The Mysterious Mr. Quin Page 11

  Well, at any rate he had done something for somebody. This island depressed him–why, oh! why had he deserted the Riviera which he knew so well and where he was so well known? Nobody here took any interest in him. Nobody seemed to realize that here was the Mr Satterthwaite–the friend of Duchesses and Countesses and singers and writers. No one in the island was of any social importance or of any artistic importance either. Most people had been there seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years running and valued themselves and were valued accordingly.

  With a deep sigh Mr Satterthwaite proceeded down from the Hotel to the small straggling harbour below. His way lay between an avenue of bougainvillaea–a vivid mass of flaunting scarlet, that made him feel older and greyer than ever.

  ‘I’m getting old,’ he murmured. ‘I’m getting old and tired.’

  He was glad when he had passed the bougainvillaea and was walking down the white street with the blue sea at the end of it. A disreputable dog was standing in the middle of the road, yawning and stretching himself in the sun. Having prolonged his stretch to the utmost limits of ecstasy, he sat down and treated himself to a really good scratch. He then rose, shook himself, and looked round for any other good things that life might have to offer.

  There was a dump of rubbish by the side of the road and to this he went sniffing in pleasurable anticipation. True enough, his nose had not deceived him! A smell of such rich putrescence that surpassed even his anticipations! He sniffed with growing appreciation, then suddenly abandoning himself, he lay on his back and rolled frenziedly on the delicious dump. Clearly the world this morning was a dog paradise!

  Tiring at last, he regained his feet and strolled out once more into the middle of the road. And then, without the least warning, a ramshackle car careered wildly round the corner, caught him full square and passed on unheeding.

  The dog rose to his feet, stood a minute regarding Mr Satterthwaite, a vague dumb reproach in his eyes, then fell over. Mr Satterthwaite went up to him and bent down. The dog was dead. He went on his way, wondering at the sadness and cruelty of life. What a queer dumb look of reproach had been in the dog’s eyes. ‘Oh! World,’ they seemed to say. ‘Oh! Wonderful World in which I have trusted. Why have you done this to me?’

  Mr Satterthwaite went on, past the palm trees and the straggling white houses, past the black lava beach where the surf thundered and where once, long ago, a well-known English swimmer had been carried out to sea and drowned, past the rock pools were children and elderly ladies bobbed up and down and called it bathing, along the steep road that winds upwards to the top of the cliff. For there on the edge of the cliff was a house, appropriately named La Paz. A white house with faded green shutters tightly closed, a tangled beautiful garden, and a walk between cypress trees that led to a plateau on the edge of the cliff where you looked down–down–down–to the deep blue sea below.

  It was to this spot that Mr Satterthwaite was bound. He had developed a great love for the garden of La Paz. He had never entered the villa. It seemed always to be empty. Manuel, the Spanish gardener, wished one good-morning with a flourish and gallantly presented ladies with a bouquet and gentlemen with a single flower as a buttonhole, his dark face wreathed in smiles.

  Sometimes Mr Satterthwaite made up stories in his own mind about the owner of the villa. His favourite was a Spanish dancer, once world-famed for her beauty, who hid herself here so that the world should never know that she was no longer beautiful.

  He pictured her coming out of the house at dusk and walking through the garden. Sometimes he was tempted to ask Manuel for the truth, but he resisted the temptation. He preferred his fancies.

  After exchanging a few words with Manuel and graciously accepting an orange rosebud, Mr Satterthwaite passed on down the cypress walk to the sea. It was rather wonderful sitting there–on the edge of nothing–with that sheer drop below one. It made him think of Tristan and Isolde, of the beginning of the third act with Tristan and Kurwenal–that lonely waiting and of Isolde rushing up from the sea and Tristan dying in her arms. (No, little Olga would never make an Isolde. Isolde of Cornwall, that Royal hater and Royal lover…) He shivered. He felt old, chilly, alone…What had he had out of life? Nothing–nothing. Not as much as that dog in the street…

  It was an unexpected sound that roused him from his reverie. Footsteps coming along the cypress walk were inaudible, the first he knew of somebody’s presence was the English monosyllable ‘Damn.’

