Masterpieces in Miniature: The Detectives by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Classics
ISBN: 9780312349387
Goodreads: 16296
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2005-11-05T00:00:00+00:00

11. THE MAN FROM THE SEA

Mr. Satterthwaite was feeling old. That might not have been surprising since, in the estimation of many people, he was old. Careless youths said to their partners: “Old Satterthwaite? Oh! he must be a hundred— or at any rate about eighty.” And even the kindest of girls said indulgently, “Oh! Satterthwaite. Yes, he’s quite old. He must be sixty.” Which was almost worse, since he was sixty-nine.

In his own view, however, he was not old. Sixty-nine was an interesting age—an age of infinite possibilities—an age when at last the experience of a lifetime was beginning to tell. But to feel old— that was different—a tired discouraged state of mind when one was inclined to ask oneself depressing questions. What was he after all? A little dried up, elderly man, with neither chick nor child, with no human belongings, only a valuable art collection which seemed at the moment strangely unsatisfying. No one to care whether he lived or died—

At this point in his meditations Mr. Satterthwaite pulled himself up short. What he was thinking was morbid and unprofitable. He knew well enough, who better, that the chances were that a wife would have hated him or, alternatively, that he would have hated her,

THE MAN FROM THE SEA 369

that children would have been a constant source of worry and anxiety and that demand upon his time and affection would have worried him considerably.

To be safe and comfortable, said Mr. Satterthwaite firmly—that was the thing.

The last thought reminded him of a letter he had received that morning. He drew it from his pocket and reread it, savoring its contents pleasurably. To begin with, it was from a duchess, and Mr. Satterthwaite liked hearing from duchesses. It is true that the letter began by demanding a large subscription for charity and but for that would probably never have been written, but the terms in which it was couched were so agreeable that Mr. Satterthwaite was able to gloss over the first fact.

“So you’ve deserted the Riviera,” wrote the Duchess. “What is this island of yours like? Cheap? Cannotti put up his prices shamefully this year, and I shan’t go to the Riviera again. I might try your island next year if you report favorably, though I should hate five days on a boat. Still anywhere you recommend is sure to be pretty comfortable—too much so. You’ll get to be one of those people who do nothing but coddle themselves and think of their comfort. There’s only one thing that will save you, Satterthwaite, and that is your inordinate interest in other people’s affairs—”

As Mr. Satterthwaite folded the letter, a vision came up vividly before him of the duchess. Her meannesses, her unexpected and alarming kindness, her caustic tongue, her indomitable spirit.

Spirit! Everyone needed spirit. He drew out another letter with a German stamp upon it—written by a young singer in whom he had interested himself. It was a grateful affectionate letter.

“How can I thank you, dear Mr. Satterthwaite?

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