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 center of the stage with life and death in
your hands?"
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned 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 Eve."
Mr. Satterthwaite was startled, as though the words held a clue that he
did not quite understand.
"Was it Midsummer 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 other.
* * * * *
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 travelers 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, anemic-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, now?' 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?"
She rambled on. Mr. Satterthwaite was patient. Again and again he took
her back to the crime, questioning her closely. In the end he was
forced to confess defeat. Louisa Bullard had told all she knew, and her
story was perfectly simple and straightforward.
Yet he did discover one fact of importance. The post in question had
been suggested to her by Mr. Thompson, Sir George's secretary. The
wages attached were so large that she was tempted, and accepted the
job, although it involved her leaving England very hurriedly. A Mr.
Denman had made all the arrangements to this end and had also warned
her not to write to her fellow servants in England, as this might "get
her into trouble with the immigration authorities," which statement she
had accepted in blind faith.
The amount of the wages, casually mentioned by her, was indeed so large
that Mr. Satterthwaite was startled. After some hesitation he made up
his mind to approach this Mr. Denman.
He found very little difficulty in inducing Mr. Denman to tell all he
knew. The latter had come across Thompson in London, and Thompson had
done him a good turn. The secretary had written to him in September
saying that for personal reasons Sir George was anxious to get this
girl out of England. Could he find her a job? A sum of money had been
sent to raise the wages to a high figure.
"Usual trouble, I guess," said Mr. Denman, leaning back nonchalantly in
his chair. "Seems a nice quiet girl, too."
Mr. Satterthwaite did not agree that this was the usual trouble. Louisa
Bullard, he was sure, was not a cast-off fancy of Sir George Barnaby's.
For some reason it had been vital to get her out of England. But why?
And who was at the bottom of it? Sir George himself, working through
Thompson? Or the latter working on his own initiative, and dragging in
his employer's name?
Still pondering over these questions, Mr. Satterthwaite made the return
journey. He was cast down and despondent. His journey had done no good.
Smarting under a sense of failure, he made his way to the Arlecchino
the day after his return. He hardly expected to be successful the first
time, but to his satisfaction the familiar figure was sitting at the
table in the recess, and the dark face of Mr. Harley Quin smiled a
welcome.
"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite as he helped himself to a pat of butter,
"you sent me on a nice wild goose chase."
Mr. Quin raised his eyebrows. "I sent you?" he objected. "It was your
own idea entirely."
"Whose-ever idea it was, it's not succeeded. Louisa Bullard has nothing
to tell."
Thereupon Mr. Satterthwaite related the details of his conversation
with the housemaid and then went on to his interview with Mr. Denman.
Mr. Quin listened in silence.
"In one sense, I was justified," continued Mr. Satterthwaite. "She was
deliberately got out the way. But why? I can't see it."
"No?" said Mr. Quin, and his voice was, as ever, provocative.
Mr. Satterthwaite flushed. "I daresay you think I might have questioned
her more adroitly. I can assure you that I took her over the story
again and again. It was not my fault that I did not get what we want."
"Are you sure," said Mr. Quin, "that you did not get what you want?"
Mr. Satterthwaite looked up at him in astonishment, and met that sad,
mocking gaze he knew so well. The little man shook his head, slightly
bewildered.
There was a silence, and then Mr. Quin said, with a total change of
manner, "You gave me a wonderful picture the other day of the people
in this business. In a few words you made them stand out as clearly as
though they were etched. I wish you would do something of that kind for
the place--you left that in shadow."
Mr. Satterthwaite was flattered.
"The place? Deering Hill? Well, it's a very ordinary sort of house
nowadays. Red brick, you know, and bay windows. Quite hideous outside,
but very comfortable inside. Not a very large house. About two acres
of ground. They're all much the same, those houses round the links.
Built for rich men to live in. The inside of the house is reminiscent
of a hotel--the bedrooms are like hotel suites. Baths and hot and
cold basins in all the bedrooms and a good many gilded electric-light
fittings. All wonderfully comfortable, but not very country-like. You
can tell that Deering Vale is only nineteen miles from London."
