I was to
be arrested on some charge or other—pocket-picking, perhaps. It
would be easy enough for the gang to put through a simple little
matter like that. Of what good to protest my innocence? They would
have seen to every detail. Long ago they had brought a charge of
robbing De Beers against Harry Rayburn, and he had not been able
to disprove it, though I had little doubt but that he had been
absolutely blameless. What chance had I against such a “frame up”
as the “Colonel” could devise?
I glanced up at the clock almost mechanically, and immediately
another aspect of the case struck me. I saw the point of Guy
Pagett’s looking at his watch. It was just on eleven, and at eleven
the mail train left for Rhodesia bearing with it the influential
friends who might otherwise come to my rescue. That was the reason
of my immunity up to now. From last night till eleven this morning
I had been safe, but now the net was closing in upon me.
I hurriedly opened my bag and paid for my drinks, and as I did so,
my heart seemed to stand still, _for inside it was a man’s wallet
stuffed with notes!_ It must have been deftly introduced into my
handbag as I left the tram.
Promptly I lost my head. I hurried out of Cartwright’s. The little
man with the big nose and the policeman were just crossing the
road. They saw me, and the little man designated me excitedly to
the policeman. I took to my heels and ran. I judged him to be a
slow policeman. I should get a start. But I had no plan, even then.
I just ran for my life down Adderly Street. People began to stare.
I felt that in another minute some one would stop me.
An idea flashed into my head.
“The station?” I asked, in a breathless gasp.
“Just down on the right.”
I sped on. It is permissible to run for a train. I turned into the
station, but as I did so I heard footsteps close behind me. The
little man with the big nose was a champion sprinter. I foresaw
that I should be stopped before I got to the platform I was in
search of. I looked up to the clock—one minute to eleven. I might
just do it if my plan succeeded.
I had entered the station by the main entrance in Adderly Street.
I now darted out again through the side exit. Directly opposite me
was the side entrance to the post office, the main entrance to
which is in Adderly Street.
As I expected, my pursuer, instead of following me in, ran down
the street to cut me off when I emerged by the main entrance, or
to warn the policeman to do so.
In an instant I slipped across the street again and back into the
station. I ran like a lunatic. It was just eleven. The long train
was moving as I appeared on the platform. A porter tried to stop
me, but I wriggled myself out of his grasp and sprang upon the
footboard. I mounted the two steps and opened the gate. I was safe!
The train was gathering way.
We passed a man standing by himself at the end of the platform. I
waved to him.
“Good-bye, Mr. Pagett,” I shouted.
Never have I seen a man more taken aback. He looked as though he
had seen a ghost.
In a minute or two I was having trouble with the conductor. But I
took a lofty tone.
“I am Sir Eustace Pedler’s secretary,” I said haughtily. “Please
take me to his private car.”
Suzanne and Colonel Race were standing on the rear observation
platform. They both uttered an exclamation of utter surprise at
seeing me.
“Hullo, Miss Anne,” cried Colonel Race, “where have you turned up
from? I thought you’d gone to Durban. What an unexpected person
you are.”
Suzanne said nothing, but her eyes asked a hundred questions.
“I must report myself to my chief,” I said demurely. “Where is he?”
“He’s in the office—middle compartment—dictating at an incredible
rate to the unfortunate Miss Pettigrew.”
“This enthusiasm for work is something new,” I commented.
“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 XXII
_(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’d 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 travellers’ 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 climbed
higher and higher, she snapped at the engine.
“You see the point,” she cried delightedly. “It must be some curve
if you can photograph the front part of the train from the back,
and with the mountain background it will look awfully dangerous.”
I pointed out to her that no one could possibly tell it had been
taken from the back of the train. She looked at me pityingly.
“I shall write underneath it: ‘Taken from the train. Engine going
round a curve.’”
“You could write that under any snapshot of a train,” I said. Women
never think of these simple things.
“I’m glad we’ve come up here in daylight,” cried Anne Beddingfeld.