Agatha Christie - The Mysterious Mr. Quin

"Yes," said Denman. "And she's awfully good, too."

"She has clumsy feet," said Anna.

"Nonsense," said her husband. "All women are alike, Satterthwaite. Can't bear to hear another woman praised. Molly is a very good-looking girl, and so of course every woman has to have their knife into her."

"I spoke of dancing," said Anna Denman. She sounded faintly surprised. "She is very pretty, yes, but her feet move clumsily. You cannot tell me anything else because I know about dancing."

Mr. Satterthwaite intervened tactfully.

"You have two professional dancers coming down, I understand?"

"Yes. For the ballet proper. Prince Oranoff is bringing them down in his car."

"Sergius Oranoff?"

The question came from Anna Denman. Her husband turned and looked at her.

"You know him?"

"I used to know him―In Russia."

Mr. Satterthwaite thought that John Denman looked disturbed. -"Will he know you?"

"Yes. He will know me."

She laughed―a low, almost triumphant laugh. There was nothing of the Dutch Doll about her face now. She nodded reassuringly at her husband.

"Sergius. So he is bringing down the two dancers. He was always interested in dancing."

"I remember."

John Denman spoke abruptly, then turned and left the room. Mr. Quin followed him. Anna Denman crossed to the telephone and asked for a number. She arrested Mr. Satterthwaite with a gesture as he was about to follow the example of the other two men.

"Can I speak to Lady Roscheimer. Oh! it is you. This is Anna Denman speaking. Has Prince Oranoff arrived yet? What? What? Oh, my dear! But how ghastly."

She listened for a few moments longer, then replaced the receiver. She turned to Mr. Satterthwaite.

"There has been an accident. There would be with Sergius Ivanovitch driving. Oh, he has not altered in all these years. The girl was not badly hurt, but bruised and shaken, too much to dance tonight. The man's arm is broken. Sergius Ivanovitch himself is unhurt. The devil looks after his own, perhaps."

"And what-about Tonight's performance?"

"Exactly, my friend. Something must be done about it."

She sat thinking. Presently she looked at him.

"I am a bad hostess, Mr. Satterthwaite. I do not entertain you."

"I assure you that it is not necessary. There's one thing though, Mrs. Denman, that I would very much like to know."

"Yes?"

"How did you come across Mr. Quin?"

"He is often down here," she said slowly. "I think he owns land in this part of the world."

"He does, he does. He told me so this afternoon," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"He is―-." She paused Her eyes met Mr. Satterthwaite's. "I think you know what he is better than I do," she finished.

"I?"

"Is it not so?"

He was troubled. His neat little soul found her disturbing. He felt that she wished to force him further than he was prepared to go, that she wanted him to put into words that which he was not prepared to admit to himself.

"You know!" she said. "I think you know most things, Mr. Satterthwaite."

Here was incense, yet for once it failed to intoxicate him. He shook his head in unwonted humility.

"What can anyone know?" he asked. "So little―so very little."

She nodded in assent. Presently she spoke again, in a queer brooding voice, without looking at him.

"Supposing I were to tell you something―you would not laugh? No, I do not think you would laugh. Supposing, then, that to carry on one's"―she paused―"one's trade, one's profession, one were to make use of a phantasy―one were to pretend to oneself something that did not exist― that one were to imagine a certain person... It is a pretence, you understand, a make believe―nothing more. But one day―――"

"Yes?" said Mr. Satterthwaite.

He was keenly interested.

"The phantasy came true! The thing one imagined―the impossible thing, the thing that could not be―was real! Is that madness? Tell me, Mr. Satterthwaite. Is that madness― or do you believe it too?"

"I―――"Queer how he could not get the words out.

How they seemed to stick somewhere at the back of his throat.

"Folly," said Anna Denman.

"Folly."

She swept out of the room and left Mr. Satterthwaite with his confession of faith unspoken.

He came down to dinner to find Mrs. Denman entertaining a guest, a tall dark man approaching middle age.

"Prince Oranoff―Mr. Satterthwaite."

The two men bowed. Mr. Satterthwaite had the feeling that some conversation had been broken off on his entry which would not be resumed. But there was no sense of strain. The Russian conversed easily and naturally on those objects which were nearest to Mr. Satterthwaite's heart. He was a man of very fine artistic taste, and they soon found that they had many friends in common. John Denman joined them, and the talk became localised. Oranoff expressed regret for the accident.

"It was not my fault. I like to drive fast―yes, but I am a good driver. It was Fate―chance"―he shrugged his shoulders―"the masters of all of us."

"There speaks the Russian in you, Sergius Ivanovitch," said Mrs. Denman.

"And finds an echo in you, Anna Mikalovna," he threw back quickly.

Mr. Satterthwaite looked from one to the other of the three of them. John Denman, fair, aloof, English, and the other two, dark, thin, strangely alike. Something rose in his mind―what was it? Ah! he had it now. The first Act of the Walkre. Siegmund and Sieglinde―so alike―and the alien Hunding. Conjectures began to stir in his brain. Was this the meaning of the presence of Mr. Quin? One thing he believed in firmly―wherever Mr. Quin showed himself―there lay drama. Was this it here―the old hackneyed three cornered tragedy?

He was vaguely disappointed. He had hoped for better things.

"What has been arranged, Anna?" asked Denman." The thing will have to be put off, I suppose. I heard you ringing the Roscheimers up."

She shook her head.

"No―there is no need to put it off."

"But you can't do it without the ballet?"

"You certainly couldn't have a Harlequinade without Harlequin and Columbine," agreed Anna Denman dryly. "I'm going to be Columbine, John."

"You?" he was astonished―disturbed, Mr. Satterthwaite thought.

She nodded composedly.

"You need not be afraid, John. I shall not disgrace you. You forget―it was my profession once."

Mr. Satterthwaite thought―"What an extraordinary thing a voice is. The things it says―and the things it leaves unsaid and means! I wish I knew..."

"Well," said John Denman grudgingly, "that solves one half of the problem. What about the other? Where will you find Harlequin?"

"I have found him―there!"

She gestured towards the open doorway where Mr. Quin had just appeared. He smiled back at her.

"Good lord, Quin," said John Denman. "Do you know anything of this- game? 1 should never have imagined it."

"Mr. Quin is vouched for by an expert," said his wife. "Mr. Satterthwaite will answer for him."

She smiled at Mr. Satterthwaite, and the little man found himself murmuring―

"Oh, yes―I answer for Mr. Quin."

Denman turned his attention elsewhere.

"You know there's to be a fancy dress dance business afterwards. Great nuisance. We'll have to rig you up, Satterthwaite."

Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head very decidedly.

"My years will excuse me. "A brilliant idea struck him. A table napkin under his arm. "There I am, an elderly waiter who has seen better days."

He laughed.

"An interesting profession," said Mr. Quin. "One sees so much."

"I've got to put on some fool pierrot thing," said Denman gloomily. "It's cool anyway, that's one thing. What about you?" he looked at Oranoff.

"I have a Harlequin costume," said the Russian. His eyes wandered for a minute to his hostess's face.