  He looked round to find a young man staring at him in obvious surprise and disappointment. Mr Satterthwaite recognized him at once as an arrival of the day before who had more or less intrigued him. Mr Satterthwaite called him a young man–because in comparison to most of the die-hards in the Hotel he was a young man, but he would certainly never see forty again and was probably drawing appreciably near to his half century. Yet in spite of that, the term young man fitted him–Mr Satterthwaite was usually right about such things–there was an impression of immaturity about him. As there is a touch of puppyhood about many a full grown dog so it was with the stranger.

  Mr Satterthwaite thought: ‘This chap has really never grown up–not properly, that is.’

  And yet there was nothing Peter Pannish about him. He was sleek–almost plump, he had the air of one who has always done himself exceedingly well in the material sense and denied himself no pleasure or satisfaction. He had brown eyes–rather round–fair hair turning grey–a little moustache and rather florid face.

  The thing that puzzled Mr Satterthwaite was what had brought him to the island. He could imagine him shooting things, hunting things, playing polo or golf or tennis, making love to pretty women. But in the Island there was nothing to hunt or shoot, no games except Golf-Croquet, and the nearest approach to a pretty woman was represented by elderly Miss Baba Kindersley. There were, of course, artists, to whom the beauty of the scenery made appeal, but Mr Satterthwaite was quite certain that the young man was not an artist. He was clearly marked with the stamp of the Philistine.

  While he was resolving these things in his mind, the other spoke, realizing somewhat belatedly that his single ejaculation so far might be open to criticism.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said with some embarrassment. ‘As a matter of fact, I was–well, startled. I didn’t expect anyone to be here.’

  He smiled disarmingly. He had a charming smile–friendly–appealing.

  ‘It is rather a lonely spot,’ agreed Mr Satterthwaite, as he moved politely a little further up the bench. The other accepted the mute invitation and sat down.

  ‘I don’t know about lonely,’ he said. ‘There always seems to be someone here.’

  There was a tinge of latent resentment in his voice. Mr Satterthwaite wondered why. He read the other as a friendly soul. Why this insistence on solitude? A rendezvous, perhaps? No–not that. He looked again with carefully veiled scrutiny at his companion. Where had he seen that particular expression before quite lately? That look of dumb bewildered resentment.

  ‘You’ve been up here before then?’ said Mr Satterthwaite, more for the sake of saying something than for anything else.

  ‘I was up here last night–after dinner.’

  ‘Really? I thought the gates were always locked.’

  There was a moment’s pause and then, almost sullenly, the young man said:

  ‘I climbed over the wall.’

  Mr Satterthwaite looked at him with real attention now. He had a sleuthlike habit of mind and he was aware that his companion had only arrived on the preceding afternoon. He had had little time to discover the beauty of the villa by daylight and he had so far spoken to nobody. Yet after dark he had made straight for La Paz. Why? Almost involuntarily Mr Satterthwaite turned his head to look at the green-shuttered villa, but it was as ever serenely lifeless, close shuttered. No, the solution of the mystery was not there.

  ‘And you actually found someone here then?’

  The other nodded.

  ‘Yes. Must have been from the other Ho
tel. He had on fancy dress.’

  ‘Fancy dress?’

  ‘Yes. A kind of Harlequin rig.’

  ‘What?’

  The query fairly burst from Mr Satterthwaite’s lips. His companion turned to stare at him in surprise.

  ‘They often do have fancy dress shows at the Hotels, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh! quite,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Quite, quite, quite.’

  He paused breathlessly, then added:

  ‘You must excuse my excitement. Do you happen to know anything about catalysis?’

  The young man stared at him.

  ‘Never heard of it. What is it?’

  Mr Satterthwaite quoted gravely: ‘A chemical reaction depending for its success on the presence of a certain substance which itself remains unchanged.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the young man uncertainly.

