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

with the other hand I pulled down the washbasin. 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 I certainly did not expect to see a night stewardess, with an inquiring face and looking the essence of respectability.
    â€œI beg your pardon, miss, I thought you called out.”
    â€œNo,” I said, “I didn’t.”
    â€œI’m sorry for interrupting you.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œHow dreadful!” I said, looking alarmed. “He won’t come in here, will he?”
    â€œOh, I don’t think so, miss. Ring the bell if he does. Good night.”
    â€œGood 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 immoveable. He seemed to be asleep. I tugged at his shoulder. He did not move.
    â€œDead 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.
    â€œKeep 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.
    â€œThank you; I don’t need anything done for me.”
    His manner was defiant, almost aggressive. Not a word of thanks—of even common gratitude!
    â€œThat is a nasty wound. You must let me dress it.”
    â€œYou will do nothing of the kind.”
    He flung the words in my face as though I had been begging a favour of him. My temper, never placid, rose.
    â€œI cannot congratulate you on your manners,” I said coldly.
    â€œI can at least relieve you of my presence.” He started for the door, but reeled as he did so. With an abrupt movement I pushed him down upon the sofa.
    â€œDon’t be a fool,” I said unceremoniously. “You don’t want to go bleeding all over the ship, do you?”
    He seemed to see the sense of that, for he sat quietly whilst I bandaged up the wound as best I could.
    â€œThere,” I said, bestowing a pat on my handiwork, “that will have to do for the present. Are you better-tempered now and do you feel inclined to tell me what it’s all about?”
    â€œI’m sorry that I can’t satisfy your very natural curiosity.”
    â€œWhy not?” I said, chagrined.
    He smiled