Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [44]
It was an unexpected sound that roused him from his reverie. Footsteps coming along the cypress walk were inaudible, the first he knew of somebody’s presence was the English monosyllable ‘Damn.’
He looked round to find a young man staring at him in obvious surprise and disappointment. Mr Satterthwaite recognized him at once as an arrival of the day before who had more or less intrigued him. Mr Satterthwaite called him a young man–because in comparison to most of the die-hards in the Hotel he was a young man, but he would certainly never see forty again and was probably drawing appreciably near to his half century. Yet in spite of that, the term young man fitted him–Mr Satterthwaite was usually right about such things–there was an impression of immaturity about him. As there is a touch of puppyhood about many a full grown dog so it was with the stranger.
Mr Satterthwaite thought: ‘This chap has really never grown up–not properly, that is.’
And yet there was nothing Peter Pannish about him. He was sleek–almost plump, he had the air of one who has always done himself exceedingly well in the material sense and denied himself no pleasure or satisfaction. He had brown eyes–rather round–fair hair turning grey–a little moustache and rather florid face.
The thing that puzzled Mr Satterthwaite was what had brought him to the island. He could imagine him shooting things, hunting things, playing polo or golf or tennis, making love to pretty women. But in the Island there was nothing to hunt or shoot, no games except Golf-Croquet, and the nearest approach to a pretty woman was represented by elderly Miss Baba Kindersley. There were, of course, artists, to whom the beauty of the scenery made appeal, but Mr Satterthwaite was quite certain that the young man was not an artist. He was clearly marked with the stamp of the Philistine.
While he was resolving these things in his mind, the other spoke, realizing somewhat belatedly that his single ejaculation so far might be open to criticism.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said with some embarrassment. ‘As a matter of fact, I was–well, startled. I didn’t expect anyone to be here.’
He smiled disarmingly. He had a charming smile–friendly–appealing.
‘It is rather a lonely spot,’ agreed Mr Satterthwaite, as he moved politely a little further up the bench. The other accepted the mute invitation and sat down.
‘I don’t know about lonely,’ he said. ‘There always seems to be someone here.’
There was a tinge of latent resentment in his voice. Mr Satterthwaite wondered why. He read the other as a friendly soul. Why this insistence on solitude? A rendezvous, perhaps? No–not that. He looked again with carefully veiled scrutiny at his companion. Where had he seen that particular expression before quite lately? That look of dumb bewildered resentment.
‘You’ve been up here before then?’ said Mr Satterthwaite, more for the sake of saying something than for anything else.
‘I was up here last night–after dinner.’
‘Really? I thought the gates were always locked.’
There was a moment’s pause and then, almost sullenly, the young man said:
‘I climbed over the wall.’
Mr Satterthwaite looked at him with real attention now. He had a sleuthlike habit of mind and he was aware that his companion had only arrived on the preceding afternoon. He had had little time to discover the beauty of the villa by daylight and he had so far spoken to nobody. Yet after dark he had made straight for La Paz. Why? Almost involuntarily Mr Satterthwaite turned his head to look at the green-shuttered villa, but it was as ever serenely lifeless, close shuttered. No, the solution of the mystery was not there.
‘And you actually found someone here then?’
The other nodded.
‘Yes. Must have been from the other Hotel. He had on fancy dress.’
‘Fancy dress?’
‘Yes. A kind of Harlequin rig.’
‘What?’
The query fairly burst from Mr Satterthwaite’s lips. His