The Man in the Brown Suit Read Online Free PDF

was the murderer of the unfortunate Mrs. de Castina. She had been strangled with a piece of stout black cord, and had evidently been caught unawares with no time to cry out. The black silk handbag which she carried contained a well-filled notecase and some loose change, a fine lace handkerchief, unmarked, and the return half of a first-class ticket to London. Nothing much there to go upon.
    Such were the details published broadcast by the Daily Budget, and “Find the Man in the Brown Suit” was their daily war cry. On an average about five hundred people wrote daily to announce their success in the quest, and tall young men with well-tanned faces cursed the day when their tailors had persuaded them to a brown suit. The accident in the Tube, dismissed as a coincidence, faded out of the public mind.
    Was it a coincidence? I was not so sure. No doubt I was prejudiced—the Tube incident was my own pet mystery—but there certainly seemed to me to be a connexion of some kind between the two fatalities. In each there was a man with a tanned face—evidently an Englishman living abroad—and there were other things. It was the consideration of these other things that finally impelled me to what I considered a dashing step. I presented myself at Scotland Yard and demanded to see whoever was in charge of the Mill House case.
    My request took some time to understand, as I had inadvertently selected the department for lost umbrellas, but eventually I was ushered into a small room and presented to Detective Inspector Meadows.
    Inspector Meadows was a small man with a ginger head and what I considered a peculiarly irritating manner. A satellite, also in plain clothes, sat unobtrusively in a corner.
    â€œGood morning,” I said nervously.
    â€œGood morning. Will you take a seat? I understand you’ve something to tell me that you think may be of use to us.”
    His tone seemed to indicate that such a thing was unlikely in the extreme. I felt my temper stirred.
    â€œOf course you know about the man who was killed in the Tube? The man who had an order to view this same house at Marlow in his pocket.”
    â€œAh!” said the inspector. “You are the Miss Beddingfeld who gave evidence at the inquest. Certainly the man had an order in his pocket. A lot of other people may have had too—only they didn’t happen to be killed.”
    I rallied my forces.
    â€œYou didn’t think it odd that this man had no ticket in his pocket?”
    â€œEasiest thing in the world to drop your ticket. Done it myself.”
    â€œAnd no money.”
    â€œHe had some loose change in his trousers pocket.”
    â€œBut no notecase.”
    â€œSome men don’t carry a pocketbook or notecase of any kind.”
    I tried another tack.
    â€œYou don’t think it’s odd that the doctor never came forward afterwards?”
    â€œA busy medical man very often doesn’t read the papers. He probably forgot all about the accident.”
    â€œIn fact, inspector, you are determined to find nothing odd,” I said sweetly.
    â€œWell, I’m inclined to think you’re a little too fond of the word, Miss Beddingfeld. Young ladies are romantic, I know—fond of mysteries and suchlike. But as I’m a busy man—”
    I took the hint and rose.
    The man in the corner raised a meek voice.
    â€œPerhaps if the young lady would tell us briefly what her ideas really are on the subject, inspector?”
    The inspector fell in with the suggestion readily enough.
    â€œYes, come now, Miss Beddingfeld, don’t be offended. You’ve asked questions and hinted things. Just straight out what it is you’ve got in your head.”
    I wavered between injured dignity and the overwhelming desire to express my theories. Injured dignity went to the wall.
    â€œYou said at the inquest you were positive it wasn’t suicide?”
    â€œYes, I’m quite certain of that. The man was