He purposely broke off, but he had said enough to produce an effect for
which he was not unprepared. Charlie Burns's face darkened, and Gillian
looked troubled. More than troubled, he thought. She looked afraid.
"I don't like it," she said in a low voice. Her words were addressed
to Mr. Satterthwaite, as though she knew by instinct that he would
understand a feeling incomprehensible to her lover. "You see--he's done
a lot for me. He's encouraged me to take up singing, and--and helped
me with it. But I've known all the time that my voice wasn't really
good--not first-class. Of course, I've had engagements--"
She stopped.
"You've had a bit of trouble too," said Burns. "A girl wants someone
to look after her. Gillian's had a lot of unpleasantness, Mr.
Satterthwaite. Altogether she's had a lot of unpleasantness. She's a
good-looker, as you can see, and--well, that often leads to trouble for
a girl."
Between them, Mr. Satterthwaite became enlightened as to various
happenings which were vaguely classed by Burns under the heading of
"unpleasantness." The young man who had shot himself, the extraordinary
conduct of the bank manager (who was a married man!), the violent
stranger (who must have been balmy!), the wild behavior of the elderly
artist. A trail of violence and tragedy that Gillian West had left in
her wake, recited in the commonplace tones of Charles Burns. "And it's
my opinion," he ended, "that this fellow Eastney is a bit cracked.
Gillian would have had trouble with him if I hadn't turned up to look
after her."
His laugh sounded a little fatuous to Mr. Satterthwaite, and no
responsive smile came to the girl's face. She was looking earnestly at
Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Phil's all right," she said slowly. "He cares for me, I know, and I
care for him like a friend--but--but not anything more. I don't know
how he'll take the news about Charlie, I'm sure. He--I'm so afraid
he'll be--"
She stopped, inarticulate in face of the dangers she vaguely sensed.
"If I can help you in any way," said Mr. Satterthwaite warmly, "pray
command me."
He fancied Charlie Burns looked vaguely resentful, but Gillian said at
once, "Thank you."
Mr. Satterthwaite left his new friends after having promised to take
tea with Gillian on the following Thursday.
When Thursday came, Mr. Satterthwaite felt a little thrill of
pleasurable anticipation. He thought, _I'm an old man--but not too old
to be thrilled by a face. A face_--Then he shook his head with a sense
of foreboding.
Gillian was alone. Charlie Burns was to come in later. She looked much
happier, Mr. Satterthwaite thought, as though a load had been lifted
from her mind. Indeed, she frankly admitted as much.
"I dreaded telling Phil about Charlie. It was silly of me. I ought to
have known Phil better. He was upset, of course, but no one could have
been sweeter. Really sweet he was. Look what he sent me this morning--a
wedding present. Isn't it magnificent?"
It was indeed rather magnificent for a young man in Philip Eastney's
circumstances. A wireless set of the latest type.
"We both love music so much, you see," explained the girl. "Phil said
that when I was listening to a concert on this, I should always think
of him a little. And I'm sure I shall. Because we have been such
friends."
"You must be proud of your friend," said Mr. Satterthwaite gently. "He
seems to have taken the blow like a true sportsman."
Gillian nodded. He saw the quick tears come into her eyes.
"He asked me to do one thing for him. Tonight is the anniversary of
the day we first met. He asked me if I would stay at home quietly this
evening and listen to the wireless program--not go out with Charlie
anywhere. I said of course I would, and that I was very touched, and
that I would think of him with a lot of gratitude and affection."
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded, but he was puzzled. He was seldom at fault in
his delineation of character, and he would have judged Philip Eastney
quite incapable of such a sentimental request. The young man must be of
a more banal order than he supposed. Gillian evidently thought the idea
quite in keeping with her rejected lover's character. Mr. Satterthwaite
was a little--just a little--disappointed. He was sentimental himself,
and knew it, but he expected better things of the rest of the world.
Besides, sentiment belonged to his age. It had no part to play in the
modern world.
He asked Gillian to sing and she complied. He told her her voice was
charming, but he knew quite well in his own mind that it was distinctly
second-class. Any success that could have come to her in the profession
she had adopted would have been won by her face, not her voice.
He was not particularly anxious to see young Burns again so presently
he rose to go. It was at that moment that his attention was attracted
by an ornament on the mantelpiece which stood out among the other
rather gimcrack objects like a jewel on a dust heap.
It was a curving beaker of thin green glass, long-stemmed and graceful,
and poised on the edge of it was what looked like a gigantic soap
bubble, a ball of iridescent glass. Gillian noticed his absorption.
"That's an extra wedding present from Phil. It's rather pretty, I
think. He works in a sort of glass factory."
"It is a beautiful thing," said Mr. Satterthwaite reverently. "The
glass blowers of Murano might have been proud of that."
