The mysterious Mr. Quin
Again his thoughts 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 around again. Tones, over-tones, 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 mane_--"
He was in time then. He burst open the sitting-room door. Gillian was
sitting there in a tall chair by the fireplace.
"_Barya 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.
Philip Eastney drew out his watch and looked at it. It was just
half-past eleven. For the last 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.
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 work was displayed.
They were watercolors, executed with such extraordinary technique and
finish that they resembled colored etchings. Mr. Satterthwaite walked
slowly round the walls, scrutinizing and on the whole approving. He
thought that this young man deserved to arrive. Here were 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 fore-front 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 reason
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 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 Number Thirty-nine," 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
check 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.