Agatha Christie - Mysterious Mr Quin

by [Novels 11] -The Mysterious Mr Quin (lit)

  Mr. Satterthwaite crumpled the paper together. The knowledge of what Gillian was listening to seemed to make the picture of her clearer. Sitting there alone... ,

  An odd request, that, of Philip Eastney's. Not like the man, not like him at all. There was no sentimentality in Eastney. He was a man of violent feeling, a dangerous man, perhaps-----

  Again his thought brought up with a jerk. A dangerous man--that meant something." The threads are all in your hands. "That meeting with Philip Eastney Tonight--rather odd. A lucky chance, Eastney had said. Was it chance? Or was it part of that interwoven design of which Mr. Satterthwaite had once or twice been conscious this evening?

  He cast his mind back. There must be something in Eastney's conversation, some clue there. There must, or else why this strange feeling of urgency? What had he talked about? Singing, war work, Caruso.

  Caruso--Mr. Satterthwaite's thoughts went off at a tangent. Yoaschbim's voice was very nearly equal to that of Caruso. Gillian would be sitting listening to it now as it rang out true and powerful, echoing round the room, setting glasses ringing-----

  He caught his breath. Glasses ringing! Caruso, singing to a wine-glass and the wine-glass breaking. Yoaschbim singing in the London studio and in a room over a mile away the crash and tinkle of glass--not a wine glass, a thin, green, glass beaker. A crystal soap bubble falling, a soap bubble that perhaps was not empty...

  It was at that moment that Mr. Satterthwaite, as judged by passers-by, suddenly went mad. He tore open the newspaper once more, took a brief glance at the wireless announcements and then began to run for his life down the quiet street. At the end of it he found a crawling taxi, and jumping into it, he yelled an address to the driver and the information that it was life or death to get there quickly. The driver, judging him, mentally afflicted but rich, did his utmost.

  Mr. Satterthwaite lay back, his head a jumble of fragmentary thoughts, forgotten bits of science learned at school, phrases used by Eastney that night. Resonance--natural periods--if the period of the force coincides with the natural period--there was something about a suspension bridge, soldiers marching over it and the swing of their stride being the same as the period of the bridge. Eastney had studied the subject. Eastney knew. And Eastney was a genius.

  At 10.45 Yoaschbim was to broadcast. It was that now. Yes, but the Faust had to come first. It was the "Shepherd's Song," with the great shout after the refrain that would-- that would--do what?

  His mind went whirling round again. Tones, overtones, half-tones. He didn't know much about these things--but Eastney knew. Pray heaven he would be in time!

  The taxi stopped. Mr. Satterthwaite flung himself out and, raced up the stone stairs to a second floor like a young athlete. The door of the flat was ajar. He pushed it open and the great tenor voice welcomed him The words of the "Shepherd's Song" were familiar to him in a less unconventional setting.

  "Shepherd, see thy horse's flowing main------"

  He was in time then. He burst open the sitting-room door. Gillian was sitting there in a tall chair by the fireplace

  "Bayra Mischa's daughter is to wed today--To the wedding I must haste away."

  She must have thought him mad. He clutched at her," crying out something incomprehensible, and half pulled, half dragged her out till they stood upon the stairway.

  "To the wedding I must haste away-----Yaha!"

  A wonderful high note, full-throated, powerful, hit full in, the middle, a note any singer might be proud of. And with it another sound, the faint tinkle of broken glass.

  A stray cat darted past them and in through the flat door--

  Gillian made a movement, but Mr. Satterthwaite held her back, speaking incoherently.

  "No, no--it's deadly-- no smell, nothing to warn you. A mere whiff, and it's all over. Nobody knows quite how deadly it would be. It's unlike anything that's ever been tried before."

  He was repeating the things that Philip Easter had told him over the table at dinner.

  Gillian stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  Ill

  Philip Eastney drew out his watch and looked at It. It was just half-past eleven. For the past three-quarters of an hour he had been pacing up and down the Embankment. He looked out over the Thames and then turned--to look into the face of his dinner companion.

  "That's odd," he said, and laughed. "We seem fated to run into each other tonight."

  "If you call it Fate." said Mr. Satterthwaite.

  Philip Eastney looked at him more attentively and his own expression changed.

  "Yes?" he said quietly.

  Mr. Satterthwaite went straight to the point

  "I have just come from Miss West's flat."

  "Yes?"

  The same voice, with the same deadly quiet. ,'"We have--taken a dead cat out of it."

  There was silence, then Eastney said--

  "Who are you?"

  Mr. Satterthwaite spoke for some time. He recited the whole history of events.

  "So you see, I was in time," he ended up. He paused and added quite gently--

  "Have you anything--to say?"

  He expected something, some outburst, some wild justification. But nothing came".

  "No," said Philip Eastney quietly, and turned on his heel and walked away.

  Mr. Satterthwaite looked after him till his figure was swallowed up in the gloom. In spite of himself, he had a strange fellow-feeling for Eastney, the feeling of an artist for another artist, of a sentimentalist for a real lover, of a plain man for a genius.

