She rambled on. Mr. Satterthwaite was patient. Again and again he took her back to the crime, questioning her closely. In the end he was forced to confess defeat. Louisa Bullard had told all she knew, and her story was perfectly simple and straightforward.
Yet he did discover one fact of importance. The post in question had been suggested to her by Mr. Thompson, Sir George's secretary. The wages attached were so large that she was tempted, and accepted the job, although it involved her leaving England very hurriedly. A Mr. Denman had made all the arrangements this end and had also warned her not to write to her fellow-servants in England, as this might get her into trouble with the immigration authorities, which statement she had accepted in blind faith.
The amount of wages, casually mentioned by her, was indeed so large that Mr. Satterthwaite was startled. After some hesitation he made up his mind to approach this Mr. Denman.
He found very little difficulty in inducing Mr. Denman to tell all he knew. The latter had come across Thompson in London and Thompson had done him a good turn. The secretary had written to him in September saying that for personal reasons Sir George was anxious to get this girl out of England. Could he find her a job? A sum of money had been sent to raise the wages to a high figure.
"Usual trouble, I guess," said Mr. Denman, leaning back nonchalantly in his chair. "Seems a nice quiet girl, too." Mr. Satterthwaite did not agree that this was the usual trouble. Louisa Bullard, he was sure, was not a cast-off fancy of Sir George Barnaby's. For some reason it had been vital to get her out of England. But why? And who was at the bottom of it? Sir George himself, working through Thompson? Or the latter working on his own initiative, and dragging in his employer's name?
Still pondering over these questions, Mr. Satterthwaite made the return journey. He was cast down and despondent. His journey had done no good.
Smarting under a sense of failure, he made his way to the Arlecchino the day after his return. He hardly expected to be successful the first time, but to his satisfaction the familiar figure was sitting at the table in the recess, and the dark face of Mr. Harley Quin smiled a welcome.
"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite as he helped himself to a pat of butter, "you sent me on a nice wild-goose chase." Mr. Quin raised his eyebrows.
"I sent you?" he objected. "It was your own idea entirely."
"Whosever idea it was, it's not succeeded. Louisa Bullard has nothing to tell."
Thereupon Mr. Satterthwaite related the details of his conversation with the housemaid and then went on to his interview with Mr. Denman. Mr. Quin listened in silence.
"In one sense, I was justified," continued Mr. Satterthwaite. "She was deliberately got out of the way. But why? I can't see it."
"No?" said Mr. Quin, and his voice was, as ever, provocative.
Mr. Satterthwaite flushed.
"I daresay you think I might have questioned her more adroitly. I can assure you that I took her over the story again and again. It was not my fault that I did not get what we want."
"Are you sure," said Mr. Quin, "that you did not get what you want?"
Mr. Satterthwaite looked up at him in astonishment, and met that sad, mocking gaze he knew so well. The little man shook his head, slightly bewildered There was a silence, and then Mr. Quin said, with a total change of manner--
"You gave me a wonderful picture the other day of the people in this business. In a few words you made them stand out as clearly as though they were etched. I wish you would do something of that kind for the place--you left that in shadow."
Mr. Satterthwaite was flattered.
"The place? Deering Hill? Well, it's a very ordinary sort of house nowadays. Red brick, you know, and bay windows. Quite hideous outside, but very comfortable inside. Not a very large house. About two acres of ground They're all much the same, those houses round the links. Built for rich men to live in. The inside of the house is reminiscent of a hotel--the bedrooms are like hotel suites. Baths and hot and cold basins in all the bedrooms and a good many gilded electric-light fittings. All wonderfully comfortable, but not very country-like. You can tell that Deering Vale is only nineteen miles from London. "Mr. Quin listened attentively.
"The train service is bad, I have heard," he remarked. "Oh! I don't know about that," said Mr. Satterthwaite, warming to his subject. "I was down there for a bit last summer. I found it quite convenient for town. Of course the trains only go every hour. 48 minutes past the hour from Waterloo--up to 10.48."
"And how long does it take to Deering Vale?" "Just about three quarters of an hour. 28 minutes past the hour at Deering Vale."
"Of course," said Mr. Quin with a gesture of vexation. "I should have remembered. Miss Dale saw someone off by the 6.28 that evening, didn't she?"
Mr. Satterthwaite did not reply for a minute or two. His mind had gone back with a rush to his unsolved problem. Presently he said--
"I wish you would tell me what you meant just now when you asked me if I was sure I had not got what I wanted?"
It sounded rather complicated, put that way, but Mr. Quin made no pretence of not understanding.
"I just wondered if you weren't being a little too exacting. After all, you found out that Louisa Bullard was deliberately got out of the country. That being so, there must be a reason. And the reason must lie in what she said to you."
"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite argumentatively.
"What did she say? If she'd given evidence at the trial, what could she have said?"
"She might have told what she saw," said Mr. Quin.
"What did she see?"
"A sign in the sky."
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him.