He went away with his interest in Philip Eastney strangely stimulated.
An extraordinarily interesting young man. And yet the girl with the
wonderful face preferred Charlie Burns. What a strange and inscrutable
universe!
It had just occurred to Mr. Satterthwaite that, owing to the remarkable
beauty of Gillian West, his evening with Mr. Quin had somehow missed
fire. As a rule, every meeting with that mysterious individual had
resulted in some strange and unforeseen happening. It was with the hope
of perhaps running against the man of mystery that Mr. Satterthwaite
bent his steps toward the Arlecchino Restaurant where once, in the days
gone by, he had met Mr. Quin and which Mr. Quin had said he frequented.
Mr. Satterthwaite went from room to room at the Arlecchino, looking
hopefully about him, but there was no sign of Mr. Quin's dark, smiling
face. There was, however, somebody else. Sitting at a small table alone
was Philip Eastney.
The place was crowded and Mr. Satterthwaite took his seat opposite the
young man. He felt a sudden strange sense of exultation, as though he
were caught up and made part of a shimmering pattern of events. He was
in this thing--whatever it was. He knew now what Mr. Quin had meant
that evening at the opera. There was a drama going on, and in it was
a part, an important part, for Mr. Satterthwaite. He must not fail to
take his cue and speak his lines.
He sat down opposite Philip Eastney with the sense of accomplishing the
inevitable. It was easy enough to get into conversation. Eastney seemed
anxious to talk. Mr. Satterthwaite was, as always, an encouraging and
sympathetic listener. They talked of the war, of explosives, of poison
gases. Eastney had a lot to say about these last, for during the war
he had been engaged in their manufacture. Mr. Satterthwaite found him
really interesting.
There was one gas, Eastney said, that had never been tried. One whiff
of it was deadly. He warmed to animation as he spoke.
Having broken the ice, Mr. Satterthwaite gently turned the conversation
to music. Eastney's thin face lit up. He spoke with the passion and
abandon of the real music lover. They discussed Yoaschbim, and the
young man was enthusiastic. Both he and Mr. Satterthwaite agreed that
nothing on earth could surpass a really fine tenor voice. Eastney as a
boy had heard Caruso, and he had never forgotten it.
"Do you know that he could sing to a wine glass and shatter it?" he
demanded.
"I always thought that was a fable," said Mr. Satterthwaite, smiling.
"No, it's gospel truth, I believe. The thing's quite possible. It's a
question of resonance."
He went off into technical details. His face was flushed and his eyes
shone. The subject seemed to fascinate him, and Mr. Satterthwaite noted
that he seemed to have a thorough grasp of what he was talking about.
The older man realized that he was talking to an exceptional brain, a
brain that might almost be described as that of a genius. Brilliant,
erratic, undecided as yet as to the true channel to give it outlet, but
undoubtedly genius.
And he thought of Charlie Burns and wondered at Gillian West.
It was with quite a start that he realized how late it was getting, and
he called for his bill. Eastney looked slightly apologetic.
"I'm ashamed of myself--running on so," he said. "But it was a lucky
chance sent you along here tonight. I--I needed someone to talk to this
evening."
He ended his speech with a curious little laugh. His eyes were still
blazing with some subdued excitement. Yet there was something tragic
about him.
"It has been quite a pleasure," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Our
conversation has been most interesting and instructive to me."
He then made his funny, courteous little bow and passed out of the
restaurant. The night was a warm one and as he walked slowly down the
street a very odd fancy came to him. He had the feeling that he was not
alone--that someone was walking by his side. In vain he told himself
that the idea was a delusion--it persisted. Someone was walking beside
him down that dark, quiet street, someone whom he could not see. He
wondered what it was that brought the figure of Mr. Quin so clearly
before his mind. He felt exactly as though Mr. Quin were there walking
beside him, and yet he had only to use his eyes to assure himself that
it was not so, that he was alone.
But the thought of Mr. Quin persisted, and with it came something else,
a need, an urgency of some kind, an oppressive foreboding of calamity.
There was something he must do--and do quickly. There was something
very wrong, and it lay in his hands to put it right.
So strong was the feeling that Mr. Satterthwaite forebore to fight
against it. Instead, he shut his eyes and tried to bring that mental
image of Mr. Quin nearer. If he could only have asked Mr. Quin--but
even as the thought flashed through his mind he knew it was wrong. It
was never any use asking Mr. Quin anything. "The threads are all in
your hands"--that was the kind of thing Mr. Quin would say.
The threads. Threads of what? He analyzed his own feeling and
impressions carefully. That presentiment of danger, now. Whom did it
threaten?
At once a picture rose up before his eyes, the picture of Gillian West
sitting alone listening to the wireless.
