The Mysterious Mr. Quin by Agatha Christie
It was with quite a start that he realized how late it was getting, and he called for his bill. Eastney looked slightly apologetic.
‘I’m ashamed of myself–running on so,’ he said. ‘But it was a lucky chance sent you along here tonight. I–I needed someone to talk to this evening.’
He ended his speech with a curious little laugh. His eyes were still blazing with some subdued excitement. Yet there was something tragic about him.
‘It has been quite a pleasure,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Our conversation has been most interesting and instructive to me.’
He then made his funny, courteous little bow and passed out of the restaurant. The night was a warm one and as he walked slowly down the street a very odd fancy came to him. He had the feeling that he was not alone–that someone was walking by his side. In vain he told himself that the idea was a delusion–it persisted. Someone was walking beside him down that dark, quiet street, someone whom he could not see. He wondered what it was that brought the figure of Mr Quin so clearly before his mind. He felt exactly as though Mr Quin were there walking beside him, and yet he had only to use his eyes to assure himself that it was not so, that he was alone.
But the thought of Mr Quin persisted, and with it came something else: a need, an urgency of some kind, an oppressive foreboding of calamity. There was something he must do–and do quickly. There was something very wrong, and it lay in his hands to put it right.
So strong was the feeling that Mr Satterthwaite forebore to fight against it. Instead, he shut his eyes and tried to bring that mental image of Mr Quin nearer. If he could only have asked Mr Quin–but even as the thought flashed through his mind he knew it was wrong. It was never any use asking Mr Quin anything. ‘The threads are all in your hands’–that was the kind of thing Mr Quin would say.
The threads. Threads of what? He analysed his own feeling and impressions carefully. That presentiment of danger, now. Whom did it threaten?
At once a picture rose up before his eyes, the picture of Gillian West sitting alone listening to the wireless.
Mr Satterthwaite flung a penny to a passing newspaper boy, and snatched at a paper. He turned at once to the London Radio programme. Yoaschbim was broadcasting tonight, he noted with interest. He was singing ‘Salve Dimora’, from Faust and, afterwards, a selection of his folk songs. ‘The Shepherd’s Song’, ‘The Fish’, ‘The Little Deer’, etc.
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. Yoachbim 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 they 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–
Ya-ha! ’
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 Eastney had told him over the table at dinner.
Gillian stared at him uncomprehendingly.
III
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 sentimenta
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 9
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 scrutinizing 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 called 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 recognized, or thought that he recognized, 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 recognized 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 recognized 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
‘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 aways 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?’