Mr. Quin listened attentively. "The train service is bad, I have
heard," he remarked.
"Oh! I don't know about that," said Mr. Satterthwaite, warming to
his subject. "I was down there for a bit last summer. I found it
quite convenient for town. Of course the trains only go every hour.
Forty-eight minutes past the hour from Waterloo--up to 10:48."
"And how long does it take to Deering Vale?"
"Just about three quarters of an hour. Twenty-eight minutes past the
hour at Deering Vale."
"Of course," said Mr. Quin with a gesture of vexation. "I should have
remembered. Miss Dale saw someone off by the 6:28 that evening, didn't
she?"
Mr. Satterthwaite did not reply for a minute or two. His mind had gone
back with a rush to his unsolved problem. Presently he said, "I wish
you would tell me what you meant just now when you asked me if I was
sure I had not got what I wanted?"
It sounded rather complicated, put that way, but Mr. Quin made no
pretense of not understanding.
"I just wondered if you weren't being a little too exacting. After
all, you found out that Louisa Bullard was deliberately got out of the
country. That being so, there must be a reason. And the reason must lie
in what she said to you."
"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite argumentatively. "What did she say? If
she'd given evidence at the trial, what could she have said?"
"She might have told what she saw," said Mr. Quin.
"What did she see?"
"A sign in the sky."
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him.
"Are you thinking of _that_ nonsense? That superstitious notion of its
being the hand of God?"
"Perhaps," said Mr. Quin. "For all you and I know, it may have been the
hand of God, you know."
The other was clearly puzzled at the gravity of his manner. "Nonsense,"
he said. "She said herself it was the smoke of the train."
"An up train or a down train, I wonder," murmured Mr. Quin.
"Hardly an up train. They go at ten minutes to the hour. It must have
been a down train--the 6:28--no, that won't do. She said the shot came
immediately afterward, and we know the shot was fired at twenty minutes
past six. The train couldn't have been ten minutes early."
"Hardly, on that line," agreed Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite was staring ahead of him.
"Perhaps a goods train," he murmured. "But surely, if so--"
"There would have been no need to get her out of England. I agree,"
said Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite gazed at him, fascinated.
"The 6:28," he said slowly. "But if so, if the shot was fired then, why
did everyone say it was earlier?"
"Obvious," said Mr. Quin. "The clocks must have been wrong."
"All of them?" said Mr. Satterthwaite doubtfully. "That's a pretty tall
coincidence, you know."
"I wasn't thinking of it as a coincidence," said the other. "I was
thinking that it was Friday."
"Friday?" said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"You did tell me, you know, that Sir George always wound the clocks on
a Friday afternoon," said Mr. Quin apologetically.
"He put them back ten minutes," said Mr. Satterthwaite, almost in a
whisper, so awed was he by the discoveries he was making. "Then he went
out to bridge. I think he must have opened the note from his wife to
Martin Wylde that morning--yes, decidedly he opened it. He left his
bridge party at 6:30, found Martin's gun standing by the side door, and
went in and shot her from behind. Then he went out again, threw the
gun into the bushes where it was found later, and was apparently just
coming out of the neighbor's gate when someone came running to fetch
him. But the telephone--what about the telephone? Ah! yes, I see. He
disconnected it so that a summons could not be sent to the police that
way--they might have noted the time it was received. And Wylde's story
works out now. The real time he left was five and twenty past six.
Walking slowly, he would reach home about a quarter to seven. Yes, I
see it all. Louisa was the only danger with her endless talk about her
superstitious fancies. Someone might realize the significance of the
train and then--good-by to that excellent alibi."
"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 mentioned 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 afterward 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 leaned 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 realizing 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 is why I know how stupid people behave.
We get rattled, you know, and then we do the wrong thing and are sorry
afterward."
She shivered and Mr. Satterthwaite patted her hand.
"You need something to pull you together," he said. "Come, we are close
to a very favorite 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."