Free The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie Page A

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. Asafoetida! I had worked in a hospital dispensary during the war for a short time and had become acquainted with various nauseous drugs.
    Asafoetida, that was it. But how—
    I sank down on the sofa, suddenly realizing the thing. Somebody had put a pinch of asafoetida 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 it 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 suitcase, 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 anyone, 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.
    Tomorrow was the 22nd!

Ten
    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 asafoetida had got to be borne. I examined my facts again.
    Tomorrow was the 22nd, and at 1 am or 1 pm something would happen. I plumped for 1 am. 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 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.
    â€œSave 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,