Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [95]
Mr Satterthwaite shivered.
‘Perhaps,’ he said uncertainly, ‘we shall find a sheltered spot?’
‘Which this isn’t,’ agreed Naomi. ‘Still, it’s worth seeing, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Mr Satterthwaite turned to Mr Quin. ‘Miss Carlton Smith calls this place the World’s End. Rather a good name, eh?’
Mr Quin nodded his head slowly several times.
‘Yes–a very suggestive name. I suppose one only comes once in one’s life to a place like that–a place where one can’t go on any longer.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Naomi sharply.
He turned to her.
‘Well, usually, there’s a choice, isn’t there? To the right or to the left. Forward or back. Here–there’s the road behind you and in front of you–nothing.’
Naomi stared at him. Suddenly she shivered and began to retrace her steps towards the others. The two men fell in beside her. Mr Quin continued to talk, but his tone was now easily conversational.
‘Is the small car yours, Miss Carlton Smith?’
‘Yes.’
‘You drive yourself? One needs, I think, a good deal of nerve to do that round here. The turns are rather appalling. A moment of inattention, a brake that failed to hold, and–over the edge–down–down–down. It would be–very easily done.’
They had now joined the others. Mr Satterthwaite introduced his friend. He felt a tug at his arm. It was Naomi. She drew him apart from the others.
‘Who is he?’ she demanded fiercely.
Mr Satterthwaite gazed at her in astonishment.
‘Well, I hardly know. I mean, I have known him for some years now–we have run across each other from time to time, but in the sense of knowing actually–’
He stopped. These were futilities that he was uttering, and the girl by his side was not listening. She was standing with her head bent down, her hands clenched by her sides.
‘He knows things,’ she said. ‘He knows things…How does he know?’
Mr Satterthwaite had no answer. He could only look at her dumbly, unable to comprehend the storm that shook her.
‘I’m afraid,’ she muttered.
‘Afraid of Mr Quin?’
‘I’m afraid of his eyes. He sees things…’
Something cold and wet fell on Mr Satterthwaite’s cheek. He looked up.
‘Why, it’s snowing,’ he exclaimed, in great surprise.
‘A nice day to have chosen for a picnic,’ said Naomi.
She had regained control of herself with an effort.
What was to be done? A babel of suggestions broke out. The snow came down thick and fast. Mr Quin made a suggestion and everyone welcomed it. There was a little stone Cassecroute at the end of the row of houses. There was a stampede towards it.
‘You have your provisions,’ said Mr Quin, ‘and they will probably be able to make you some coffee.’
It was a tiny place, rather dark, for the one little window did little towards lighting it, but from one end came a grateful glow of warmth. An old Corsican woman was just throwing a handful of branches on the fire. It blazed up, and by its light the newcomers realized that others were before them.
Three people were sitting at the end of a bare wooden table. There was something unreal about the scene to Mr Satterthwaite’s eye, there was something even more unreal about the people.
The woman who sat at the end of the table looked like a duchess–that is, she looked more like a popular conception of a duchess. She was the ideal stage grande dame. Her aristocratic head was held high, her exquisitely dressed hair was of a snowy white. She was dressed in grey–soft draperies that fell about her in artistic folds. One long white hand supported her chin, the other was holding a roll spread with pâté de foie gras. On her right was a man with a very white face, very black hair, and horn-rimmed spectacles. He was marvellously and beautifully dressed. At the moment his head was thrown back, and his left arm was thrown out as though he were about to declaim something.
On the left of the white-haired lady was a jolly-looking little man with a bald head. After the first glance, nobody looked at him.
There was just a moment of uncertainty, and then the Duchess (the authentic Duchess) took charge.
‘Isn’t this storm too dreadful?’ she said