The Complete Quin and Satterthwaite. Agatha Christie

of the evidence against Stephen Grant made it the more difficult for him to disprove the accusation.

      The girl whirled round on him.

      ‘Nothing but the truth can help him,’ she cried. ‘If Captain Harwell were to be found, if he was to come back. If the true rights of it were only known –’

      She broke off with something very like a sob, and hurried quickly from the room.

      ‘A fine-looking girl,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘A sad case altogether. I wish – I very much wish that something could be done about it.’

      His kind heart was troubled.

      ‘We are doing what we can,’ said Mr Quin. ‘There is still nearly half an hour before your car can be ready.’

      Mr Satterthwaite stared at him.

      ‘You think we can come at the truth just by – talking it over like this?’

      ‘You have seen much of life,’ said Mr Quin gravely. ‘More than most people.’

      ‘Life has passed me by,’ said Mr Satterthwaite bitterly.

      ‘But in so doing has sharpened your vision. Where others are blind you can see.’

      ‘It is true,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘I am a great observer.’

      He plumed himself complacently. The moment of bitterness was passed.

      ‘I look at it like this,’ he said after a minute or two. ‘To get at the cause for a thing, we must study the effect.’

      ‘Very good,’ said Mr Quin approvingly.

      ‘The effect in this case is that Miss Le Couteau – Mrs Harwell, I mean, is a wife and yet not a wife. She is not free – she cannot marry again. And look at it as we will, we see Richard Harwell as a sinister figure, a man from nowhere with a mysterious past.’

      ‘I agree,’ said Mr Quin. ‘You see what all are bound to see, what cannot be missed, Captain Harwell in the limelight, a suspicious figure.’

      Mr Satterthwaite looked at him doubtfully. The words seemed somehow to suggest a faintly different picture to his mind.

      ‘We have studied the effect,’ he said. ‘Or call it the result. We can now pass –’

      Mr Quin interrupted him.

      ‘You have not touched on the result on the strictly material side.’

      ‘You are right,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, after a moment or two for consideration. ‘One should do the thing thoroughly. Let us say then that the result of the tragedy is that Mrs Harwell is a wife and not a wife, unable to marry again, that Mr Cyrus Bradburn has been able to buy Ashley Grange and its contents for – sixty thousand pounds, was it? – and that somebody in Essex has been able to secure John Mathias as a gardener! For all that we do not suspect “somebody in Essex” or Mr Cyrus Bradburn of having engineered the disappearance of Captain Harwell.’

      ‘You are sarcastic,’ said Mr Quin.

      Mr Satterthwaite looked sharply at him.

      ‘But surely you agree –?’

      ‘Oh! I agree,’ said Mr Quin. ‘The idea is absurd. What next?’

      ‘Let us imagine ourselves back on the fatal day. The disappearance has taken place, let us say, this very morning.’

      ‘No, no,’ said Mr Quin, smiling. ‘Since, in our imagination, at least, we have power over time, let us turn it the other way. Let us say the disappearance of Captain Harwell took place a hundred years ago. That we, in the year two thousand twenty-five are looking back.’

      ‘You are a strange man,’ said Mr Satterthwaite slowly. ‘You believe in the past, not the present. Why?’

      ‘You used, not long ago, the word atmosphere. There is no atmosphere in the present.’

      ‘That is true, perhaps,’ said Mr Satterthwaite thoughtfully. ‘Yes, it is true. The present is apt to be – parochial.’

      ‘A good word,’ said Mr Quin.

      Mr Satterthwaite gave a funny little bow.

      ‘You are too kind,’ he said.

      ‘Let us take – not this present year, that would be too difficult, but say – last year,’ continued the other. ‘Sum it up for me, you who have the gift of the neat phrase.’

      Mr Satterthwaite thought for a minute. He was jealous of his reputation.

      ‘A hundred years ago we have the age of powder and patches,’ he said. ‘Shall we say that 1924 was the age of Crossword Puzzles and Cat Burglars?’

      ‘Very good,’ approved Mr Quin. ‘You mean that nationally, not internationally, I presume?’

      ‘As to Crossword Puzzles, I must confess that I do not know,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘But the Cat Burglar had a great innings on the Continent. You remember that series of famous thefts from French chateaux? It is surmised that one man alone could not have done it. The most miraculous feats were performed to gain admission. There was a theory that a troupe of acrobats were concerned – the Clondinis. I once saw their performance – truly masterly. A mother, son and daughter. They vanished from the stage in a rather mysterious fashion. But we are wandering from our subject.’

      ‘Not very far,’ said Mr Quin. ‘Only across the Channel.’

      ‘Where the French ladies will not wet their toes, according to our worthy host,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, laughing.

      There was a pause. It seemed somehow significant.

      ‘Why did he disappear?’ cried Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Why? Why? It is incredible, a kind of conjuring trick.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Mr Quin. ‘A conjuring trick. That describes it exactly. Atmosphere again, you see. And wherein does the essence of a conjuring trick lie?’

      ‘The quickness of the hand deceives the eye,’ quoted Mr Satterthwaite glibly.

      ‘That is everything, is it not? To deceive the eye? Sometimes by the quickness of the hand, sometimes – by other means. There are many devices, the pistol shot, the waving of a red handkerchief, something that seems important, but in reality is not. The eye is diverted from the real business, it is caught by the spectacular action that means nothing – nothing at all.’

      Mr Satterthwaite leant forward, his eyes shining.

      ‘There is something in that. It is an idea.’

      He went on softly. ‘The pistol shot. What was the pistol shot in the conjuring trick we were discussing? What is the spectacular moment that holds the imagination?’

      He drew in his breath sharply.

      ‘The disappearance,’ breathed Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Take that away, and it leaves nothing.’

      ‘Nothing? Suppose things took the same course without that dramatic gesture?’

      ‘You mean – supposing Miss Le Couteau were still to sell Ashley Grange and leave – for no reason?’

      ‘Well.’

      ‘Well, why not? It would have aroused talk, I suppose, there would have been a lot of interest displayed in the value of the contents in – Ah! wait!’

      He was silent a minute, then burst out.

      ‘You are right, there is too much limelight, the limelight on Captain Harwell. And because of that, she has been in shadow. Miss Le Couteau! Everyone asking. “Who was Captain Harwell? Where did he come from?” But because she is the injured party, no one makes inquiries about her. Was she really a French Canadian? Were those wonderful heirlooms really handed down to her? You were right when you said just now that we had not wandered far from our subject – only across the Channel.