The Mysterious Mr Quin (10 page)

It flowed through him again and again–that increasing certitude. She was a creature desperate and driven. She would be merciless to him or to anyone who stood
between her and Franklin Rudge. But he still felt he hadn’t got the hang of the situation. Clearly she had plenty of money. She was always beautifully dressed, and her jewels were marvellous. There could be no real urgency of that kind. Was it love? Women of her age did, he well knew, fall in love with boys. It might be that. There was, he felt sure, something out of the common about the situation.

Her
tête-à-tête
with him was, he recognized, a throwing down of the gauntlet. She had singled him out as her chief enemy. He felt sure that she hoped to goad him into speaking slightingly of her to Franklin Rudge. Mr Satterthwaite smiled to himself. He was too old a bird for that. He knew when it was wise to hold one’s tongue.

He watched her that night in the Cercle Privé, as she tried her fortunes at roulette.

Again and again she staked, only to see her stake swept away. She bore her losses well, with the stoical
sang froid
of the old
habitué
. She staked
en plein
once or twice, put the maximum on red, won a little on the middle dozen and then lost it again, finally she backed
manque
six times and lost every time. Then with a little graceful shrug of the shoulders she turned away.

She was looking unusually striking in a dress of gold tissue with an underlying note of green. The famous
Bosnian pearls were looped round her neck and long pearl ear-rings hung from her ears.

Mr Satterthwaite heard two men near him appraise her.

‘The Czarnova,’ said one, ‘she wears well, does she not? The Crown jewels of Bosnia look fine on her.’

The other, a small Jewish-looking man, stared curiously after her.

‘So those are the pearls of Bosnia, are they?’ he asked. ‘
En vérité
. That is odd.’

He chuckled softly to himself.

Mr Satterthwaite missed hearing more, for at the moment he turned his head and was overjoyed to recognize an old friend.

‘My dear Mr Quin.’ He shook him warmly by the hand. ‘The last place I should ever have dreamed of seeing you.’

Mr Quin smiled, his dark attractive face lighting up.

‘It should not surprise you,’ he said. ‘It is Carnival time. I am often here in Carnival time.’

‘Really? Well, this is a great pleasure. Are you anxious to remain in the rooms? I find them rather warm.’

‘It will be pleasanter outside,’ agreed the other. ‘We will walk in the gardens.’

The air outside was sharp, but not chill. Both men drew deep breaths.

‘That is better,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.

‘Much better,’ agreed Mr Quin. ‘And we can talk freely. I am sure that there is much that you want to tell me.’

‘There is indeed.’

Speaking eagerly, Mr Satterthwaite unfolded his perplexities. As usual he took pride in his power of conveying atmosphere. The Countess, young Franklin, uncompromising Elizabeth–he sketched them all in with a deft touch.

‘You have changed since I first knew you,’ said Mr Quin, smiling, when the recital was over.

‘In what way?’

‘You were content then to look on at the drama that life offered. Now–you want to take part–to act.’

‘It is true,’ confessed Mr Satterthwaite. ‘But in this case I do not know what to do. It is all very perplexing. Perhaps–’ He hesitated. ‘Perhaps you will help me?’

‘With pleasure,’ said Mr Quin. ‘We will see what we can do.’

Mr Satterthwaite had an odd sense of comfort and reliance.

The following day he introduced Franklin Rudge and Elizabeth Martin to his friend Mr Harley Quin. He was pleased to see that they got on together. The Countess was not mentioned, but at lunch time he heard news that aroused his attention.

‘Mirabelle is arriving in Monte this evening,’ he confided excitedly to Mr Quin.

‘The Parisian stage favourite?’

‘Yes. I daresay you know–it’s common property–she is the King of Bosnia’s latest craze. He has showered jewels on her, I believe. They say she is the most exacting and extravagant woman in Paris.’

‘It should be interesting to see her and the Countess Czarnova meet tonight.’

‘Exactly what I thought.’

Mirabelle was a tall, thin creature with a wonderful head of dyed fair hair. Her complexion was a pale mauve with orange lips. She was amazingly chic. She was dressed in something that looked like a glorified bird of paradise, and she wore chains of jewels hanging down her bare back. A heavy bracelet set with immense diamonds clasped her left ankle.

She created a sensation when she appeared in the Casino.

‘Your friend the Countess will have a difficulty in outdoing this,’ murmured Mr Quin in Mr Satterthwaite’s ear.

