Агата Кристи: Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 53, No. 12, December 2008

“You don’t want her,” I try to say. My throat constricts. Nothing comes out. I adjust my mask. If only there were some way to change my eyes. Maybe it will know me by my eyes! It takes a step. The ground shakes. Ice falls from tree branches behind me. Then it is upon me. Huge hands flat on the ground on either side. Its face comes closer and closer. Green-yellow eyes, like a pus-filled wound. I look up, peer through my werewolf disguise, expect it to clap its hands together, smearing me into an explosion of pain. He would break me first. His touch would be fire and stinging nettles and broken glass.

But he doesn’t.

He stands. Takes two steps. Bends down to look at Mom. Straightens and walks down the hill before I can even scream.

Hissing like sand, the icy rain falls around me. My chin sinks to my chest, the start of tears brimming in my eyes.

A touch on my shoulder. “Did you hurt yourself, Scotty?” Mom helps me to my feet. I hug her, which surprises her, I guess, because for a second she stands there. Then she hugs me back. She says, “I’m getting cold. Are you ready to go home?”

We hear the sirens long before we reach our block. Red and blue lights reflect off the houses on our street. The streets are too slick for us to rush, so we have plenty of time to survey the scene as we get closer.

Fire engines pour water onto our house, but there aren’t many flames. Just smoke. The ends of the house are intact; the middle is gone, flat to the ground, broken timbers sticking up, water-shiny with splintery ends.

We make the cover of the National Enquirer, you know, with one of those pictures that look obviously doctored, like the face of the devil in the smoke plume above a burning building, except this one isn’t faked. A news helicopter took it. The fire engines are in the foreground, providing the light, casting shadows the right way. Our house is in the picture’s center, the two walls still standing, and over the middle of the house, the crushed middle, is what looks very much like a giant’s footprint. He’d squashed our house like a kitten, someone might say. The footprint of a minor god. In the heat of the morning sun, the outline vanished.

Mom’s talking about going to church. “Just to investigate it,” she says.

I’m thinking I’ll join her.

Copyright ©2008 James Van Pelt

The Judge was finishing his charge to the jury.

“Now, gentlemen, I have almost finished what I want to say to you. There is evidence for you to consider as to whether this case is plainly made out against this man so that you may say he is guilty of the murder of Vivien Barnaby. You have had the evidence of the servants as to the time the shot was fired. They have one and all agreed upon it. You have had the evidence of the letter written to the defendant by Vivien Barnaby on the morning of that same day, Friday, September 13th — a letter which the defence has not attempted to deny. You have had evidence that the prisoner first denied having been at Deering Hill, and later, after evidence had been given by the police, admitted he had. You will draw your own conclusions from that denial. This is not a case of direct evidence. You will have to come to your own conclusions on the subject of motive — of means, of opportunity. The contention of the defence is that some person unknown entered the music room after the defendant had left it, and shot Vivien Barnaby with the gun which, by strange forgetfulness, the defendant had left behind him. You have heard the defendant’s story of the reason it took him half an hour to get home. If you disbelieve the defendant’s story and are satisfied beyond any reasonable doubt that the defendant did, upon Friday, September 13th, discharge his gun at close quarters to Vivien Barnaby’s head with intent to kill her, then, gentlemen, your verdict must be Guilty. If, on the other hand, you have any reasonable doubt, it is your duty to acquit the prisoner. I will now ask you to retire to your room and consider and let me know when you have arrived at a conclusion.”

The jury were absent a little under half an hour. They returned the verdict that to everyone had seemed a foregone conclusion, the verdict of “Guilty.”

Mr. Satterthwaite left the court after hearing the verdict, with a thoughtful frown on his face.

A mere murder trial as such did not attract him. He was of too fastidious a temperament to find interest in the sordid details of the average crime. But the Wylde case had been different. Young Martin Wylde was what is termed a gentleman — and the victim, Sir George Barnaby’s young wife, had been personally known to the elderly gentleman.

He was thinking of all this as he walked up Holborn, and then plunged into a tangle of mean streets leading in the direction of Soho. In one of these streets there was a small restaurant, known only to the few of whom Mr. Satterthwaite was one. It was not cheap — it was, on the contrary, exceedingly expensive, since it catered exclusively for the palate of the jaded gourmet. It was quiet — no strains of jazz were allowed to disturb the hushed atmosphere — it was rather dark, waiters appeared soft-footed out of the twilight, bearing silver dishes with the air of participating in some holy rite. The name of the restaurant was Arlecchino.

Still thoughtful, Mr. Satterthwaite turned into the Arlecchino and made for his favorite table in a recess in the far corner. Owing to the twilight before mentioned, it was not until he was quite close to it that he saw it was already occupied by a tall dark man who sat with his face in shadow, and with a play of colour from a stained window turning his sober garb into a kind of riotous motley.

Mr. Satterthwaite would have turned back, but just at that moment the stranger moved slightly and the other recognised him.

“God bless my soul,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, who was given to old-fashioned expressions. “Why, it’s Mr. Quin!”

Three times before he had met Mr. Quin, and each time the meeting had resulted in something a little out of the ordinary. A strange person, this Mr. Quin, with a knack of showing you the things you had known all along in a totally different light.

At once Mr. Satterthwaite felt excited — pleasurably excited. His role was that of the looker-on, and he knew it, but sometimes when in the company of Mr. Quin, he had the illusion of being an actor — and the principal actor at that.

“This is very pleasant,” he said, beaming all over his dried-up little face. “Very pleasant indeed. You’ve no objection to my joining you, I hope?”

“I shall be delighted,” said Mr. Quin. “As you see I have not yet begun my meal.”

A deferential head waiter hovered up out of the shadows. Mr. Satterthwaite, as befitted a man with a seasoned palate, gave his whole mind to the task of selection. In a few minutes the head waiter, a slight smile of approbation on his lips, retired, and a young satellite began his minstrations. Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin.

“I have just come from the Old Bailey,” he began. “A sad business, I thought.”

“He was found guilty?” said Mr. Quin.

“Yes, the jury were out only half an hour.”

Mr. Quin bowed his head.

“An inevitable result — on the evidence,” he said.

“And yet,” began Mr. Satterthwaite — and stopped.

Mr. Quin finished the sentence for him.

“And yet your sympathies were with the accused? Is that what you were going to say?”

“I suppose it is. Martin Wylde is a nice-looking young fellow — one can hardly believe it of him. All the same, there have been a good many nice-looking young fellows lately who have turned out to be murderers of a particularly cold-blooded and repellent type.”