Mysterious Mr Quin by Short story collection

Author:Short story collection
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-06-26T07:48:17.500000+00:00

CHAPTER NINE THE DEAD HARLEQUIN MR. SATTERTHWAITE walked slowly up Bond Street enjoying the sunshine. He was, as usual, carefully and beautifully [ dressed, and was bound for the Harchester Galleries where | there was an exhibition of the paintings of one Frank Bristow, a new and hitherto unknown artist who showed signs of suddenly becoming the rage. Mr. Satterthwaite was a patron of the arts. As Mr. Satterthwaite entered the Harchester Galleries, he was greeted at once with a smile of pleased recognition. "Good morning, Mr. Satterthwaite, I thought we should see you before long. You know Bristow's work? Fine--very fine indeed. Quite unique of its kind" Mr. Satterthwaite purchased a catalogue and stepped through the open archway into the long room where the artist's works were displayed. They were water colours, executed with such extraordinary technique and finish that they resembled coloured etchings. Mr. Satterthwaite walked slowly round the walls scrutinising and, on the whole, approving. He thought that this young man deserved to arrive. Here was originality, vision, and a most severe and exacting technique. There were crudities, of course. That was only to be expected--but there was also something closely allied to genius. Mr. Satterthwaite paused before a little masterpiece representing Westminster Bridge with its crowd of buses, trams and hurrying pedestrians. A tiny thing and wonderfully perfect. It was called, he noted, The Ant Heap. He passed on and quite suddenly drew in his breath with a gasp, his imagination held and riveted. The picture was called the Dead Harlequin. The forefront of it represented a floor of inlaid squares of black and white marble. In the middle of the floor lay Harlequin on his back with his arms outstretched, in his motley of black and red. Behind him was a window and outside that window, gazing in at the figure on the floor, was what appeared to be the same man silhouetted against the red glow of the setting sun. The picture excited Mr. Satterthwaite for two reasons, the first was that he recognised, or thought that he recognised, the face of the man in the picture. It bore a distinct resemblance to a certain Mr. Quin, an acquaintance whom Mr. Satterthwaite had encountered once or twice under somewhat mystifying circumstances. "Surely I can't be mistaken," he murmured. "If it is so-- what does it mean?" For it had been Mr. Satterthwaite's experience that every appearance of Mr. Quin had some distinct significance attaching to it. There was, as already mentioned, a second reason for Mr. Satterthwaite's interest. He recognised the scene of the picture. "The Terrace Room at Charnley," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Curious--and very interesting." He looked with more attention at the picture, wondering what exactly had been in the artist's mind. One Harlequin dead on the floor, another Harlequin looking through the window--or was it the same Harlequin? He moved slowly along the walls gazing at other pictures with unseeing eyes, with his mind always busy on the same subject. He was excited Life, which had seemed a little drab this morning, was drab no longer.

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