The latter nodded. He was curious to see how the Countess comported herself.

She came late, and a low murmur ran round as she walked unconcernedly to one of the centre roulette tables.

She was dressed in white–a mere straight slip of marocain such as a débutante might have worn and her gleaming white neck and arms were unadorned. She wore not a single jewel.

‘It is clever, that,’ said Mr Satterthwaite with instant approval. ‘She disdains rivalry and turns the tables on her adversary.’

He himself walked over and stood by the table. From time to time he amused himself by placing a stake. Sometimes he won, more often he lost.

There was a terrific run on the last dozen. The numbers 31 and 34 turned up again and again. Stakes flocked to the bottom of the cloth.

With a smile Mr Satterthwaite made his last stake for the evening, and placed the maximum on Number 5.

The Countess in her turn leant forward and placed the maximum on Number 6.

‘
Faites vos jeux,
’ called the croupier hoarsely. ‘
Rien ne va plus. Plus rien.
’

The ball span, humming merrily. Mr Satterthwaite thought to himself: ‘
This means something different to each of us. Agonies of hope and despair, boredom, idle amusement, life and death.
’

Click!

The croupier bent forward to see.

‘
Numéro cinque, rouge, impair et manque.
’

Mr Satterthwaite had won!

The croupier, having raked in the other stakes, pushed forward Mr Satterthwaite’s winnings. He put out his hand to take them. The Countess did the same. The croupier looked from one to the other of them.

‘
A madame
,’ he said brusquely.

The Countess picked up the money. Mr Satterthwaite drew back. He remained a gentleman. The Countess looked him full in the face and he returned her glance. One or two of the people round pointed out to the croupier that he had made a mistake, but the man shook his head impatiently. He had decided. That was the end. He raised his raucous cry:

‘
Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames.
’

Mr Satterthwaite rejoined Mr Quin. Beneath his impeccable demeanour, he was feeling extremely indignant. Mr Quin listened sympathetically.

‘Too bad,’ he said, ‘but these things happen.’

‘We are to meet your friend Franklin Rudge later. I am giving a little supper party.’

The three met at midnight, and Mr Quin explained his plan.

‘It is what is called a “Hedges and Highways” party,’ he explained. ‘We choose our meeting place, then each one goes out and is bound in honour to invite the first person he meets.’

Franklin Rudge was amused by the idea.

‘Say, what happens if they won’t accept?’

‘You must use your utmost powers of persuasion.’

‘Good. And where’s the meeting place?’

‘A somewhat Bohemian café–where one can take strange guests. It is called Le Caveau.’

He explained its whereabouts, and the three parted. Mr Satterthwaite was so fortunate as to run straight into Elizabeth Martin and he claimed her joyfully. They reached Le Caveau and descended into a kind of cellar where they found a table spread for supper and lit by old-fashioned candles in candlesticks.

‘We are the first,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Ah! here comes Franklin–’

He stopped abruptly. With Franklin was the Countess. It was an awkward moment. Elizabeth displayed less graciousness than she might have done. The Countess, as a woman of the world, retained the honours.

Last of all came Mr Quin. With him was a small, dark man, neatly dressed, whose face seemed familiar to Mr Satterthwaite. A moment later he recognized him. It was the croupier who earlier in the evening had made such a lamentable mistake.

‘Let me introduce you to the company, M. Pierre Vaucher,’ said Mr Quin.

The little man seemed confused. Mr Quin performed the necessary introductions easily and lightly. Supper was brought–an excellent supper. Wine came
–very excellent wine. Some of the frigidity went out of the atmosphere. The Countess was very silent, so was Elizabeth. Franklin Rudge became talkative. He told various stories–not humorous stories, but serious ones. And quietly and assiduously Mr Quin passed round the wine.

‘I’ll tell you–and this is a true story–about a man who made good,’ said Franklin Rudge impressively.

For one coming from a Prohibition country he had shown no lack of appreciation of champagne.

He told his story–perhaps at somewhat unnecessary length. It was, like many true stories, greatly inferior to fiction.

As he uttered the last word, Pierre Vaucher, opposite him, seemed to wake up. He also had done justice to the champagne. He leaned forward across the table.

‘I, too, will tell you a story,’ he said thickly. ‘But mine is the story of a man who did not make good. It is the story of a man who went, not up, but down the hill. And, like yours, it is a true story.’

‘Pray tell it to us, monsieur,’ said Mr Satterthwaite courteously.

