Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [97]
Mr Satterthwaite was silent. He was remembering.
Mr Tomlinson opposite cleared his throat preparatory to entering into conversation.
‘You produce plays, I hear, eh? I’m fond of a good play myself. Jim the Penman, now, that was a play.’
‘My God,’ said Mr Vyse, and shivered down all the long length of him.
‘A tiny clove of garlic,’ said Miss Nunn to the Duchess. ‘You tell your cook. It’s wonderful.’
She sighed happily and turned to her husband.
‘Henry,’ she said plaintively, ‘I’ve never even seen the caviare.’
‘You’re as near as nothing to sitting on it,’ returned Mr Judd cheerfully. ‘You put it behind you on the chair.’
Rosina Nunn retrieved it hurriedly, and beamed round the table.
‘Henry is too wonderful. I’m so terribly absentminded. I never know where I’ve put anything.’
‘Like the day you packed your pearls in your sponge bag,’ said Henry jocosely. ‘And then left it behind at the hotel. My word, I did a bit of wiring and phoning that day.’
‘They were insured,’ said Miss Nunn dreamily. ‘Not like my opal.’
A spasm of exquisite heartrending grief flitted across her face.
Several times, when in the company of Mr Quin, Mr Satterthwaite had had the feeling of taking part in a play. The illusion was with him very strongly now. This was a dream. Everyone had his part. The words ‘my opal’ were his own cue. He leant forward.
‘Your opal, Miss Nunn?’
‘Have you got the butter, Henry? Thank you. Yes, my opal. It was stolen, you know. And I never got it back.’
‘Do tell us,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘Well–I was born in October–so it was lucky for me to wear opals, and because of that I wanted a real beauty. I waited a long time for it. They said it was one of the most perfect ones known. Not very large–about the size of a two-shilling piece–but oh! the colour and the fire.’
She sighed. Mr Satterthwaite observed that the Duchess was fidgeting and seemed uncomfortable, but nothing could stop Miss Nunn now. She went on, and the exquisite inflections of her voice made the story sound like some mournful Saga of old.
‘It was stolen by a young man called Alec Gerard. He wrote plays.’
‘Very good plays,’ put in Mr Vyse professionally. ‘Why, I once kept one of his plays for six months.’
‘Did you produce it?’ asked Mr Tomlinson.
‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Vyse, shocked at the idea. ‘But do you know, at one time I actually thought of doing so?’
‘It had a wonderful part in it for me,’ said Miss Nunn. ‘Rachel’s Children, it was called–though there wasn’t anyone called Rachel in the play. He came to talk to me about it–at the theatre. I liked him. He was a nice-looking–and very shy, poor boy. I remember’–a beautiful far-away look stole over her face–‘he bought me some peppermint creams. The opal was lying on the dressing-table. He’d been out in Australia, and he knew something about opals. He took it over to the light to look at it. I suppose he must have slipped it into his pocket then. I missed it as soon as he’d gone. There was a to-do. You remember?’
She turned to Mr Vyse.
‘Oh, I remember,’ said Mr Vyse with a groan.
‘They found the empty case in his rooms,’ continued the actress. ‘He’d been terribly hard up, but the very next day he was able to pay large sums into his bank. He pretended to account for it by saying that a friend of his had put some money on a horse for him, but he couldn’t produce the friend. He said he must have put the case in his pocket by mistake. I think that was a terribly weak thing to say, don’t you? He might have thought of something better than that…I had to go and give evidence. There were pictures of me in all the papers. My press agent said it was very good publicity–but I’d much rather have had my opal back.’
She shook her head sadly.
‘Have some preserved pineapple?’ said Mr Judd.
Miss Nunn brightened up.
‘Where is it?’
‘I gave it to you just now.’
Miss Nunn looked behind her and in front of her, eyed her grey silk pochette, and then slowly drew up a large purple silk bag that