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

“Wonderful,” commented Mr. Quin.

Mr. Satterthwaite turned to him, flushed with success.

“The only thing is — how to proceed now?”

“I should suggest Sylvia Dale,” said Mr. Quin.

Mr. Satterthwaite looked doubtful.

“I mention to you,” he said, “she seemed to me a little — er — stupid.”

“She has a father and brothers who will take the necessary steps.”

“That is true,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, relieved.

A very short time afterwards he was sitting with the girl telling her the story. She listened attentively. She put no questions to him, but when he had done she rose.

“I must have a taxi — at once.”

“My dear child, what are you going to do?”

“I am going to Sir George Barnaby.”

“Impossible. Absolutely the wrong procedure. Allow me to—”

He twittered on by her side. But he produced no impression. Sylvia Dale was intent on her own plans. She allowed him to go with her in the taxi, but to all his remonstrances she addressed a deaf ear. She left him in the taxi, while she went into Sir George’s city office.

It was half an hour later when she came out. She looked exhausted, her fair beauty drooping like a waterless flower. Mr. Satterthwaite received her with concern.

“I’ve won,” she murmured, as she leant back with half-closed eyes.

“What?” he was startled. “What did you do? What did you say?”

She sat up a little.

“I told him that Louisa Bullard had been to the police with her story. I told him that the police had made inquiries and that he had been seen going into his own grounds and out again a few minutes after half-past six. I told him that the game was up. He — he went to pieces. I told him that there was still time for him to get away, that the police weren’t coming for another hour to arrest him. I told him that if he’d sign a confession that he’d killed Vivien I’d do nothing, but that if he didn’t I’d scream and tell the whole building the truth. He was so panicky that he didn’t know what he was doing. He signed the paper without realising what he was doing.”

She thrust it into his hands.

“Take it — take it. You know what to do with it so that they’ll set Martin free.”

“He actually signed it,” cried Mr. Satterthwaite, amazed.

“He is a little stupid, you know,” said Sylvia Dale. “So am I,” she added as an afterthought. “That’s why I know how stupid people behave. We get rattled, you know, and then we do the wrong thing and are sorry afterwards.”

She shivered, and Mr. Satterthwaite patted her hand.

“You need something to pull you together,” he said. “Come, we are very close to a very favourite resort of mine — the Arlecchino. Have you ever been there?”

She shook her head.

Mr. Satterthwaite stopped the taxi and took the girl into the little restaurant. He made his way to the table in the recess, his heart beating hopefully. But the table was empty.

Sylvia Dale saw the disappointment in his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “That is, I half expected to see a friend of mine here. It doesn’t matter. Some day, I expect, I shall see him again....”

From The Mysterious Mr. Quin (St. Martin’s Minotaur). Copyright 1930 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. Copyright renewed 1957 by Agatha Christie Mallowan.