Pierre Vaucher leant back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.

‘It is in Paris that the story begins. There was a man there, a working jeweller. He was young and light-hearted and industrious in his profession. They
said there was a future before him. A good marriage was already arranged for him, the bride not too bad-looking, the dowry most satisfactory. And then, what do you think? One morning he sees a girl. Such a miserable little wisp of a girl, messieurs. Beautiful? Yes, perhaps, if she were not half starved. But anyway, for this young man, she has a magic that he cannot resist. She has been struggling to find work, she is virtuous–or at least that is what she tells him. I do not know if it is true.’

The Countess’s voice came suddenly out of the semi-darkness.

‘Why should it not be true? There are many like that.’

‘Well, as I say, the young man believed her. And he married her–an act of folly! His family would have no more to say to him. He had outraged their feelings. He married–I will call her Jeanne–it was a good action. He told her so. He felt that she should be very grateful to him. He had sacrificed much for her sake.’

‘A charming beginning for the poor girl,’ observed the Countess sarcastically.

‘He loved her, yes, but from the beginning she maddened him. She had moods–tantrums–she would be cold to him one day, passionate the next. At last he saw the truth. She had never loved him. She had married him so as to keep body and soul together.
That truth hurt him, it hurt him horribly, but he tried his utmost to let nothing appear on the surface. And he still felt he deserved gratitude and obedience to his wishes. They quarrelled. She reproached him–Mon Dieu, what did she not reproach him with?

‘You can see the next step, can you not? The thing that was bound to come. She left him. For two years he was alone, working in his little shop with no news of her. He had one friend–absinthe. The business did not prosper so well.

‘And then one day he came into the shop to find her sitting there. She was beautifully dressed. She had rings on her hands. He stood considering her. His heart was beating–but beating! He was at a loss what to do. He would have liked to have beaten her, to have clasped her in his arms, to have thrown her down on the floor and trampled on her, to have thrown himself at her feet. He did none of those things. He took up his pincers and went on with his work. “Madame desires?” he asked formally.

‘That upset her. She did not look for that, see you. “Pierre,” she said, “I have come back.” He laid aside his pincers and looked at her. “You wish to be forgiven?” he said. “You want me to take you back? You are sincerely repentant?” “Do you want me back?” she murmured. Oh! very softly she said it.

‘He knew she was laying a trap for him. He longed
to seize her in his arms, but he was too clever for that. He pretended indifference.

‘“I am a Christian man,” he said. “I try to do what the Church directs.” “Ah!” he thought, “I will humble her, humble her to her knees.”

‘But Jeanne, that is what I will call her, flung back her head and laughed. Evil laughter it was. “I mock myself at you, little Pierre,” she said. “Look at these rich clothes, these rings and bracelets. I came to show myself to you. I thought I would make you take me in your arms and when you did so, then–
then
I would spit in your face and tell you how I hated you!”

‘And on that she went out of the shop. Can you believe, messieurs, that a woman could be as evil as all that–to come back only to torment me?’

‘No,’ said the Countess. ‘I would not believe it, and any man who was not a fool would not believe it either. But all men are blind fools.’

Pierre Vaucher took no notice of her. He went on.

‘And so that young man of whom I tell you sank lower and lower. He drank more absinthe. The little shop was sold over his head. He became of the dregs, of the gutter. Then came the war. Ah! it was good, the war. It took that man out of the gutter and taught him to be a brute beast no longer. It drilled him–and sobered him. He endured cold and pain and the fear of death
–but he did not die and when the war ended, he was a man again.

‘It was then, messieurs, that he came South. His lungs had been affected by the gas, they said he must find work in the South. I will not weary you with all the things he did. Suffice it to say that he ended up as a croupier, and there–there in the Casino one evening, he saw her again–the woman who had ruined his life. She did not recognize him, but he recognized her. She appeared to be rich and to lack for nothing–but messieurs, the eyes of a croupier are sharp. There came an evening when she placed her last stake in the world on the table. Ask me not how I know–I do know–one feels these things. Others might not believe. She still had rich clothes–why not pawn them, one would say? But to do that–pah! your credit is gone at once. Her jewels? Ah no! Was I not a jeweller in my time? Long ago the real jewels have gone. The pearls of a King are sold one by one, are replaced with false. And meantime one must eat and pay one’s hotel bill. Yes, and the rich men–well, they have seen one about for many years. Bah! they say–she is over fifty. A younger chicken for my money.’