The Man in the Brown Suit Read Free

was the cinema too, with a weekly episode of “The Perils of Pamela.” Pamela was a magnificent young woman. Nothing daunted her. She fell out of aeroplanes, adventured in submarines, climbed skyscrapers and crept about in the Underworld without turning a hair. She was not really clever, The Master Criminal of the Underworld caught her each time, but as he seemed loath to knock her on the head in a simple way, and always doomed her to death in a sewer gas chamber or by some new and marvellous means, the hero was always able to rescue her at the beginning of the following week’s episode. I used to come out with my head in a delirious whirl—and then I would get home and find a notice from the Gas Company threatening to cut us off if the outstanding account was not paid!
    And yet, though I did not suspect it, every moment was bringing adventure nearer to me.
    It is possible that there are many people in the world who have never heard of the finding of an antique skull at the Broken Hill Mine in Northern Rhodesia. I came down one morning to find Papa excited to the point of apoplexy. He poured out the whole story to me.
    â€œYou understand, Anne? There are undoubtedly certain resemblances to the Java skull, but superficial—superficial only. No, here we have what I have always maintained—the ancestral form of the Neanderthal race. You grant that the Gibraltar skull is the most primitive of the Neanderthal skulls found? Why? The cradle of the race was in Africa. They passed to Europe—”
    â€œNot marmalade on kippers, Papa,” I said hastily, arresting my parent’s absentminded hand. “Yes, you were saying?”
    â€œThey passed to Europe on—”
    Here he broke down with a bad fit of choking, the result of an immoderate mouthful of kipper bones.
    â€œBut we must start at once,” he declared, as he rose to his feet at the conclusion of the meal. “There is no time to be lost. We must be on the spot—there are doubtless incalculable finds to be found in the neighbourhood. I shall be interested to note whether the implements are typical of the Mousterian period—there will be the remains of the primitive ox, I should say, but not those of the woolly rhinoceros. Yes, a little army will be starting soon. We must get ahead of them. You will write to Cook’s today, Anne?”
    â€œWhat about money, Papa?” I hinted delicately.
    He turned a reproachful eye upon me.
    â€œYour point of view always depresses me, my child. We must not be sordid. No, no, in the cause of science one must not be sordid.”
    â€œI feel Cook’s might be sordid, Papa.”
    Papa looked pained.
    â€œMy dear Anne, you will pay them in ready money.”
    â€œI haven’t got any ready money.”
    Papa looked thoroughly exasperated.
    â€œMy child, I really cannot be bothered with these vulgar money details. The bank—I had something from the Manager yesterday, saying I had twenty-seven pounds.”
    â€œThat’s your overdraft, I fancy.”
    â€œAh, I have it! Write to my publishers.”
    I acquiesced doubtfully, Papa’s books bringing in more glory than money. I liked the idea of going to Rhodesia immensely. “Stern silent men,” I murmured to myself in an ecstasy. Then something in my parent’s appearance struck me as unusual.
    â€œYou have odd boots on, Papa,” I said. “Take off the brown one and put on the other black one. And don’t forget your muffler. It’s a very cold day.”
    In a few minutes Papa stalked off, correctly booted and well-mufflered.
    He returned late that evening, and, to my dismay, I saw his muffler and overcoat were missing.
    â€œDear me, Anne, you are quite right. I took them off to go into the cavern. One gets so dirty there.”
    I nodded feelingly, remembering an occasion when Papa had returned literally plastered from head to foot with rich Pleistocene clay.
    Our principal