Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [30]
‘I don’t even know what part of Canada she went to,’ continued Mr Satterthwaite peevishly.
‘Could you find out?’ suggested the other.
‘I suppose I could. The butler, now. He’d know. Or possibly Thompson, the secretary.’
He paused again. When he resumed speech, his voice sounded almost pleading.
‘It’s not as though it were anything to do with me?’
‘That a young man is going to be hanged in a little over three weeks?’
‘Well, yes–if you put it that way, I suppose. Yes, I see what you mean. Life and death. And that poor girl, too. It’s not that I’m hard-headed–but, after all–what good will it do? Isn’t the whole thing rather fantastic? Even if I found out where the woman’s gone in Canada–why, it would probably mean that I should have to go out there myself.’
Mr Satterthwaite looked seriously upset.
‘And I was thinking of going to the Riviera next week,’ he said pathetically.
And his glance towards Mr Quin said as plainly as it could be said, ‘Do let me off, won’t you?’
‘You have never been to Canada?’
‘Never.’
‘A very interesting country.’
Mr Satterthwaite looked at him undecidedly.
‘You think I ought to go?’
Mr Quin leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette. Between puffs of smoke, he spoke deliberately.
‘You are, I believe, a rich man, Mr Satterthwaite. Not a millionaire, but a man able to indulge a hobby without counting the expense. You have looked on at the dramas of other people. Have you never contemplated stepping in and playing a part? Have you never seen yourself for a minute as the arbiter of other people’s destinies–standing in the centre of the stage with life and death in your hands?’
Mr Satterthwaite leant forward. The old eagerness surged over him.
‘You mean–if I go on this wild-goose chase to Canada–?’
Mr Quin smiled.
‘Oh! it was your suggestion, going to Canada, not mine,’ he said lightly.
‘You can’t put me off like that,’ said Mr Satterthwaite earnestly. ‘Whenever I have come across you–’ He stopped.
‘Well?’
‘There is something about you I do not understand. Perhaps I never shall. The last time I met you–’
‘On Midsummer’s Eve.’
Mr Satterthwaite was startled, as though the words held a clue that he did not quite understand.
‘Was it Midsummer’s Eve?’ he asked confusedly.
‘Yes. But let us not dwell on that. It is unimportant, is it not?’
‘Since you say so,’ said Mr Satterthwaite courteously. He felt that elusive clue slipping through his fingers. ‘When I come back from Canada’–he paused a little awkwardly–‘I–I–should much like to see you again.’
‘I am afraid I have no fixed address for the moment,’ said Mr Quin regretfully. ‘But I often come to this place. If you also frequent it, we shall no doubt meet before very long.’
They parted pleasantly.
Mr Satterthwaite was very excited. He hurried round to Cook’s and inquired about boat sailings. Then he rang up Deering Hill. The voice of a butler, suave and deferential, answered him.
‘My name is Satterthwaite. I am speaking for a–er–firm of solicitors. I wished to make a few inquiries about a young woman who was recently housemaid in your establishment.’
‘Would that be Louisa, sir? Louisa Bullard?’
‘That is the name,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, very pleased to be told it.
‘I regret she is not in this country, sir. She went to Canada six months ago.’
‘Can you give me her present address?’
The butler was afraid he couldn’t. It was a place in the mountains she had gone to–a Scotch name–ah! Banff, that was it. Some of the other young women in the house had been expecting to hear from her, but she had never written or given them any address.
Mr Satterthwaite thanked him and rang off. He was still undaunted. The adventurous spirit was strong in his breast. He would go to Banff. If this Louisa Bullard was there, he would track her down somehow or other.
To his own surprise, he enjoyed the trip greatly. It was many years since he had taken a long sea voyage. The Riviera, Le Touquet and Deauville, and Scotland had been his usual round. The feeling that he was setting off on an impossible mission added a secret zest to his