  ‘I have a certain friend–his name is Mr Quin, and he can best be described in the terms of catalysis. His presence is a sign that things are going to happen, because when he is there strange revelations come to light, discoveries are made. And yet–he himself takes no part in the proceedings. I have a feeling that it was my friend you met here last night.’

  ‘He’s a very sudden sort of chap then. He gave me quite a shock. One minute he wasn’t there and the next minute he was! Almost as though he came up out of the sea.’

  Mr Satterthwaite looked along the little plateau and down the sheer drop below.

  ‘That’s nonsense, of course,’ said the other. ‘But it’s the feeling he gave me. Of course, really, there isn’t the foothold for a fly.’ He looked over the edge. ‘A straight clear drop. If you went over–well, that would be the end right enough.’

  ‘An ideal spot for a murder, in fact,’ said Mr Satterthwaite pleasantly.

  The other stared at him, almost as though for the moment he did not follow. Then he said vaguely: ‘Oh! yes–of course…’

  He sat there, making little dabs at the ground with his stick and frowning. Suddenly Mr Satterthwaite got the resemblance he had been seeking. That dumb bewildered questioning. So had the dog looked who was run over. His eyes and this young man’s eyes asked the same pathetic question with the same reproach. ‘Oh! world that I have trusted–what have you done to me?’

  He saw other points of resemblance between the two, the same pleasure-loving easy-going existence, the same joyous abandon to the delights of life, the same absence of intellectual questioning. Enough for both to live in the moment–the world was a good place, a place of carnal delights–sun, sea, sky–a discreet garbage heap. And then–what? A car had hit the dog. What had hit the man?

  The subject of these cogitations broke in at this point, speaking, however, more to himself than to Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘One wonders,’ he said, ‘what it’s All For?’

  Familiar words–words that usually brought a smile to Mr Satterthwaite’s lips, with their unconscious betrayal of the innate egoism of humanity which insists on regarding every manifestation of life as directly designed for its delight or its torment. He did not answer and presently the stranger said with a slight, rather apologetic laugh:

  ‘I’ve heard it said that every man should build a house, plant a tree and have a son.’ He paused and then added: ‘I believe I planted an acorn once…’

  Mr Satterthwaite stirred slightly. His curiosity was aroused–that ever-present interest in the affairs of other people of which the Duchess had accused him was roused. It was not difficult. Mr Satterthwaite had a very feminine side to his nature, he was as good a listener as any woman, and he knew the right moment to put in a prompting word. Presently he was hearing the whole story.

  Anthony Cosden, that was the stranger’s name, and his life had been much as Mr Satterthwaite had imagined it. He was a bad hand at telling a story but his listener supplied the gaps easily enough. A very ordinary life–an average income, a little soldiering, a good deal of sport whenever sport offered, plenty of friends, plenty of pleasant things to do, a sufficiency of women. The kind of life that practically inhibits thought of any description and substitutes sensation. To speak frankly, an animal’s life. ‘But there are worse things than that,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite from the depths of his experience. ‘Oh! many worse things than that…’ This world had seemed a very good place to Anthony Cosden. He had grumbled because everyone always grumbled but it had never been a serious grumble. And then–this.

  He came to it at last–rather vaguely and incoherently. Hadn’t felt quite the thing–nothing much. Saw his doctor, and the doctor had persuaded him to go to a Harley Street man. And then–the incredible truth. They’d tried to hedge about it–spoke of great care–a quiet life, but they hadn’t been able to disguise that that was all eyewash–letting him down lightly. It boiled down to this–six months. That’s what they gave him. Six months.

  He turned those bewildered brown eyes on Mr Satterthwaite. It was, of course, rather a shock to a fellow. One didn’t–one didn’t somehow, know what do do.

  Mr Satterthwaite nodded gravely and understandingly.

  It was a bit difficult to take in all at once, Anthony Cosden went on. How to put in the time. Rather a rotten business waiting about to get pipped. He didn’t feel really ill–not yet. Though that might come later, so the specialist had said–in fact, it was bound to. It seemed such nonsense to be going to die when one didn’t in the least want to. The best thing, he had thought, would be to carry on as usual. But somehow that hadn’t worked.

