The Man in the Brown Suit
against him. The “Colonel” and his gang must have no suspicion that
there existed any friendly feeling between me and the man they had
elected to be the scapegoat of the murder at Marlow. As far as I
knew, the woman killed was still unidentified. I would cable to
Lord Nasby, suggesting that she was no other than the famous
Russian dancer “Nadina” who had been delighting Paris for so long.
It seemed incredible to me that she had not been identified
already—but when I learnt more of the case long afterwards I saw
how natural it really was.
Nadina had never been to England during her successful career in
Paris. She was unknown to London audiences. The pictures in the
papers of the Marlow victim were so blurred and unrecognizable that
it is small wonder no one identified them. And, on the other hand,
Nadina had kept her intention of visiting England a profound secret
from every one. The day after the murder a letter had been received
by her manager purporting to be from the dancer, in which she said
that she was returning to Russia on urgent private affairs and that
he must deal with her broken contract as best he could.
All this, of course, I only learned afterwards. With Suzanne’s full
approval, I sent a long cable from De Aar. It arrived at a
psychological moment (this again, of course, I learnt afterwards).
The _Daily Budget_ was hard up for a sensation. My guess was
verified and proved to be correct and the _Daily Budget_ had the
scoop of its lifetime. “Victim of the Mill House Murder identified
by our special reporter.” And so on. “Our reporter makes voyage
with the murderer. ‘The Man in the Brown Suit.’ What he is really
like.”
The main facts were, of course, cabled to the South African papers,
but I only read my own lengthy articles at a much later date! I
received approval and full instructions by cable at Bulawayo. I
was on the staff of the _Daily Budget,_ and I had a private word
of congratulation from Lord Nasby himself. I was definitely
accredited to hunt down the murderer, and I, and only I, knew that
the murderer was not Harry Rayburn! But let the world think that
it was he—best so for the present.
CHAPTER XXIV
We arrived at Bulawayo early on Saturday morning. I was disappointed
in the place. It was very hot, and I hated the hotel. Also Sir
Eustace was what I can only describe as thoroughly sulky. I think
it was all our wooden animals that annoyed him—especially the big
giraffe. It was a colossal giraffe with an impossible neck, a mild
eye and a dejected tail. It had character. It had charm. A
controversy was already arising as to whom it belonged—me or
Suzanne. We had each contributed a tiki to its purchase. Suzanne
advanced the claims of seniority and the married state, I stuck to
the position that I had been the first to behold its beauty.
In the meantime, I must admit, it occupied a good deal of this
three-dimensional space of ours. To carry forty-nine wooden animals,
all of awkward shape, and all of extremely brittle wood, is somewhat
of a problem. Two porters were laden with a bunch of animals
each—and one promptly dropped a ravishing group of ostriches and
broke their heads off. Warned by this, Suzanne and I carried all
we could, Colonel Race helped, and I pressed the big giraffe into
Sir Eustace’s arms. Even the correct Miss Pettigrew did not escape,
a large hippopotamus and two black warriors fell to her share. I
had a feeling Miss Pettigrew didn’t like me. Perhaps she fancied
I was a bold hussy. Anyway, she avoided me as much as she could.
And the funny thing was, her face seemed vaguely familiar to me,
though I couldn’t quite place it.
We reposed ourselves most of the morning, and in the afternoon we
drove out to the Matoppos to see Rhodes’s grave. That is to say,
we were to have done so, but at the last moment Sir Eustace backed
out. He was very nearly in as bad a temper as the morning we
arrived at Cape Town—when he bounced the peaches on the floor and
they squashed! Evidently arriving early in the morning at places
is bad for his temperament. He cursed the porters, he cursed the
waiters at breakfast, he cursed the whole hotel management, he
would doubtless have liked to curse Miss Pettigrew who hovered
around with her pencil and pad, but I don’t think even Sir Eustace
would have dared to curse Miss Pettigrew. She’s just like the
efficient secretary in a book. I only rescued our dear giraffe just
in time. I feel Sir Eustace would have liked to dash him to the
ground.
To return to our expedition, after Sir Eustace had backed out, Miss
Pettigrew said she would remain at home in case he might want her.
And at the very last minute Suzanne sent down a message to say she
had a headache. So Colonel Race and I drove off alone.
He is a strange man. One doesn’t notice it so much in a crowd. But,
when one is alone with him, the sense of his personality seems
really almost overpowering. He becomes more taciturn, and yet his
silence seems to say more than speech might do.
It was so that day that we drove to the Matoppos through the soft
yellow brown scrub. Everything seemed strangely silent—except our
car which I should think was the first Ford ever made by man! The
upholstery of it was torn to ribbons and, though I know nothing
about engines, even I could guess that all was not as it should be
in its interior.
By and by the character of the country changed. Great boulders
appeared, piled up into fantastic shapes. I felt suddenly that I
had got into a primitive era. Just for a moment Neanderthal men
seemed quite as real to me as they had to Papa. I turned to Colonel
Race.
“There must have been giants once,” I said dreamily. “And their
children were just like children are to-day—they played with
handfuls of pebbles, piling them up and knocking them down, and
the more cleverly they balanced them, the better pleased they were.
If I were to give a name to this place I should call it ‘The
Country of Giant Children.’”
