The Complete Quin and Satterthwaite. Agatha Christie
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