The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie

dropped again. “But that’s camouflage, I’m sure. So that he can watch better.”
    â€œWatch?”
    â€œOver your safety, Sir Eustace. In case an attack should be made upon you.”
    â€œYou’re such a cheerful fellow, Pagett,” I said. “I trust that your imagination runs away with you. If I were you I should go to the dance as a death’s head or an executioner. It will suit your mournful style of beauty.”
    That shut him up for the time being. I went on deck. The Beddingfeld girl was deep in conversation with the missionary parson, Chichester. Women always flutter round parsons.
    A man of my figure hates stooping, but I had the courtesy to pick up a bit of paper that was fluttering round the parson’s feet.
    I got no word of thanks for my pains. As a matter of fact I couldn’t help seeing what was written on the sheet of paper. There was just one sentence.
    â€œDon’t try to play a lone hand or it will be the worse for you.”
    That’s a nice thing for a parson to have. Who is this fellow Chichester, I wonder? He looks mild as milk. But looks are deceptive. I shall ask Pagett about him. Pagett always knows everything.
    I sank gracefully into my deck chair by the side of Mrs. Blair, thereby interrupting her tête-à-tête with Race, and remarked that I didn’t know what the clergy were coming to nowadays.
    Then I asked her to dine with me on the night of the Fancy Dress dance. Somehow or other Race managed to get included in the invitation.
    After lunch the Beddingfeld girl came and sat with us for coffee. I was right about her legs. They are the best on the ship. I shall certainly ask her to dinner as well.
    I would very much like to know what mischief Pagett was up to in Florence. Whenever Italy is mentioned, he goes to pieces. If I did not know how intensely respectable he is—I should suspect him of some disreputable amour. . . .
    I wonder now! Even the most respectable men—It would cheer me up enormously if it was so.
    Pagett—with a guilty secret! Splendid!

Thirteen
    It has been a curious evening.
    The only costume that fitted me in the barber’s emporium was that of a Teddy Bear. I don’t mind playing bears with some nice young girls on a winter’s evening in England—but it’s hardly an ideal costume for the equator. However, I created a good deal of merriment, and won first prize for “brought onboard”—an absurd term for a costume hired for the evening. Still, as nobody seemed to have the least idea whether they were made or brought, it didn’t matter.
    Mrs. Blair refused to dress up. Apparently she is at one with Pagett on the matter. Colonel Race followed her example. Anne Beddingfeld had concocted a gipsy costume for herself, and looked extraordinarily well. Pagett said he had a headache and didn’t appear. To replace him I asked a quaint little fellow called Reeves. He’s a prominent member of the South African labour party. Horrible little man, but I want to keep in with him, as he gives me information that I need. I want to understand this Rand business from both sides.
    Dancing was a hot affair. I danced twice with Anne Beddingfeld and she had to pretend she liked it. I danced once with Mrs. Blair, who didn’t trouble to pretend, and I victimized various other damsels whose appearance struck me favourably.
    Then we went down to supper. I had ordered champagne; the steward suggested Clicquot 1911 as being the best they had on the boat and I fell in with his suggestion. I seemed to have hit on the one thing that would loosen Colonel Race’s tongue. Far from being taciturn, the man became actually talkative. For a while this amused me, then it occurred to me that Colonel Race, and not myself, was becoming the life and soul of the party. He chaffed me at length about keeping a diary.
    â€œIt will reveal all your indiscretions one of these days,