The Man in the Brown Suit
for me to sleep in, and (b) to attempt to dress in. I never had
any intentions of allowing you to sprawl about the place making an
infernal clicking with that typewriter of yours.”
“That’s just what I say, Sir Eustace, we must have somewhere to
work——”
Here I parted company from them, and went below to see if my
removal was in progress. I found my steward busy at the task.
“Very nice cabin, miss. On D deck. No. 13.”
“Oh, no!” I cried. “_Not_ 13.”
Thirteen is the one thing I am superstitious about. It was a nice
cabin too. I inspected it, wavered, but a foolish superstition
prevailed. I appealed almost tearfully to the steward.
“Isn’t there any other cabin I can have?”
The steward reflected.
“Well, there’s 17, just along on the starboard side. That was empty
this morning, but I rather fancy it’s been allotted to some one.
Still, as the gentleman’s things aren’t in yet, and as gentlemen
aren’t anything like so superstitious as ladies, I dare say he
wouldn’t mind changing.”
I hailed the proposition gratefully, and the steward departed to
obtain permission from the purser. He returned grinning.
“That’s all right, miss. We can go along.”
He led the way to 17. It was not quite as large as No. 13, but I
found it eminently satisfactory.
“I’ll fetch your things right away, miss,” said the steward.
But at that moment, the man with the sinister face (as I had
nicknamed him) appeared in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but this cabin is reserved for the use of
Sir Eustace Pedler.”
“That’s all right, sir,” explained the steward. “We’re fitting up
No. 13 instead.”
“No, it was No. 17 I was to have.”
“No. 13 is a better cabin, sir—larger.”
“I specially selected No. 17, and the purser said I could have it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said coldly. “But No. 17 has been allotted to me.”
“I can’t agree to that.”
The steward put in his oar.
“The other cabin’s just the same, only better.”
“I want No. 17.”
“What’s all this?” demanded a new voice. “Steward, put my things
in here. This is my cabin.”
It was my neighbor at lunch, the Rev. Edward Chichester.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “It’s my cabin.”
“It is allotted to Sir Eustace Pedler,” said Mr. Pagett.
We were all getting rather heated.
“I’m sorry to have to dispute the matter,” said Chichester with a
meek smile which failed to mask his determination to get his own
way. Meek men are always obstinate, I have noticed.
He edged himself sideways into the doorway.
“You’re to have No. 28 on the port side,” said the steward. “A very
good cabin, sir.”
“I am afraid that I must insist. No. 17 was the cabin promised to
me.”
We had come to an impasse. Each one of us was determined not to
give way. Strictly speaking, I, at any rate, might have retired
from the contest and eased matters by offering to accept Cabin 28.
So long as I did not have 13 it was immaterial to me what other
cabin I had. But my blood was up. I had not the least intention of
being the first to give way. And I disliked Chichester. He had
false teeth which clicked when he ate. Many men have been hated
for less.
We all said the same things over again. The steward assured us,
even more strongly, that both the other cabins were better cabins.
None of us paid any attention to him.
Pagett began to lose his temper. Chichester kept his serenely. With
an effort I also kept mine. And still none of us would give way an
inch.
A wink and a whispered word from the steward gave me my cue. I
faded unobtrusively from the scene. I was lucky enough to encounter
the purser almost immediately.
“Oh, please,” I said, “you did say I could have Cabin 17? And the
others won’t go away. Mr. Chichester and Mr. Pagett. You _will_
let me have it, won’t you?”
I always say that there are no people like sailors for being nice
to women. My little purser came to the scratch splendidly. He
strode to the scene, informed the disputants that No. 17 was my
cabin, they could have Nos. 13 and 28 respectively or stay where
they were—whichever they chose.
I permitted my eyes to tell him what a hero he was and then
installed myself in my new domain. The encounter had done me worlds
of good. The sea was smooth, the weather growing daily warmer.
Sea-sickness was a thing of the past!
I went up on deck and was initiated into the mysteries of
deck-quoits. I entered my name for various sports. Tea was served
on deck, and I ate heartily. After tea, I played shovel-board with
some pleasant young men. They were extraordinarily nice to me. I
felt that life was satisfactory and delightful.
The dressing bugle came as a surprise and I hurried to my new
cabin. The stewardess was awaiting me with a troubled face.
“There’s a terrible smell in your cabin, miss. What it is, I’m sure
I can’t think, but I doubt if you’ll be able to sleep here. There’s
a deck cabin up on C deck, I believe. You might move into that—just
for the night, anyway.”
The smell really was pretty bad—quite nauseating. I told the
stewardess I would think over the question of moving whilst I
dressed. I hurried over my toilet, sniffing distastefully as I did
so.
What _was_ the smell? Dead rat? No, worse than that—and quite
different. Yet I knew it! It was something I had smelt before.
Something——Ah! I had got it. Asafœtida! I had worked in a Hospital
dispensary during the war for a short time and had become acquainted
with various nauseous drugs.
Asafœtida, that was it. But how——
I sank down on the sofa, suddenly realizing the thing. Somebody
had put a pinch of asafœtida in my cabin. Why? So that I should
vacate it? Why were they so anxious to get me out? I thought of
the scene this afternoon from a rather different point of view.
