CHAPTER XXIII

_(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)_

I thoroughly enjoyed the journey up to Rhodesia.

There was something new and exciting to see every day. First the

wonderful scenery of the Hex river valley, then the desolate

grandeur of the Karoo, and finally that wonderful straight stretch

of line in Bechuanaland, and the perfectly adorable toys the

natives brought to sell. Suzanne and I were nearly left behind at

each station—if you could call them stations. It seemed to me that

the train just stopped whenever it felt like it, and no sooner had

it done so than a horde of natives materialized out of the empty

landscape, holding up mealie bowls and sugar canes and fur karosses

and adorable carved wooden animals. Suzanne began at once to make

a collection of the latter. I imitated her example—most of them

cost a “tiki” (threepence) and each was different. There were

giraffes and tigers and snakes and a melancholy looking eland and

absurd little black warriors. We enjoyed ourselves enormously.

Sir Eustace tried to restrain us—but in vain. I still think it was

a miracle we were not left behind at some oasis of the line. South

African trains don’t hoot or get excited when they are going to

start off again. They just glide quietly away, and you look up from

your bargaining and run for your life.

Suzanne’s amazement at seeing me climb upon the train at Cape Town

can be imagined. We held an exhaustive survey of the situation on

the first evening out. We talked half the night.

It had become clear to me that defensive tactics must be adopted

as well as aggressive ones. Travelling with Sir Eustace Pedler and

his party, I was fairly safe. Both he and Colonel Race were powerful

protectors, and I judged that my enemies would not wish to stir up

a hornet’s nest about _my_ ears. Also, as long as I was near Sir

Eustace, I was more or less in touch with Guy Pagett—and Guy Pagett

was the heart of the mystery. I asked Suzanne whether in her

opinion it was possible that Pagett himself was the mysterious

“Colonel.” His subordinate position was, of course, against the

assumption, but it had struck me once or twice that, for all his

autocratic ways, Sir Eustace was really very much influenced by

his secretary. He was an easy-going man, and one whom an adroit

secretary might be able to twist round his little finger. The

comparative obscurity of his position might in reality be useful

to him, since he would be anxious to be well out of the limelight.

Suzanne, however, negatived these ideas very strongly. She refused

to believe that Guy Pagett was the ruling spirit. The real head—the

“Colonel”—was somewhere in the background and had probably been

already in Africa at the time of our arrival.

I agreed that there was much to be said for her view, but I was

not entirely satisfied. For in each suspicious instance Pagett had

been shown as the directing genius. It was true that his personality

seemed to lack the assurance and decision that one would expect

from a master criminal—but after all, according to Colonel Race,

it was brain work only that this mysterious leader supplied, and

creative genius is often allied to a weak and timorous physical

constitution.

“There speaks the Professor’s daughter,” interrupted Suzanne, when

I had got to this point in my argument.

“It’s true, all the same. On the other hand, Pagett may be the

Grand Vizier, so to speak, of the All Highest.” I was silent for

a minute or two, and then went on musingly: “I wish I knew how Sir

Eustace made his money!”

“Suspecting him again?”

“Suzanne, I’ve got into that state that I can’t help suspecting

somebody! I don’t really suspect him—but, after all, he _is_

Pagett’s employer, and he _did_ own the Mill House.”

“I’ve always heard that he made his money in some way he isn’t

anxious to talk about,” said Suzanne thoughtfully. “But that

doesn’t necessarily mean crime—it might be tin-tacks or hair

restorer!”

I agreed ruefully.

“I suppose,” said Suzanne doubtfully, “that we’re not barking up

the wrong tree? Being led completely astray, I mean, by assuming

Pagett’s complicity? Supposing that, after all, he is a perfectly

honest man?”

I considered that for a minute or two, then I shook my head.

“I can’t believe that.”

“After all, he has his explanations for everything.”

“Y—es, but they’re not very convincing. For instance, the night he

tried to throw me overboard on the _Kilmorden,_ he says he followed

Rayburn up on deck and Rayburn turned and knocked him down. Now we

know that’s not true.”

“No,” said Suzanne unwillingly. “But we only heard the story at

second-hand from Sir Eustace. If we’d heard it direct from Pagett

himself, it might have been different. You know how people always

get a story a little wrong when they repeat it.”

I turned the thing over in my mind.

“No,” I said at last, “I don’t see any way out. Pagett’s guilty.

You can’t get away from the fact that he tried to throw me

overboard, and everything else fits in. Why are you so persistent

in this new idea of yours?”

“Because of his face?”

“His face? But——”

“Yes, I know what you’re going to say. It’s a sinister face. That’s

just it. No man with a face like that could be really sinister. It

must be a colossal joke on the part of Nature.”

I did not believe much in Suzanne’s argument. I know a lot about

Nature in past ages. If she’s got a sense of humour, she doesn’t

show it much. Suzanne is just the sort of person who would clothe

Nature with all her own attributes.

We passed on to discuss our immediate plans. It was clear to me

that I must have some kind of standing. I couldn’t go on avoiding

explanations for ever. The solution of all my difficulties lay

ready to my hand, though I didn’t think of it for some time. The

_Daily Budget!_ My silence or my speech could no longer affect

Harry Rayburn. He was marked down as “The Man in the Brown Suit”

through no fault of mine. I could help him best by seeming to be

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.