The Man in the Brown Suit

“They don’t say. I suppose we shall go back to England at once, Sir Eustace?”
“You need suppose nothing of the kind. Why should we go back?”
“The police—”
“What on earth have I to do with the police?”
“Well, it is your house.”
“That,” I said, “appears to be more my misfortune than my fault.”
Guy Pagett shook his head gloomily.
“It will have a very unfortunate effect upon the constituency,” he remarked
lugubriously.
I don’t see why it should have—and yet I have a feeling that in such matters Pagett’s
instincts are always right. On the face of it, a Member of Parliament will be none the less
efficient because a stray young woman comes and gets herself murdered in an empty
house that belongs to him—but there is no accounting for the view the respectable
British public takes of a matter.
“She’s a foreigner too, and that makes it worse,” continued Pagett gloomily.
Again I believe he is right. If it is disreputable to have a woman murdered in your
house, it becomes more disreputable if the woman is a foreigner. Another idea struck me.

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“Good heavens,” I exclaimed, “I hope this won’t upset Caroline.”
Caroline is the lady who cooks for me. Incidentally she is the wife of my gardener.
What kind of a wife she makes I do not know, but she is an excellent cook. James, on the
other hand, is not a good gardener—but I support him in idleness and give him the lodge
to live in solely on account of Caroline’s cooking.
“I don’t suppose she’ll stay after this,” said Pagett.
“You always were a cheerful fellow,” I said.
I expect I shall have to go back to England. Pagett clearly intends that I shall. And
there is Caroline to pacify.
Three days later.
It is incredible to me that anyone who can get away from England in winter does not do
so! It is an abominable climate. All this trouble is very annoying. The house agents say it
will be next to impossible to let the Mill House after all the publicity. Caroline has been
pacified—with double pay. We could have sent her a cable to that effect from Cannes. In
fact, as I have said all along, there was no earthly purpose to serve by our coming over. I
shall go back tomorrow.
One day later.
Several very suprising things have occurred. To begin with, I met Augustus Milray, the
most perfect example of an old ass the present Government has produced. His manner
oozed diplomatic secrecy as he drew me aside in the Club into a quiet corner. He talked
a good deal. About South Africa and the industrial situation there. About the growing
rumours of a strike on the Rand. Of the secret causes actuating that strike. I listened as
patiently as I could. Finally, he dropped his voice to a whisper and explained that
certain documents had come to light which ought to be placed in the hands of General
Smuts.
“I’ve no doubt you’re quite right,” I said, stifling a yawn.
“But how are we to get them to him? Our position in the matter is delicate—very
delicate.”
“What’s wrong with the post?” I said cheerfully. “Put a two-penny stamp on and drop
’em in the nearest letter box.”
He seemed quite shocked at the suggestion.
“My dear Pedler! The common post!”
It has always been a mystery to me why Governments employ King’s Messengers and
draw such attention to their confidential documents.

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“If you don’t like the post, send one of your own young fellows. He’ll enjoy the trip.”
“Impossible,” said Milray, wagging his head in a senile fashion. “There are reasons,
my dear Pedler—I assure you there are reasons.”
“Well,” I said rising, “all this is very interesting, but I must be off—”
“One minute, my dear Pedler, one minute, I beg of you. Now tell me, in confidence, is
it not true that you intend visiting South Africa shortly yourself? You have large interests
in Rhodesia, I know, and the question of Rhodesia joining in the Union is one in which
you have a vital interest.”
“Well, I had thought of going out in about a month’s time.”
“You couldn’t possibly make it sooner? This month? This week, in fact?”
“I could,” I said, eyeing him with some interest. “But I don’t know that I particularly
want to.”
“You would be doing the Government a great service—a very great service. You would
not find them—er—ungrateful.”
“Meaning, you want me to be the postman?”
“Exactly. Your position is an unofficial one, your journey is bona fide. Everything
would be eminently satisfactory.”
“Well,” I said slowly, “I don’t mind if I do. The one thing I am anxious to do is to get
out of England again as soon as possible.”
“You will find the climate of South Africa delightful—quite delightful.”
“My dear fellow, I know all about the climate. I was out there shortly before the war.”
“I am really much obliged to you, Pedler. I will send you round the package by
messenger. To be placed in General Smuts’s own hands, you understand? The
Kilmorden
Castle
 sails on Saturday—quite a good boat.”
I accompanied him a short way along Pall Mall, before we parted. He shook me
warmly by the hand, and thanked me again effusively. I walked home reflecting on the
curious byways of Governmental policy.
It was the following evening that Jarvis, my butler, informed me that a gentleman
wished to see me on private business, but declined to give his name. I have always a
lively apprehension of insurance touts, so told Jarvis to say I could not see him. Guy
Pagett, unfortunately, when he might for once have been of real use, was laid up with a
bilious attack. These earnest, hardworking young men with weak stomachs are always
liable to bilious attacks.
Jarvis returned.

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“The gentleman asked me to tell you, Sir Eustace, that he comes to you from Mr.
Milray.”
That altered the complexion of things. A few minutes later I was confronting my visitor
in the library. He was a well-built young fellow with a deeply tanned face. A scar ran
diagonally from the corner of his eye to the jaw, disfiguring what would otherwise have
been a handsome though somewhat reckless countenance.
“Well,” I said, “what’s the matter?”
“Mr. Milray sent me to you, Sir Eustace. I am to accompany you to South Africa as
your secretary.”
“My dear fellow,” I said, “I’ve got a secretary already. I don’t want another.”
“I think you do, Sir Eustace. Where is your secretary now?”
“He’s down with a bilious attack,” I explained.
“You are sure it’s only a bilious attack?”
“Of course it is. He’s subject to them.”
My visitor smiled.
“It may or may not be a bilious attack. Time will show. But I can tell you this, Sir
Eustace, Mr. Milray would not be surprised if an attempt were made to get your
secretary out of the way. Oh, you need have no fear for yourself”—I suppose a
momentary alarm had flickered across my face—“you are not threatened. Your secretary
out of the way, access to you would be easier. In any case, Mr. Milray wishes me to
accompany you. The passage money will be our affair, of course, but you will take the
necessary steps about the passport, as though you had decided that you needed the
services of a second secretary.”
He seemed a determined young man. We stared at each other and he stared me down.
“Very well,” I said feebly.
“You will say nothing to anyone as to my accompanying you.”
“Very well,” I said again.
After all, perhaps it was better to have this fellow with me, but I had a premonition
that I was getting into deep waters. Just when I thought I had attained peace!
I stopped my visitor as he was turning to depart.
“It might be just as well if I knew my new secretary’s name,” I observed sarcastically.
He considered for a minute.
“Harry Rayburn seems quite a suitable name,” he observed.

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It was a curious way of putting it.
“Very well,” I said for the third time.

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