What was there about Cabin 17 that made so many people anxious to
get hold of it? The other two cabins were better cabins, why had
both men insisted on sticking to 17?
17. How the number persisted. It was on the 17th I had sailed from
Southampton. It was a 17—I stopped with a sudden gasp. Quickly I
unlocked my suit-case, and took my precious paper from its place
of concealment in some rolled stockings.
17 1 22—I had taken that for a date, the date of departure of the
_Kilmorden Castle._ Supposing I was wrong. When I came to think of
it, would any one, writing down a date, think it necessary to put
the year as well as the month? Supposing 17 meant _Cabin_ 17? And
1? The time—one o’clock. Then 22 must be the date. I looked up at
my little almanac.
To-morrow was the 22nd!
CHAPTER X
I was violently excited. I was sure that I had hit on the right
trail at last. One thing was clear, I must not move out of the
cabin. The asafœtida had got to be borne. I examined my facts
again.
To-morrow was the 22nd, and at 1 a.m. or 1 p.m. something would
happen. I plumped for 1 a.m. It was now seven o’clock. In six hours
I should know.
I don’t know how I got through the evening. I retired to my cabin
fairly early. I had told the stewardess that I had a cold in the
head and didn’t mind smells. She still seemed distressed, but I
was firm.
The evening seemed interminable. I duly retired to bed, but in view
of emergencies I swathed myself in a thick flannel dressing-gown,
and encased my feet in slippers. Thus attired I felt that I could
spring up and take an active part in anything that happened.
What did I expect to happen? I hardly knew. Vague fancies, most of
them wildly improbable, flitted through my brain. But one thing I
was firmly convinced of, at one o’clock _something_ would happen.
At various times, I heard my fellow-passengers coming to bed.
Fragments of conversation, laughing good-nights, floated in through
the open transom. Then, silence. Most of the lights went out. There
was still one in the passage outside, and there was therefore a
certain amount of light in my cabin. I heard eight bells go. The
hour that followed seemed the longest I had ever known. I consulted
my watch surreptitiously to be sure I had not overshot the time.
If my deductions were wrong, if nothing happened at one o’clock,
I should have made a fool of myself, and spent all the money I had
in the world on a mare’s-nest. My heart beat painfully.
Two bells went overhead. One o’clock! And nothing. Wait—what was
that? I heard the quick light patter of feet running—running along
the passage.
Then with the suddenness of a bombshell my cabin door burst open
and a man almost fell inside.
“Save me,” he said hoarsely. “They’re after me.”
It was not a moment for argument or explanation. I could hear
footsteps outside. I had about forty seconds in which to act. I
had sprung to my feet and was standing facing the stranger in the
middle of the cabin.
A cabin does not abound in hiding-places for a six-foot man. With
one arm I pulled out my cabin trunk. He slipped down behind it
under the bunk. I raised the lid. At the same time, with the other
hand I pulled down the wash-basin. A deft movement and my hair was
screwed into a tiny knot on the top of my head. From the point of
view of appearance it was inartistic, from another standpoint it
was supremely artistic. A lady, with her hair screwed into an
unbecoming knob and in the act of removing a piece of soap from
her trunk with which, apparently to wash her neck, could hardly be
suspected of harbouring a fugitive.
There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for me to say,
“Come in,” it was pushed open.
I don’t know what I expected to see. I think I had vague ideas of
Mr. Pagett brandishing a revolver. Or my missionary friend with a
sandbag, or some other lethal weapon. But certainly I did not
expect to see a night stewardess, with an inquiring face and
looking the essence of respectability.
“I beg your pardon, miss, I thought you called out.”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry for interrupting you.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought a wash
would do me good.” It sounded rather as though it were a thing I
never had as a general rule.
“I’m so sorry, miss,” said the stewardess again. “But there’s a
gentleman about who’s rather drunk, and we are afraid he might get
into one of the ladies’ cabins and frighten them.”
“How dreadful,” I said, looking alarmed. “He won’t come in here,
will he?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, miss. Ring the bell if he does. Good night.”
“Good night.”
I opened the door and peeped down the corridor. Except for the
retreating form of the stewardess, there was nobody in sight.
Drunk! So that was the explanation of it. My histrionic talents
had been wasted. I pulled the cabin trunk out a little farther and
said:
“Come out at once, please,” in an acid voice.
There was no answer. I peered under the bunk. My visitor lay
immovable. He seemed to be asleep. I tugged at his shoulder. He
did not move.
“Dead drunk,” I thought vexedly. “What _am_ I to do?”
Then I saw something that made me catch my breath, a small scarlet
spot on the floor.
Using all my strength, I succeeded in dragging the man out into
the middle of the cabin. The dead whiteness of his face showed that
he had fainted. I found the cause of his fainting easily enough.
He had been stabbed under the left shoulder-blade—a nasty deep
wound. I got his coat off and set to work to attend to it.
At the sting of the cold water he stirred, then sat up.
“Keep still, please,” I said.
He was the kind of young man who recovers his faculties very
quickly. He pulled himself to his feet and stood there swaying a
little.
“Thank you, I don’t need anything done for me.”
His manner was defiant, almost aggressive. Not a word of thanks—of
even common gratitude!
“That is a nasty wound. You must let me dress it.”
“You will do nothing of the kind.”