Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [76]
Mr Satterthwaite nodded gently. His imagination pictured the scene easily enough. The very positive and realistic Bristow and a figure that was silvery and ghostly–shadowy, as Bristow had said.
‘I suppose if something very terrible had happened, so terrible as to be almost unbearable, one might get like that. One might run away from reality into a half world of one’s own and then, of course, after a time, one wouldn’t be able to get back.’
‘Was that what had happened to her?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite curiously.
‘I don’t know,’ said Bristow. ‘She didn’t tell me anything, I am only guessing. One has to guess if one is going to get anywhere.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Satterthwaite slowly. ‘One has to guess.’
He looked up as the door opened. He looked up quickly and expectantly but the butler’s words disappointed him.
‘A lady, sir, has called to see you on very urgent business. Miss Aspasia Glen.’
Mr Satterthwaite rose in some astonishment. He knew the name of Aspasia Glen. Who in London did not? First advertised as the Woman with the Scarf, she had given a series of matinées single-handed that had taken London by storm. With the aid of her scarf she had impersonated rapidly various characters. In turn the scarf had been the coif of a nun, the shawl of a mill-worker, the head-dress of a peasant and a hundred other things, and in each impersonation Aspasia Glen had been totally and utterly different. As an artist, Mr Satterthwaite paid full reverence to her. As it happened, he had never made her acquaintance. A call upon him at this unusual hour intrigued him greatly. With a few words of apology to the others he left the room and crossed the hall to the drawing-room.
Miss Glen was sitting in the very centre of a large settee upholstered in gold brocade. So poised she dominated the room. Mr Satterthwaite perceived at once that she meant to dominate the situation. Curiously enough, his first feeling was one of repulsion. He had been a sincere admirer of Aspasia Glen’s art. Her personality, as conveyed to him over the footlights, had been appealing and sympathetic. Her effects there had been wistful and suggestive rather than commanding. But now, face to face with the woman herself, he received a totally different impression. There was something hard–bold–forceful about her. She was tall and dark, possibly about thirty-five years of age. She was undoubtedly very good-looking and she clearly relied upon the fact.
‘You must forgive this unconventional call, Mr Satterthwaite,’ she said. Her voice was full and rich and seductive.
‘I won’t say that I have wanted to know you for a long time, but I am glad of the excuse. As for coming tonight’–she laughed–‘well, when I want a thing, I simply can’t wait. When I want a thing, I simply must have it.’
‘Any excuse that has brought me such a charming lady guest must be welcomed by me,’ said Mr Satterthwaite in an old-fashioned gallant manner.
‘How nice you are to me,’ said Aspasia Glen.
‘My dear lady,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘may I thank you here and now for the pleasure you have so often given me–in my seat in the stalls.’
She smiled delightfully at him.
‘I am coming straight to the point. I was at the Harchester Galleries today. I saw a picture there I simply couldn’t live without. I wanted to buy it and I couldn’t because you had already bought it. So’–she paused–‘I do want it so,’ she went on. ‘Dear Mr Satterthwaite, I simply must have it. I brought my cheque book.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘Everyone tells me you are so frightfully kind. People are kind to me, you know. It is very bad for me–but there it is.’
So these were Aspasia Glen’s methods. Mr Satterthwaite was inwardly coldly critical of this ultra-femininity