“Perhaps you’re nearer the mark than you know,” said Colonel Race
gravely. “Simple, primitive, big—that is Africa.”
I nodded appreciatively.
“You love it, don’t you?” I asked.
“Yes. But to live in it long—well, it makes one what you would call
cruel. One comes to hold life and death very lightly.”
“Yes,” I said, thinking of Harry Rayburn. He had been like that
too. “But not cruel to weak things?”
“Opinions differ as to what are and are not ‘weak things,’ Miss
Anne.”
There was a note of seriousness in his voice which almost startled
me. I felt that I knew very little really of this man at my side.
“I meant children and dogs, I think.”
“I can truthfully say I’ve never been cruel to children or dogs.
So you don’t class women as ‘weak things’?”
I considered.
“No, I don’t think I do—though they are, I suppose. That is, they
are nowadays. But Papa always said that in the beginning men and
women roamed the world together, equal in strength—like lions and
tigers——”
“And giraffes?” interpolated Colonel Race slyly.
I laughed. Every one makes fun of that giraffe.
“And giraffes. They were nomadic, you see. It wasn’t till they
settled down in communities, and women did one kind of thing and
men another that women got weak. And of course, underneath, one is
still the same—one _feels_ the same, I mean, and that is why women
worship physical strength in men—it’s what they once had and have
lost.”
“Almost ancestor worship, in fact?”
“Something of the kind.”
“And you really think that’s true? That women worship strength, I
mean?”
“I think it’s quite true—if one’s honest. You think you admire
moral qualities, but when you fall in love, you revert to the
primitive where the physical is all that counts. But I don’t think
that’s the end—if you lived in primitive conditions it would be
all right, but you don’t—and so, in the end, the other thing wins
after all. It’s the things that are apparently conquered that
always do win, isn’t it? They win in the only way that counts. Like
what the Bible says about losing your soul and finding it.”
“In the end,” said Colonel Race thoughtfully, “you fall in love—and
you fall out of it, is that what you mean?”
“Not exactly, but you can put it that way if you like.”
“But I don’t think you’ve ever fallen out of love, Miss Anne?”
“No, I haven’t,” I admitted frankly.
“Or fallen in love, either?”
I did not answer.
The car drew up at our destination and brought the conversation to
a close. We got out and began the slow ascent to the World’s View.
Not for the first time, I felt a slight discomfort in Colonel
Race’s company. He veiled his thoughts so well behind those
impenetrable black eyes.
He frightened me a little. He had always frightened me. I never
knew where I stood with him.
We climbed in silence till we reached the spot where Rhodes lies
guarded by giant boulders. A strange eerie place, far from the
haunts of men, that sings a ceaseless pæan of rugged beauty.
We sat there for some time in silence. Then descended once more,
but diverging slightly from the path. Sometimes it was a rough
scramble and once we came to a sharp slope or rock that was almost
sheer.
Colonel Race went first, then turned to help me.
“Better lift you,” he said suddenly, and swung me off my feet with
a quick gesture.
I felt the strength of him as he set me down and released his
clasp. A man of iron, with muscles like taut steel. And again, I
felt afraid, especially as he did not move aside, but stood directly
in front of me, staring into my face.
“What are you really doing here, Anne Beddingfeld?” he said
abruptly.
“I’m a gipsy seeing the world.”
“Yes, that’s true enough. The newspaper correspondent is only a
pretext. You’ve not the soul of the journalist. You’re out for your
own hand—snatching at life. But that’s not all.”
What was he going to make me tell him? I was afraid—afraid. I
looked him full in the face. My eyes can’t keep secrets like his,
but they can carry the war into the enemy’s country.
“What are _you_ really doing here, Colonel Race?” I asked
deliberately.
For a moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer. He was clearly
taken aback, though. At last he spoke, and his words seemed to
afford him a grim amusement.
“Pursuing ambition,” he said. “Just that—pursuing ambition. You
will remember, Miss Beddingfeld, that ‘by that sin fell the angels,’
etc.”
“They say,” I said slowly, “that you are really connected with the
Government—that you are in the Secret Service. Is that true?”
Was it my fancy, or did he hesitate for a fraction of a second
before he answered?
“I can assure you, Miss Beddingfeld, that I am out here strictly
as a private individual travelling for my own pleasure.”
Thinking the answer over later, it struck me as slightly ambiguous.
Perhaps he meant it to be so.
We rejoined the car in silence. Half-way back to Bulawayo we
stopped for tea at a somewhat primitive structure at the side of
the road. The proprietor was digging in the garden and seemed
annoyed at being disturbed. But he graciously promised to see what
he could do. After an interminable wait he brought us some stale
cakes and some lukewarm tea. Then he disappeared to his garden
again.
No sooner had he departed than we were surrounded by cats. Six of
them all miaowing piteously at once. The racket was deafening. I
offered them some pieces of cake. They devoured them ravenously.
I poured all the milk there was into a saucer and they fought each
other to get it.
“Oh,” I cried indignantly, “they’re starved! It’s wicked. Please,
please, order some more milk and another plate of cake.”
Colonel Race departed silently to do my bidding. The cats had begun
miaowing again. He returned with a big jug of milk and the cats
finished it all.