  At last he roused himself with a start and began to walk in the same direction as Eastney. A fog was beginning to come up. Presently he met a policeman who looked at him suspiciously.

  "Did you hear a kind of splash just now?" asked the policeman.

  "No," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

  The policeman was peering out over the river. ,"Another of these suicides, I expect," he grunted disconsolately." They will do it."

  "I suppose," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that they have their reasons."

  "Money, mostly," said the policeman." Sometimes it's a woman," he said, as he prepared to move away." It's not always their fault, but some women cause a lot of trouble."

  "Some women," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite softly.

  When the policeman had gone on, he sat down on a seat with the fog coming up all around him, and thought about Helen of Troy, and wondered if she were a nice, ordinary woman, blessed or cursed with a wonderful face.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE DEAD HARLEQUIN

  MR. SATTERTHWAITE walked slowly up Bond Street enjoying the sunshine. He was, as usual, carefully and beautifully [ dressed, and was bound for the Harchester Galleries where | there was an exhibition of the paintings of one Frank Bristow, a new and hitherto unknown artist who showed signs of suddenly becoming the rage. Mr. Satterthwaite was a patron of the arts.

  As Mr. Satterthwaite entered the Harchester Galleries, he was greeted at once with a smile of pleased recognition.

  "Good morning, Mr. Satterthwaite, I thought we should see you before long. You know Bristow's work? Fine--very fine indeed. Quite unique of its kind"

  Mr. Satterthwaite purchased a catalogue and stepped through the open archway into the long room where the artist's works were displayed. They were water colours, executed with such extraordinary technique and finish that they resembled coloured etchings. Mr. Satterthwaite walked slowly round the walls scrutinising and, on the whole, approving. He thought that this young man deserved to arrive. Here was originality, vision, and a most severe and exacting technique. There were crudities, of course. That was only to be expected--but there was also something closely allied to genius. Mr. Satterthwaite paused before a little masterpiece representing Westminster Bridge with its crowd of buses, trams and hurrying pedestrians. A tiny thing and wonderfully perfect. It was called, he noted, The Ant Heap. He passed on and quite suddenly drew in his breath with a gasp, his imagination held and riveted.

  The picture was ca
lled the Dead Harlequin. The forefront of it represented a floor of inlaid squares of black and white marble. In the middle of the floor lay Harlequin on his back with his arms outstretched, in his motley of black and red. Behind him was a window and outside that window, gazing in at the figure on the floor, was what appeared to be the same man silhouetted against the red glow of the setting sun.

  The picture excited Mr. Satterthwaite for two reasons, the first was that he recognised, or thought that he recognised, the face of the man in the picture. It bore a distinct resemblance to a certain Mr. Quin, an acquaintance whom Mr. Satterthwaite had encountered once or twice under somewhat mystifying circumstances.

  "Surely I can't be mistaken," he murmured. "If it is so-- what does it mean?"

  For it had been Mr. Satterthwaite's experience that every appearance of Mr. Quin had some distinct significance attaching to it.

  There was, as already mentioned, a second reason for Mr. Satterthwaite's interest. He recognised the scene of the picture.

  "The Terrace Room at Charnley," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

  "Curious--and very interesting."

  He looked with more attention at the picture, wondering what exactly had been in the artist's mind. One Harlequin dead on the floor, another Harlequin looking through the window--or was it the same Harlequin? He moved slowly along the walls gazing at other pictures with unseeing eyes, with his mind always busy on the same subject. He was excited Life, which had seemed a little drab this morning, was drab no longer. He knew quite certainly that he was on the threshold of exciting and interesting events. He crossed to the table where sat Mr. Cobb, a dignitary of the Harchester Galleries, whom he had known for many years.

  "I have a fancy for buying no. 39," he said, "if it is not already sold."

  Mr. Cobb consulted a ledger.

  "The pick of the bunch," he murmured, "quite a little gem, isn't It? No, it is not sold." he quoted a price. "It is a good investment, Mr. Satterthwaite. You will have to pay three times as much for it this time next year."

  "That is always said on these occasions," said Mr. Satterthwaite, smiling.

  "Well, and haven't I been right?" demanded Mr. Cobb." I don't believe if you were to sell your collection, Mr. Satterthwaite, that a single picture would fetch less than you gave for it."

  "I will buy this picture," said Mr. Satterthwaite." I will give you a cheque now."

  "You won't regret it. We believe in Bristow."

  'He is a young man?"

  "Twenty-seven or eight, I should say."

  "I should like to meet him," said Mr. Satterthwaite." Perhaps he will come and dine with me one night?"

  "I can give you his address. I am sure he would leap at the chance. Your name stands for a good deal in the artistic world."

  "You flatter me," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and was going on when Mr. Cobb interrupted--

  "here he is now. I will introduce you to him right away." He rose from behind his table. Mr. Satterthwaite accompanied him to where a big, clumsy young man was leaning against the wall surveying the world at large from behind the barricade of a ferocious scowl.

