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

Mr. Quin said nothing, and Mr. Satterthwaite felt that his explanation was unsatisfactory.

“There was absolutely no one to suspect but young Wylde,” he went on. “By his own account even, he was only out of the house three minutes before the shot was fired. And who else could have fired it? Sir George was at a bridge party a few houses away. He left there at half-past six and was met just outside the gate by a servant bringing him the news. The last rubber finished at half-past six exactly — no doubt about that. Then there was Sir George’s secretary, Henry Thompson. He was in London that day, and actually at a business meeting at the moment the shot was fired. Finally there is Sylvia Dale who, after all, had a perfectly good motive, impossible as it seems that she should have had anything to do with a crime. She was at the station of Deering Vale seeing a friend off by the 6.28 train. That lets her out. Then the servants. What earthly motive could any one of them have? Besides, they all arrived on the spot practically simultaneously. No, it must have been Martin Wylde.”

But he said it in a dissatisfied kind of voice.

They went on with their lunch. Mr. Quin was not in a talkative mood, and Mr. Satterthwaite had said all he had to say. But the silence was not a barren one. It was filled with the growing dissatisfaction of Mr. Satterthwaite, heightened and fostered in some strange way by the mere quiescence of the other man.

Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly put down his knife and fork with a clatter.

“Supposing that that young man is really innocent,” he said. “He’s going to be hanged.”

He looked very startled and upset about it. And still Mr. Quin said nothing.

“It’s not as though—” began Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped. “Why shouldn’t the woman go to Canada?” he ended inconsequently.

Mr. Quin shook his head.

“I don’t even know what part of Canada she went to,” continued Mr. Satterthwaite peevishly.

“Could you find out?” suggested the other.

“I suppose I could. The butler now. He’d know. Or possibly Thompson, the secretary.”

He paused again. When he resumed speech, his voice sounded almost pleading.

“It’s not as though it were anything to do with me?”

“That a young man is going to be hanged in a little over three weeks?”

“Well, yes — if you put it that way, I suppose. Yes, I see what you mean. Life and death. And that poor girl too. It’s not that I’m hard-hearted — but, after all — what good will it do? Isn’t the whole thing rather fantastic? Even if I found out where the woman’s gone to in Canada — why, it would probably mean that I should have to go out there myself.”

Mr. Satterthwaite looked seriously upset.

“And I was thinking of going to the Riviera next week,” he said pathetically.

And his glance towards Mr. Quin said as plainly as it could be said, “Do let me off, won’t you?”

“You have never been to Canada?”

“Never.”

“A very interesting country.”

Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him undecidedly.

“You think I ought to go?”

Mr. Quin leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette. Between puffs of smoke he spoke deliberately.

“You are, I believe, a rich man, Mr. Satterthwaite. Not a millionaire, but a man able to indulge a hobby without counting the expense. You have looked on at the dramas of other people. Have you never contemplated stepping in and playing a part? Have you never seen yourself for a minute as the arbiter of other people’s destinies — standing in the centre of the stage with life and death in your hands?”

Mr. Satterthwaite leant forward. The old eagerness surged over him.

“You mean — if I go on this wild-goose chase to Canada—”

Mr. Quin smiled.

“Oh! it was your suggestion, going to Canada, not mine,” he said lightly.

“You can’t put me off like that,” said Mr. Satterthwaite earnestly. “Whenever I have come across you—” He stopped.

“Well?”

“There is something about you I do not understand. Perhaps I never shall. The last time I met you—”

“On Midsummer’s Eve.”

Mr. Satterthwaite was startled, as though the words held a clue that he did not quite understand.

“Was it Midsummer’s Eve?” he asked confusedly.

“Yes. But let us not dwell on that. It is unimportant, is it not?”

“Since you say so,” said Mr. Satterthwaite courteously. He felt that elusive clue slipping through his fingers. “When I come back from Canada” — he paused a little awkwardly — “I–I should much like to see you again.”

“I am afraid I have no fixed address for the moment,” said Mr. Quin regretfully. “But I often come to this place. If you also frequent it, we shall no doubt meet before very long.”

They parted pleasantly.

Mr. Satterthwaite was very excited. He hurried round to Cook’s and inquired about boat sailings. Then he rang up Deering Hill. The voice of a butler, suave and deferential, answered him.

“My name is Satterthwaite. I am speaking for a — er — firm of solicitors. I wished to make a few inquiries about a young woman who was recently housemaid in your establishment.”

“Would that be Louisa, sir? Louisa Bullard?”

“That is the name,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, very pleased to be told it.

“I regret she is not in this country, sir. She went to Canada six months ago.”

“Can you give me her present address?”

The butler was afraid he couldn’t. It was a place in the mountains she had gone to — a Scotch name — ah! Banff, that was it. Some of the other young women in the house had been expecting to hear from her, but she had never written or given them any address.

Mr. Satterthwaite thanked him and rang off. He was still undaunted. The adventurous spirit was strong in his breast. He would go to Banff. If this Louisa Bullard was there, he would track her down somehow or another.

To his own surprise, he enjoyed the trip greatly. It was many years since he had taken a long sea voyage. The Riviera, Le Touquet and Deauville, and Scotland had been his usual round. The feeling that he was setting off on an impossible mission added a secret zest to his journey. What an utter fool these fellow travellers of his would think him did they but know the object of his quest! But then — they were not acquainted with Mr. Quin.

In Banff he found his objective easily attained. Louisa Bullard was employed in the large hotel there. Twelve hours after his arrival he was standing face to face with her.

She was a woman of about thirty-five, anaemic looking, but with a strong frame. She had pale brown hair inclined to curl, and a pair of honest brown eyes. She was, he thought, slightly stupid, but very trustworthy.

She accepted quite readily his statement that he had been asked to collect a few further facts from her about the tragedy at Deering Hill.

“I saw in the paper that Mr. Martin Wylde had been convicted, sir. Very sad it is too.”

She seemed, however, to have no doubt as to his guilt.

“A nice young gentleman gone wrong. But though I wouldn’t speak ill of the dead, it was her ladyship what led him on. Wouldn’t leave him alone, she wouldn’t. Well, they’ve both got their punishment. There’s a text used to hang on my wall when I was a child, ‘God is not mocked,’ and it’s very true. I knew something was going to happen that very evening — and sure enough it did.”

“How was that?” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“I was in my room, sir, changing my dress, and I happened to glance out of the window. There was a train going along, and the white smoke of it rose up in the air, and, if you’ll believe me, it formed itself into the sign of a gigantic hand. A great white hand against the crimson of the sky. The fingers were crooked-like, as though they were reaching out for something. It fair gave me a turn. ‘Did you ever know?’ I said to myself. ‘That’s a sign of something coming’ — and sure enough at that very minute I heard the shot. ‘It’s come,’ I said to myself, and I rushed downstairs and joined Carrie and the others who were in the hall, and we went into the music room, and there she was, shot through the head — and the blood and everything. Horrible! I spoke up, I did, and told Sir George how I’d seen the sign beforehand, but he didn’t seem to think much of it. An unlucky day, that was, I’d felt it in my bones from early in the morning. Friday, and the 13th — what could you expect?”