"Are you thinking of that nonsense? That superstitious notion of its being the hand of God?"
"Perhaps," said Mr. Quin, "for all you and I know it may have been the hand of God, you know."
The other was clearly puzzled at the gravity of his manner.
"Nonsense," he said. "She said herself it was the smoke of the train."
"An up train or a down train, I wonder?" murmured Mr. Quin.
"Hardly an up train. They go at ten minutes to the hour. It must have been a down train--the 6.28--no, that won't do. She said the shot came immediately afterwards, and we know the shot was fired at twenty minutes past six. The train couldn't have been ten minutes early."
"Hardly, on that line," agreed Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite was staring ahead of him.
"Perhaps a goods train," he murmured. "But surely, if
"There would have been no need to get her out of England. I agree," said Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite gazed at him, fascinated.
"The 6.28," he said slowly. "But if so, if the shot was fired then, why did everyone say it was earlier?"
"Obvious," said Mr. Quin. "The clocks must have been wrong."
"All of them?" said Mr. Satterthwaite doubtfully. "That's a pretty tall coincidence, you know."
"I wasn't thinking of it as a coincidence," said the other. "I was thinking it was Friday."
"Friday?" said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"You did tell me, you know, that Sir George always wound the clocks on a Friday afternoon," said Mr. Quin apologetically.
"He put them back ten minutes," said Mr. Satterthwaite, almost in a whisper, so awed was he by the discoveries he was making. "Then he went out to bridge. I think he must have opened the note from his wife to Martin Wylde that morning--yes, decidedly he opened it. He left his bridge party at 6.30, found Martin's gun standing by the side door, and went in and shot her from behind. Then he went out again, threw the gun into the bushes where it was found later, and was apparently just coming out of the neighbour's gate when someone came running to fetch him. But the telephone--what about the telephone? Ah! yes, I see. He disconnected it so that a summons could not be sent to the police that way--they might have noted the time it was received. And Wylde's story works out now. The real time he left was five and twenty minutes past six. Walking slowly, he woul
d reach home about a quarter to seven. Yes, I see it all. Louisa was the only danger with her endless talk about her superstitious fancies. Someone might realise the significance of the train and then--good-bye to that excellent alibi."
"Wonderful," commented Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite turned to him, flushed with success.
"The only thing is--how to proceed now?"
"I should suggest Sylvia Dale," said Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite looked doubtful.
"I mentioned to you," he said, "she seemed to me a little--er--stupid."
"She has a father and brothers who will take the necessary steps."
"That is true," said Mr. Satterthwaite, relieved.
A very short time afterwards he was sitting with the girl telling her the story. She listened attentively. She put no questions to him but when he had done she rose.
"I must have a taxi--at once."
"My dear child, what are you going to do?"
"I am going to Sir George Barnaby."
"Impossible. Absolutely the wrong procedure. Allow me
He twittered on by her side. But he produced no impression. Sylvia Dale was intent on her own plans. She allowed him to go with her in the taxi, but to all his remonstrances she addressed a deaf ear. She left him in the taxi while she went into Sir George's city office.
It was half an hour later when she came out. She looked exhausted, her fair beauty drooping like a waterless flower. Mr. Satterthwaite received her with concern.
"I've won," she murmured, as she leant back with half-closed eyes.
"What?" he was startled, "What did you do? What did you say?"
She sat up a little.
"I told him that Louisa Bullard had been to the police with her story. I told him that the police had made inquiries and that he had been seen going into his own grounds and out again a few minutes after half-past six. I told him that the game was up. He--he went to pieces. I told him that there was still time for him to get away, that the police weren't coming for another hour to arrest him. I told him that if he'd sign a confession that he'd killed Vivien I'd do nothing, but that if he didn't I'd scream and tell the whole building the truth. He was so panicky that he didn't know what he was doing. He signed the paper without realising what he was doing."
She thrust it into his hands.
"Take it--take it. You know what to do with it so that they'll set Martin free"
"He actually signed it," cried Mr. Satterthwaite, amazed.
"He is a little stupid, you know," said Sylvia Dale. "So am I," she added as an afterthought. "That's why I know how stupid people behave. We get rattled, you know, and then we do the wrong thing and are sorry afterwards."
She shivered and Mr. Satterthwaite patted her hand.
"You need something to pull you together," he said. "Come, we are close to a very favourite resort of mine--the Arlecchino. Have you ever been there?"
She shook her head.
Mr. Satterthwaite stopped the taxi and took the girl into the little restaurant. He made his way to the table in the recess, his heart beating hopefully. But the table was empty.
Sylvia Dale saw the disappointment in his face.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Nothing," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "That is, I half expected to see a friend of mine here. It doesn't matter. Some day, I expect, I shall see him again..."
CHAPTER FIVE
THE SOUL OF THE CROUPIER
MR SATTERTHWAITE was enjoying the sunshine on the terrace at Monte Carlo.
