“Nonsense,” he said. “She said herself it was the smoke of the train.”
“An up train or a down train, I wonder?” murmured Mr. Quin.
“Hardly an up train. They go at ten minutes to the hour. It must have been a down train — the 6.28 — no, that won’t do. She said the shot came immediately afterwards, and we know the shot was fired at twenty minutes past six. The train couldn’t have been ten minutes early.”
“Hardly, on that line,” agreed Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite was staring ahead of him.
“Perhaps a goods train,” he murmured. “But surely, if so—”
“There would have been no need to get her out of England. I agree,” said Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite gazed at him, fascinated.
“The 6.28,” he said slowly. “But if so, if the shot was fired then, why did every one say it was earlier?”
“Obvious,” said Mr. Quin. “The clocks must have been wrong.”
“All of them?” said Mr. Satterthwaite doubtfully. “That’s a pretty tall coincidence, you know.”
“I wasn’t thinking of it as a coincidence,” said the other. “I was thinking that it was Friday.”
“Friday?” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“You did tell me, you know, that Sir George always wound the clocks on a Friday afternoon,” said Mr. Quin apologetically.
“He put them back ten minutes,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, almost in a whisper, so awed was he by the discoveries he was making. “Then he went out to bridge. I think he must have opened the note from his wife to Martin Wylde that morning — yes, decidedly he opened it. He left his bridge party at 6.30, found Martin’s gun standing by the side door, and went in and shot her from behind. Then he went out again, threw the gun in the bushes where it was found later, and was apparently just coming out of the neighbour’s gate when some one came running to fetch him. But the telephone — what about the telephone? Ah! yes, I see. He disconnected it so that a summons could not be sent to the police that way — they might have noted the time it was received. And Wylde’s story works out now. The real time he left was five and twenty minutes past six. Walking slowly, he would reach home about a quarter to seven. Yes, I see it all. Louisa was the only danger with her endless talk about her superstitious fancies. Some one might realise the significance of the train and then — good-bye to that excellent alibi.”
“Wonderful,” commented Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite turned to him, flushed with success.
“The only thing is — how to proceed now?”
“I should suggest Sylvia Dale,” said Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite looked doubtful.
“I mention to you,” he said, “she seemed to me a little — er — stupid.”
“She has a father and brothers who will take the necessary steps.”
“That is true,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, relieved.
A very short time afterwards he was sitting with the girl telling her the story. She listened attentively. She put no questions to him, but when he had done she rose.
“I must have a taxi — at once.”
“My dear child, what are you going to do?”
“I am going to Sir George Barnaby.”
“Impossible. Absolutely the wrong procedure. Allow me to—”
He twittered on by her side. But he produced no impression. Sylvia Dale was intent on her own plans. She allowed him to go with her in the taxi, but to all his remonstrances she addressed a deaf ear. She left him in the taxi, while she went into Sir George’s city office.
It was half an hour later when she came out. She looked exhausted, her fair beauty drooping like a waterless flower. Mr. Satterthwaite received her with concern.
“I’ve won,” she murmured, as she leant back with half-closed eyes.
“What?” he was startled. “What did you do? What did you say?”
She sat up a little.
“I told him that Louisa Bullard had been to the police with her story. I told him that the police had made inquiries and that he had been seen going into his own grounds and out again a few minutes after half-past six. I told him that the game was up. He — he went to pieces. I told him that there was still time for him to get away, that the police weren’t coming for another hour to arrest him. I told him that if he’d sign a confession that he’d killed Vivien I’d do nothing, but that if he didn’t I’d scream and tell the whole building the truth. He was so panicky that he didn’t know what he was doing. He signed the paper without realising what he was doing.”
She thrust it into his hands.
“Take it — take it. You know what to do with it so that they’ll set Martin free.”
“He actually signed it,” cried Mr. Satterthwaite, amazed.
“He is a little stupid, you know,” said Sylvia Dale. “So am I,” she added as an afterthought. “That’s why I know how stupid people behave. We get rattled, you know, and then we do the wrong thing and are sorry afterwards.”
She shivered, and Mr. Satterthwaite patted her hand.
“You need something to pull you together,” he said. “Come, we are very close to a very favourite resort of mine — the Arlecchino. Have you ever been there?”
She shook her head.
Mr. Satterthwaite stopped the taxi and took the girl into the little restaurant. He made his way to the table in the recess, his heart beating hopefully. But the table was empty.
Sylvia Dale saw the disappointment in his face.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “That is, I half expected to see a friend of mine here. It doesn’t matter. Some day, I expect, I shall see him again....”
From The Mysterious Mr. Quin (St. Martin’s Minotaur). Copyright 1930 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. Copyright renewed 1957 by Agatha Christie Mallowan.