Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [90]
There was a pause.
‘But why did you do it?’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘In God’s name, why?’
Mr Keeley laughed, a funny giggling little laugh that made Mr Satterthwaite feel rather sick.
‘It was so very simple,’ he said. ‘That’s why! And then–nobody ever noticed me. Nobody ever noticed what I was doing. I thought–I thought I’d have the laugh of them…’
And again he gave that furtive little giggle and looked at Mr Satterthwaite with mad eyes.
Mr Satterthwaite was glad that at that moment Inspector Winkfield came into the room.
III
It was twenty-four hours later, on his way to London, that Mr Satterthwaite awoke from a doze to find a tall dark man sitting opposite to him in the railway carriage. He was not altogether surprised.
‘My dear Mr Quin!’
‘Yes–I am here.’
Mr Satterthwaite said slowly: ‘I can hardly face you. I am ashamed–I failed.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘I did not save her.’
‘But you discovered the truth?’
‘Yes–that is true. One or other of those young men might have been accused–might even have been found guilty. So, at any rate, I saved a man’s life. But, she–she–that strange enchanting creature…’ His voice broke off.
Mr Quin looked at him.
‘Is death the greatest evil that can happen to anyone?’
‘I–well–perhaps–No…’
Mr Satterthwaite remembered…Madge and Roger Graham…Mabelle’s face in the moonlight–its serene unearthly happiness…
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘No–perhaps death is not the greatest evil…’
He remembered the ruffled blue chiffon of her dress that had seemed to him like the plumage of a bird…A bird with a broken wing…
When he looked up, he found himself alone. Mr Quin was no longer there.
But he had left something behind.
On the seat was a roughly carved bird fashioned out of some dim blue stone. It had, possibly, no great artistic merit. But it had something else.
It had the vague quality of enchantment.
So said Mr Satterthwaite–and Mr Satterthwaite was a connoisseur.
Chapter 11
The World’s End
Mr Satterthwaite had come to Corsica because of the Duchess. It was out of his beat. On the Riviera he was sure of his comforts, and to be comfortable meant a lot to Mr Satterthwaite. But though he liked his comfort, he also liked a Duchess. In his way, a harmless, gentlemanly, old-fashioned way, Mr Satterthwaite was a snob. He liked the best people. And the Duchess of Leith was a very authentic Duchess. There were no Chicago pork butchers in her ancestry. She was the daughter of a Duke as well as the wife of one.
For the rest, she was rather a shabby-looking old lady, a good deal given to black bead trimmings on her clothes. She had quantities of diamonds in old-fashioned settings, and she wore them as her mother before her had worn them: pinned all over her indiscriminately. Someone had suggested once that the Duchess stood in the middle of the room whilst her maid flung brooches at her haphazard. She subscribed generously to charities, and looked well after her tenants and dependents, but was extremely mean over small sums. She cadged lifts from her friends, and did her shopping in bargain basements.
The Duchess was seized with a whim for Corsica. Cannes bored her and she had a bitter argument with the hotel proprietor over the price of her rooms.
‘And you shall go with me, Satterthwaite,’ she said firmly. ‘We needn’t be afraid of scandal at our time of life.’
Mr Satterthwaite was delicately flattered. No one had ever mentioned scandal in connection with him before. He was far too insignificant. Scandal–and a Duchess–delicious!
‘Picturesque you know,’ said the Duchess. ‘Brigands–all that sort of thing. And extremely cheap, so I’ve heard. Manuel was positively impudent this morning. These hotel proprietors need putting in their place. They can’t expect to get the best people if they go on like this. I told him so plainly.’
‘I believe,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘that one can fly over quite comfortably. From