"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 twenty-first century, 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 it 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 inning on the
Continent. You remember that series of famous thefts from French
châteaux? 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 leaned 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 are 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
to Mr. Bradburn 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_. Those so-called heirlooms
were stolen from the French châteaux, most of them valuable _objets
d'art_, and in consequence difficult to dispose of. She buys the
house--for a mere song, probably--settles down there and pays a good
sum to an irreproachable Englishwoman to chaperon her. Then _he_ comes.
The plot is laid beforehand. The marriage, the disappearance, and the
nine days' wonder! What more natural than that a brokenhearted woman
should want to sell everything that reminds her of past happiness? The
American is a connoisseur, the things are genuine and beautiful, some
of them beyond price. He makes an offer, she accepts it. She leaves the
neighborhood, a sad and tragic figure. The great _coup_ has come off.
The eye of the public has been deceived by the quickness of the hand
and the spectacular nature of the trick."
Mr. Satterthwaite paused, flushed with triumph.
"But for you, I should never have seen it," he said with sudden
humility. "You have a most curious effect upon me. One says things so
often without even seeing what they really mean. You have the knack
of showing one. But it is still not quite clear to me. It must have
been most difficult for Harwell to disappear as he did. After all, the
police all over England were looking for him."
"They were probably looking," said Mr. Quin, "all over England."
"It would have been simplest to remain hidden at the Grange," mused Mr.
Satterthwaite. "If it could be managed."
"He was, I think, very near the Grange," said Mr. Quin.
His look of significance was not lost on Mr. Satterthwaite. "Mathias's
cottage?" he exclaimed. "But the police must have searched it?"
"Repeatedly, I should imagine," said Mr. Quin.
"Mathias," said Mr. Satterthwaite, frowning.
"And Mrs. Mathias," said Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite stared hard at him. "If that gang was really the
Clondinis," he said dreamily, "there are three of them in it. The two
young ones were Harwell and Eleanor Le Couteau. The mother now, was she
Mrs. Mathias? But in that case--"
"Mathias suffered from rheumatism, did he not?" said Mr. Quin
innocently.
"Oh!" cried Mr. Satterthwaite. "I have it. But could it be done? I
believe it could. Listen. Mathias was there a month. During that time,
Harwell and Eleanor were away for a fortnight on a honeymoon. For the
fortnight before the wedding, they were supposedly in town. A clever
man could have doubled the parts of Harwell and Mathias. When Harwell
was at Kirtlington Mallet, Mathias was conveniently laid up with
rheumatism, with Mrs. Mathias to sustain the fiction. Her part was very
necessary. Without her, someone might have suspected the truth. As you
say, Harwell was hidden in Mathias's cottage. He _was_ Mathias. When
at last the plans matured, and Ashley Grange was sold, he and his wife
gave out that they were taking a place in Essex. Exit John Mathias and
his wife--forever."
There was a knock at the coffee-room door, and Masters entered.
"The car is at the door, sir," he said.
Mr. Satterthwaite rose. So did Mr. Quin, who went across to the window,
pulling the curtains. A beam of moonlight streamed into the room.
"The storm is over," he said.
Mr. Satterthwaite was pulling on his gloves. "The Commissioner is
dining with me next week," he said importantly. "I shall put my
theory--ah!--before him."
"It will be easily proved or disproved," said Mr. Quin. "A comparison
of the objects at Ashley Grange with a list supplied by the French
police--!"
"Just so," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Rather hard luck on Mr. Bradburn,
but--well--"
"He can, I believe, stand the loss," said Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite held out his hand. "Good-by," he said. "I cannot
tell you how much I have appreciated this unexpected meeting. You are
leaving here tomorrow, I think you said?"
"Possibly tonight. My business here is done. I come and go, you know."
Mr. Satterthwaite remembered hearing those same words earlier in the
evening. Rather curious.
He went out to the car and the waiting Masters. From the open door into
the bar the landlord's voice floated out, rich and complacent.
"A dark mystery," he was saying. "A dark mystery, that's what it is."
But he did not use the word "dark." The word he used suggested quite
a different color. Mr. William Jones was a man of discrimination who
suited his adjectives to his company. The company in the bar liked
their adjectives full flavored.
Mr. Satterthwaite reclined luxuriously in the comfortable limousine.
His breast was swelled with triumph. He saw the girl Mary come out on
the steps and stand under the creaking inn sign.
"She little knows," said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. "She little
knows what _I_ am going to do!"
The sign of the Bells and Motley swayed gently in the wind.