  Mr. Cobb made the necessary introductions and Mr. Satterthwaite made a formal and gracious little speech.

  "I have just had the pleasure of acquiring one of your pictures--The Dead Harlequin."

  "Oh! Well, you won't lose by It," said Mr. Bristow ungraciously. "It's a bit of damned good work, although I say it."

  "I can see that," said Mr. Satterthwaite." Your work interests me very much, Mr. Bristow. It is extraordinarily mature for so young a man. I wonder if you would give me the pleasure of dining with me one night? Are you engaged this evening?"

  "As a matter of fact, I am not," said Mr. Bristow, still with no overdone appearance of graciousness.

  "Then shall we say eight o'clock?" said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Here is my card with the address on it."

  "Oh, all right," said Mr. Bristow. "Thanks," he added as a somewhat obvious afterthought.

  "A young man who has a poor opinion of himself and is afraid that the world should share it."

  Such was Mr. Satterthwaite's summing up as he stepped out into the sunshine of Bond Street, and Mr. Satterthwaite's judgment of his fellow men was seldom far astray.

  Frank Bristow arrived about five minutes past eight to find his host and a third guest awaiting him. The other guest was introduced as a Colonel Monckton They went in to dinner almost immediately. There was a fourth place laid at the oval mahogany table and Mr. Satterthwaite uttered a word of explanation.

  "I half expected my friend, Mr. Quin, might drop in," he said. "I wonder if you have ever met him. Mr. Harley '

  Quin?"

  "I never meet people," growled Bristow. Colonel Monckton stared at the artist with the detached interest he might have accorded to a new species of jelly fish Mr. Satterthwaite exerted himself to keep the ball of conversation rolling amicably.

  "I took a special interest in that picture of yours because I thought I recognised the scene of it as being the Terrace Room at Charnley. Was I right?" As the artist nodded, he went on." That is very interesting. I have stayed at Charnley several times myself in the past. Perhaps you know some of the family?"

  "No, I don't!" said Bristow. "That sort of family wouldn't care to know me. I went there in a charabanc."

  "Dear me," said Colonel Monckton for the sake of saying something. "In a charabanc!" Dear me."'

  Frank Bristow scowled at him. "Why not?" he demanded ferociously. Poor Colonel Monckton was taken aback He looked reproachfully at Mr. Satterthwaite as though to say--

  "These primitive forms of life may be interesting to you as a naturalist, but why drag me in?"

  "Oh, beastly things, charabancs!" he said. "They jolt you so going over the bumps."

  "If you can't afford a Rolls Royce you have got to go in charabancs," said Bristow fiercely.

  Colonel Monckton stared at him. Mr. Satterthwaite thought--

  "Unless I can manage to put this young man at his ease we are going to have a very distressing evening."

  "Charnley always fascinated me," he said. "I have been there only once since the tragedy. A grim house--and a ghostly one."

  "That's true," said Bristow.

  "There are actually two authentic ghosts," said Monckton. "They say that Charles I walks up and down the terrace with his head under his arm--I have forgotten why, I'm sure. Then there is the Weeping Lady with the Silver Ewer, who is always seen after one of the Charnleys dies." "Tosh," said Bristow scornfully.

  "They have certainly been a very ill-fated family," said Mr. Satterthwaite hurriedly." Four holders of the title have died a violent death and the late Lord Charnley committed suicide."

  "A ghastly business," said Monckton gravely." I was there when it happened."

  "Let me see, that must be fourteen years ago," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "the house has been shut up ever since."

  "I don't wonder at that," said Monckton." It must have been a terrible shock for a young girl. They had been married a month, just home from their honeymoon. Big fancy dress ball to celebrate their home-coming. Just as the guests were starting to arrive Charnley locked himself into the Oak Parlour and shot himself. That sort of thing isn't done. I beg your pardon?"

  He turned his head sharply to the left and looked across at Mr. Satterthwaite with an apologetic laugh.

  "I am beginning to get the jimjams, Satterthwaite. I thought for a moment there was someone sitting in that empty chair and that he said something to me.

  "Yes," he went on after a minute or two, "it was a pretty ghastly shock to Alix Charnley. She was one of the prettiest girls you could see anywhere and cram full of what people call the joy of living, and now they say she is like a ghost herself. Not that I have seen her for years. I believe she lives abroad most of the time."

  "And the boy?"

  "The boy is at Eton. What he will do when he comes of age I don't know. I don't think, somehow, that he will reopen the old place."

&nb
sp; "It would make a good People's Pleasure Park," said Bristow.

  Colonel Monckton looked at him with cold abhorrence.

  "No, no, you don't really mean that," said Mr. Satter-thwaite." You wouldn't have painted that picture if you did. , Tradition and atmosphere are intangible things. They take centuries to build up and if you destroyed them you couldn't rebuild them again in twenty-four hours."

  He rose. "Let us go into the smoking-room. I have some photographs there of Charnley which I should like to show you."