Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [103]
‘Yes, said Denman. ‘And she’s awfully good, too.’
‘She has clumsy feet,’ said Anna.
‘Nonsense,’ said her husband. ‘All women are alike, Satterthwaite. Can’t bear to hear another woman praised. Molly is a very good-looking girl, and so of course every woman has to have their knife into her.’
‘I spoke of dancing,’ said Anna Denman. She sounded faintly surprised. ‘She is very pretty, yes, but her feet move clumsily. You cannot tell me anything else because I know about dancing.’
Mr Satterthwaite intervened tactfully.
‘You have two professional dancers coming down, I understand?’
‘Yes. For the ballet proper. Prince Oranoff is bringing them down in his car.’
‘Sergius Oranoff?’
The question came from Anna Denman. Her husband turned and looked at her.
‘You know him?’
‘I used to know him–in Russia.’
Mr Satterthwaite thought that John Denman looked disturbed.
‘Will he know you?’
‘Yes. He will know me.’
She laughed–a low, almost triumphant laugh. There was nothing of the Dutch Doll about her face now. She nodded reassuringly at her husband.
‘Sergius. So he is bringing down the two dancers. He was always interested in dancing.’
‘I remember.’
John Denman spoke abruptly, then turned and left the room. Mr Quin followed him. Anna Denman crossed to the telephone and asked for a number. She arrested Mr Satterthwaite with a gesture as he was about to follow the example of the other two men.
‘Can I speak to Lady Roscheimer. Oh! it is you. This is Anna Denman speaking. Has Prince Oranoff arrived yet? What? What? Oh, my dear! But how ghastly.’
She listened for a few moments longer, then replaced the receiver. She turned to Mr Satterthwaite.
‘There has been an accident. There would be with Sergius Ivanovitch driving. Oh, he has not altered in all these years. The girl was not badly hurt, but bruised and shaken, too much to dance tonight. The man’s arm is broken. Sergius Ivanovitch himself is unhurt. The devil looks after his own, perhaps.’
‘And what about tonight’s performance?’
‘Exactly, my friend. Something must be done about it.’
She sat thinking. Presently she looked at him.
‘I am a bad hostess, Mr Satterthwaite. I do not entertain you.’
‘I assure you that it is not necessary. There’s one thing though, Mrs Denman, that I would very much like to know.’
‘Yes?’
‘How did you come across Mr Quin?’
‘He is often down here,’ she said slowly. ‘I think he owns land in this part of the world.’
‘He does, he does. He told me so this afternoon,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘He is–’ She paused. Her eyes met Mr Satterthwaite’s. ‘I think you know what he is better than I do,’ she finished. ‘I?’
‘Is it not so?’
He was troubled. His neat little soul found her disturbing. He felt that she wished to force him further than he was prepared to go, that she wanted him to put into words that which he was not prepared to admit to himself.
‘You know!’ she said. ‘I think you know most things, Mr Satterthwaite.’
Here was incense, yet for once it failed to intoxicate him. He shook his head in unwonted humility.
‘What can anyone know?’ he asked. ‘So little–so very little.’
She nodded in assent. Presently she spoke again, in a queer brooding voice, without looking at him.
‘Supposing I were to tell you something–you would not laugh? No, I do not think you would laugh. Supposing, then, that to carry on one’s’–she paused–‘one’s trade, one’s profession, one were to make use of a fantasy–one were to pretend to oneself something that did not exist–that one were to imagine a certain person…It is a pretence, you understand, a make believe–nothing more. But one day–’
‘Yes?’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
He was keenly interested.
‘The fantasy came true! The thing one imagined–the impossible thing, the thing that could not be–was real! Is that madness? Tell me, Mr Satterthwaite. Is that madness–or do you believe it too?’
‘I–’ Queer how he could not get the words out. How they seemed to stick somewhere at the back of his throat.
‘Folly,’ said Anna Denman. ‘Folly.’
She swept out of the room and left Mr Satterthwaite