Every year regularly on the second Sunday in January, Mr. Satterthwaite left England for the Riviera. He was far more punctual than any swallow. In the month of April he returned to England, May and June --he spent in London, and had never been known to miss Ascot. He left town after the Eton and Harrow match, paying a few country house visits before repairing to Deauville or Le Touquet Shooting parties occupied most of September and October, and he usually spent a couple of months in town to wind up the year. He knew everybody and it may safely be said that everybody knew him.
This morning he was frowning. The blue of the sea was admirable, the gardens were, as always, a delight, but the people disappointed him--he thought them an ill-dressed, shoddy crowd. Some, of course, were gamblers, doomed souls who could not keep away. Those Mr. Satterthwaite tolerated. They were a necessary background. But he missed the usual leaven of the elite--his own people.
"It's the exchange," said Mr. Satterthwaite gloomily. "All sort of people come here now who could never have afforded it before. And then, of course, I'm getting old... All the young people--the people coming on--they go to these Swiss places."
But there were others that he missed, the well-dressed Barons and Counts of foreign diplomacy, the Grand Dukes and the Royal Princes. The only Royal Prince he had seen so far was working a lift in one of the less well-known hotels. He missed, too, the beautiful and expensive ladies. There was still a few of them, but not nearly as many as there used to be.
Mr. Satterthwaite was an earnest student of the drama called Life, but he liked his material to be highly coloured. He felt discouragement sweep over him. Values were changing--and he--was too old to change.
It was at that moment that he observed the Countess Czarnova coming towards him.
Mr. Satterthwaite had seen the Countess at Monte Carlo for many seasons now. The first time he had seen her she had been In the company of a Grand Duke. On the next occasion she was with an Austrian Baron. On successive years her friends had been of Hebraic extraction, sallow men with hooked noses, wearing rather flamboyant jewellery. For the last year or two she was much seen with very young men, almost boys.
She was walking with a very young man now. Mr. Satterthwaite happened to know him, and he was sorry. Franklin Rudge was a young American, a typical product of one of the Middle West States, eager to register Impression, crude, but loveable, a curious mixture of native shrewdness and idealism. He was in Monte Carlo with a party of other young Americans of both sexes, all much of the same type. It was their first glimpse of the Old World and they were outspoken in criticism and in appreciation.
On the whole they disliked the English people in the hotel, and the English people disliked them. Mr. Satterthwaite, who prided himself on being a cosmopolitan, rather liked them. Their directness and vigour appealed to him, though their occasional solecisms made him shudder.
It occurred to him that the Countess Czarnova was a most unsuitable friend for young Franklin Rudge.
He took off his hat politely as they came abreast of him, and the Countess gave him a charming bow and smile.
She was a very tall woman, superbly made. Her hair was black, so were her eyes, and her eyelashes and eyebrows were more superbly black than any Nature had ever fashioned.
Mr. Satterthwaite, who knew far more of feminine secrets than it is good for any man to know, rendered immediate homage to the art with which she was made up. Her complexion appeared to be flawless, of a uniform creamy white.
The very faint bistre shadows under her eyes were most effective. Her mouth was neither crimson nor scarlet, but a subdued wine colour. She was dressed in a very daring creation of black and white and carried a parasol of the shade of pinky red which is most helpful to the complexion.
Franklin Rudge was looking happy and important.
"There goes a young fool," said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. "But I suppose it's no business of mine and anyway he wouldn't listen to me. Well, well, I've bought experience myself in my time."
But he still felt rather worried, because there was a very attractive little American girl in the party, and he was sure that she would not like Franklin Rudge's friendship with the Countess at all.
He was just about to retrace his steps in the opposite direction when he caught sight of the girl in question coming up one of the paths towards him. She wore a well-cut tailor-made suit with a white muslin shirt waist, she had on good, sensible walking shoes, and carried a guide-book. There ar
e some Americans who pass through Paris and emerge clothed as the Queen of Sheba, but Elizabeth Martin was not one of them. She was "doing Europe" in a stern, conscientious spirit. She had high ideas of culture and art and she was anxious to get as much as possible for her limited store of money.
It is doubtful if Mr. Satterthwaite thought of her as either cultured or artistic. To him she merely appeared very young.
"Good morning, Mr. Satterthwaite," said Elizabeth. "Have you seen Franklin--Mr. Rudge--anywhere about?" "I saw him just a few minutes ago." "With his friend the Countess, I suppose," said the girl sharply.
"Er--with the Countess, yes," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite.
"That Countess of his doesn't cut any ice with me--," said the girl in a rather high, shrill voice. "Franklin's just crazy about her. Why I can't think."
"She's got a very charming manner, I believe," said Mr. Satterthwaite cautiously. "Do you know her?" "Slightly."
"I'm right down worried about Franklin," said Miss Martin. "That boy's got a lot of sense as a rule. You'd never think he'd fall for this sort of siren stuff. And he won't hear a thing, he gets madder than a hornet if anyone tries to say a word to him. Tell me, anyway--is she a real Countess?"
Agatha Christie - [Collections 02] Page 8