  Here Mr Satterthwaite interrupted him. Wasn’t there, he hinted delicately, any woman?

  But apparently there wasn’t. There were women, of course, but not that kind. His crowd was a very cheery crowd. They didn’t, so he implied, like corpses. He didn’t wish to make a kind of walking funeral of himself. It would have been embarrassing for everybody. So he had come abroad.

  ‘You came to see these islands? But why?’ Mr Satterthwaite was hunting for something, something intangible but delicate that eluded him and yet which he was sure was there. ‘You’ve been here before, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes.’ He admitted it almost unwillingly. ‘Years ago when I was a youngster.’

  And suddenly, almost unconsciously so it seemed, he shot a quick glance backward over his shoulder in the direction of the villa.

  ‘I remembered this place,’ he said, nodding at the sea. ‘One step to eternity!’

  ‘And that is why you came up here last night,’ finished Mr Satterthwaite calmly.

  Anthony Cosden shot him a dismayed glance.

  ‘Oh! I say–really–’ he protested.

  ‘Last night you found someone here. This afternoon you have found me. Your life has been saved–twice.’

  ‘You may put it that way if you like–but damn it all, it’s my life. I’ve a right to do what I like with it.’

  ‘That is a cliché,’ said Mr Satterthwaite wearily.

  ‘Of course I see your point, said Anthony Cosden generously. ‘Naturally you’ve got to say what you can. I’d try to dissuade a fellow myself, even though I knew deep down that he was right. And you know that I’m right. A clean quick end is better than a lingering one–causing trouble and expense and bother to all. In any case it’s not as though I had anyone in the world belonging to me…’

  ‘If you had–?’ said Mr Satterthwaite sharply.

  Cosden drew a deep breath.

  ‘I don’t know. Even then, I think, this way would be best. But anyway–I haven’t…’

  He stopped abruptly. Mr Satterthwaite eyed him curiously. Incurably romantic, he suggested again that there was, somewhere, some woman. But Cosden negatived it. He oughtn’t, he said, to complain. He had had, on the whole, a very good life. It was a pity it was going to be over so soon, that was all. But at any rate he had had, he supposed, everything worth having. Except a son. He would have liked a son. He would like to know now that he had a son living after him. Still, he reiterated the fact, he had had a very good life–

  It was at this p
oint that Mr Satterthwaite lost patience. Nobody, he pointed out, who was still in the larval stage, could claim to know anything of life at all. Since the words larval stage clearly meant nothing at all to Cosden, he proceeded to make his meaning clearer.

  ‘You have not begun to live yet. You are still at the beginning of life.’

  Cosden laughed.

  ‘Why, my hair’s grey. I’m forty–’

  Mr Satterthwaite interrupted him.

  ‘That has nothing to do with it. Life is a compound of physical and mental experiences. I, for instance, am sixty-nine, and I am really sixty-nine. I have known, either at first or second hand, nearly all the experiences life has to offer. You are like a man who talks of a full year and has seen nothing but snow and ice! The flowers of Spring, the languorous days of Summer, the falling leaves of Autumn–he knows nothing of them–not even that there are such things. And you are going to turn your back on even this opportunity of knowing them.’

  ‘You seem to forget,’ said Anthony Cosden dryly, ‘that, in any case, I have only six months.’

  ‘Time, like everything else, is relative,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘That six months might be the longest and most varied experience of your whole life.’

  Cosden looked unconvinced.

  ‘In my place,’ he said, ‘you would do the same.’

  Mr Satterthwaite shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘In the first place, I doubt if I should have the courage. It needs courage and I am not at all a brave individual. And in the second place–’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I always want to know what is going to happen tomorrow.’

  Cosden rose suddenly with a laugh.

  ‘Well, sir, you’ve been very good in letting me talk to you. I hardly know why–anyway, there it is. I’ve said a lot too much. Forget it.’

  ‘And tomorrow, when an accident is reported, I am to leave it at that? To make no suggestion of suicide?’

  ‘That’s as you like. I’m glad you realize one thing–that you can’t prevent me.’