Free The Mysterious Mr Quin by Agatha Christie

yet not a wife. She is not free–she cannot marry again. And look at it as we will, we see Richard Harwell as a sinister figure, a man from nowhere with a mysterious past.’
    ‘I agree,’ said Mr Quin. ‘You see what all are bound to see, what cannot be missed, Captain Harwell in the limelight, a suspicious figure.’
    Mr Satterthwaite looked at him doubtfully. The words seemed somehow to suggest a faintly different picture to his mind.
    ‘We have studied the effect,’ he said. ‘Or call it the result . We can now pass–’
    Mr Quin interrupted him.
    ‘You have not touched on the result on the strictly material side.’
    ‘You are right,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, after a moment or two for consideration. ‘One should do the thing thoroughly. Let us say then that the result of the tragedy is that Mrs Harwell is a wife and not a wife, unable to marry again, that Mr Cyrus Bradburn hasbeen able to buy Ashley Grange and its contents for–sixty thousand pounds, was it?–and that somebody in Essex has been able to secure John Mathias as a gardener! For all that we do not suspect “somebody in Essex” or Mr Cyrus Bradburn of having engineered the disappearance of Captain Harwell.’
    ‘You are sarcastic,’ said Mr Quin.
    Mr Satterthwaite looked sharply at him.
    ‘But surely you agree–?’
    ‘Oh! I agree,’ said Mr Quin. ‘The idea is absurd. What next?’
    ‘Let us imagine ourselves back on the fatal day. The disappearance has taken place, let us say, this very morning.’
    ‘No, no,’ said Mr Quin, smiling. ‘Since, in our imagination, at least, we have power over time, let us turn it the other way. Let us say the disappearance of Captain Harwell took place a hundred years ago. That we, in the year two thousand twenty-five are looking back.’
    ‘You are a strange man,’ said Mr Satterthwaite slowly. ‘You believe in the past, not the present. Why?’
    ‘You used, not long ago, the word atmosphere. There is no atmosphere in the present.’
    ‘That is true, perhaps,’ said Mr Satterthwaite thoughtfully. ‘Yes, it is true. The present is apt to be–parochial.’
    ‘A good word,’ said Mr Quin.
    Mr Satterthwaite gave a funny little bow.
    ‘You are too kind,’ he said.
    ‘Let us take–not this present year, that would be too difficult, but say–last year,’ continued the other. ‘Sum it up for me, you who have the gift of the neat phrase.’
    Mr Satterthwaite thought for a minute. He was jealous of his reputation.
    ‘A hundred years ago we have the age of powder and patches,’ he said. ‘Shall we say that 1924 was the age of Crossword Puzzles and Cat Burglars?’
    ‘Very good,’ approved Mr Quin. ‘You mean that nationally, not internationally, I presume?’
    ‘As to Crossword Puzzles, I must confess that I do not know,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘But the Cat Burglar had a great innings on the Continent. You remember that series of famous thefts from French châteaux? It is surmised that one man alone could not have done it. The most miraculous feats were performed to gain admission. There was a theory that a troupe of acrobats were concerned–the Clondinis. I once saw their performance–truly masterly. A mother, son and daughter. They vanished from the stage in a rather mysterious fashion. But we are wandering from our subject.’
    ‘Not very far,’ said Mr Quin. ‘Only across the Channel.’
    ‘Where the French ladies will not wet their toes, according to our worthy host,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, laughing.
    There was a pause. It seemed somehow significant.
    ‘Why did he disappear?’ cried Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Why? Why? It is incredible, a kind of conjuring trick.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Mr Quin. ‘A conjuring trick. That describes it exactly. Atmosphere again, you see. And wherein does the essence of a conjuring trick lie?’
    ‘The quickness of the hand deceives the eye,’ quoted Mr Satterthwaite glibly.
    ‘That is everything, is it not? To deceive the eye? Sometimes by the