Mr. Satterthwaite flung a penny to a passing newspaper boy, and
snatched at a paper. He turned at once to the London Radio program.
Yoaschbim was broadcasting tonight, he noted with interest. He was
singing "Salve Dimora" from _Faust_ and afterward a selection of his
folk songs: "The Shepherd's Song," "The Fish," "The Little Deer," etc.
Mr. Satterthwaite crumpled the paper together. The knowledge of what
Gillian was listening to seemed to make the picture of her clearer.
Sitting there alone--
An odd request, that, of Philip Eastney's. Not like the man, not like
him at all. There was no sentimentality in Eastney. He was a man of
violent feeling, a dangerous man, perhaps--
Again his thoughts brought up with a jerk. _A dangerous man_--that
meant something. "_The threads are all in your hands._" That meeting
with Philip Eastney tonight--rather odd. A lucky chance, Eastney had
said. Was it chance? Or was it part of that interwoven design of which
Mr. Satterthwaite had once or twice been conscious this evening?
He cast his mind back. There must be _something_ in Eastney's
conversation, some clue there. There must, or else why this strange
feeling of urgency? What had he talked about? Singing, war work, Caruso.
Caruso--Mr. Satterthwaite's thoughts went off at a tangent. Yoaschbim's
voice was very nearly equal to that of Caruso. Gillian would be sitting
listening to it now as it rang out true and powerful, echoing round the
room, setting glasses ringing--
He caught his breath. Glasses ringing! Caruso, singing to a wine glass
and the wine glass breaking. Yoaschbim singing in the London studio and
in a room over a mile away the crash and tinkle of glass--not a wine
glass, a thin, green, glass beaker. A crystal soap bubble falling, a
soap bubble that perhaps was not empty--
It was at that moment that Mr. Satterthwaite as judged by passers-by
suddenly went mad. He tore open the newspaper once more, took a brief
glance at the wireless announcements, and then began to run for his
life down the quiet street. At the end of it he found a crawling taxi
and, jumping into it, he yelled an address to the driver and the
information that it was life or death to get there quickly. The driver,
judging him mentally afflicted but rich, did his utmost.
Mr. Satterthwaite lay back, his head a jumble of fragmentary thoughts,
forgotten bits of science learned at school, phrases used by Eastney
that night. Resonance--natural periods--if the period of the force
coincides with the natural period--there was something about a
suspension bridge, soldiers marching over it, and the swing of their
stride being the same as the period of the bridge. Eastney had studied
the subject. Eastney knew. And Eastney was a genius.
At 10:45 Yoaschbim was to broadcast. It was that now. Yes, but the
_Faust_ had to come first. It was "The Shepherd's Song," with the great
shout after the refrain, that would--that would--do what?
His mind went whirling around again. Tones, over-tones, half-tones. He
didn't know much about these things--but Eastney knew. Pray heaven he
would be in time!
The taxi stopped. Mr. Satterthwaite flung himself out and raced up the
stone stairs to a second floor like a young athlete. The door of the
flat was ajar. He pushed it open and the great tenor voice welcomed
him. The words of "The Shepherd's Song" were familiar to him in a less
unconventional setting.
"_Shepherd, see thy horse's flowing mane_--"
He was in time then. He burst open the sitting-room door. Gillian was
sitting there in a tall chair by the fireplace.
"_Barya Mischa's daughter is to wed today:
To the wedding I must haste away._"
She must have thought him mad. He clutched at her, crying out something
incomprehensible, and half pulled, half dragged her out till they stood
upon the stairway.
"_To the wedding I must haste away--
Ya-ha!_"
A wonderful high note, full-throated, powerful, hit full in the middle,
a note any singer might be proud of. And with it another sound, the
faint tinkle of broken glass.
A stray cat darted past them and in through the flat door. Gillian made
a movement, but Mr. Satterthwaite held her back, speaking incoherently.
"No, no--it's deadly; no smell, nothing to warn you. A mere whiff, and
it's all over. Nobody knows quite how deadly it would be. It's unlike
anything that's ever been tried before."
He was repeating the things that Philip Eastney had told him over the
table at dinner.
Gillian stared at him uncomprehendingly.
Philip Eastney drew out his watch and looked at it. It was just
half-past eleven. For the last three quarters of an hour he had been
pacing up and down the Embankment. He looked out over the Thames and
then turned--to look into the face of his dinner companion.
"That's odd," he said, and laughed. "We seem fated to run into each
other tonight."
"If you call it Fate," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
Philip Eastney looked at him more attentively and his own expression
changed.
"Yes?" he said quietly.
Mr. Satterthwaite went straight to the point. "I have just come from
Miss West's flat."
"Yes?"
The same voice, with the same deadly quiet.
"We have--taken a dead cat out of it."