The Passing of Mr Quinn

by G. Roy McRae

  ‘For my part, knowing what I do of the case, I can hardly believe this,’ put in Inspector Brent. ‘Why, the man was going to drink port afterwards from the very decanter—’

  ‘Listen, and I will tell you what I know,’ said Mr Quinny. He was staring at the floor again intently, and there was a wait of suspense while he seemed to gather himself for the effort. Then he commenced.

  ‘Derek Capel loved Eleanor Appleby, and mad and consuming as his love was for her, so was his hatred for her husband, Professor Appleby. He saw the growing cruelty of the man. He was himself slighted and insulted, for the professor half-guessed his secret. Derek Capel’s hatred went hungry for revenge. I know he began to plot the man’s death, to think about it, dream about it … oh, I know that it was not all unpremeditated.’

  Mr Quinny paused, shaking, to hold out his glass. Alec splashed spirit into it with a hand that shook almost as much. But Mr Quinny did not immediately drink it; he stared vacantly at the glass in his hand while he went on.

  ‘Opportunity came that night. Eleanor in her desperation and fear sent round a hurried note to Derek Capel, who was the only person she could think of in her extremity. For I believe he was the only man who dared impose himself in that house.

  ‘The letter was sent by George, the gardener, He was another who had cause to hate Professor Appleby. He said nothing afterwards about conveying that letter, and I don’t believe the police ever thought about seriously interrogating him. Old George, the gardener, saw a great deal that went on in that house, and it sickened his soul. He kept a grimly shut mouth about it all afterwards.

  ‘When Derek Capel received that letter, he had to find some pretext for making a call so late that night. And he had one ready at hand. As I say, murder had been in his heart and thoughts for a long time. He had even bought a book on poisons—’

  Mr Quinny lifted his head. ‘Ah, that makes you start, inspector! That book was never produced at the trial, though Derek Capel himself admitted that he took it late that night to Professor Appleby, who desired to see it.

  ‘There is a curious reason why it was hidden. It is the only part where coincidence comes into the affair at all. For in that book, a rare and valuable edition, by the way, was the recipe for the making of a secret poison that leaves no trace.

  Mr Quinny rose and hobbled slowly over to the wainscotting of the wall near the door. He bent down and fumbled with a shaking hand, while his audience watched in fascinated horror. And presently there was a slight click, and a panel flew open. From the cavity thus revealed, he took a leather-bound volume, and with it in his hand he made his way painfully back, by the aid of his stick, to his seat.

  He took up his glass again.

  ‘This is the book on poisons. It is an important piece of evidence. I will now tell you what happened when Derek Capel arrived at Professor Appleby’s house.

  ‘He was greeted by the professor, who was alone. His wife had retired to her room. But, because he loved to taunt and sneer, the professor sent a maid up to call her down again. I suppose he wanted to watch the tortures of the man who loved this woman, and desired her for himself.

  ‘Anyhow it was his undoing. It drove Derek Capel mad to see the stress of fear under which she was suffering that night.

  ‘For a few moments Professor Appleby forgot his malignant subtleties in examining the book Derek Capel had brought. Now mark you, here is the curious part. It turned out that he himself had produced, by experiment, the very same secret poison that is mentioned in this book. He pointed out the poison. It was contained in a little blue-black bottle on the shelves.’

  Mr Quinny stopped, under the stress of a great excitement, and while the clock ticked audibly, he fumbled at his waistcoat pocket and produced a small tin box, which he opened. From this he took a pill—presumably of quinine, or some other medicine—and dropped it in his glass.

  He did not drink, however, but peered at the glass intently for a moment. Then he looked up, his face livid, his eyes staring behind their spectacles at the balcony. But there was no one there now.

  ‘This is the truth. The professor asked his wife to take down the bottle, but when her hand was on it, he arrested it, making some sneering remark about the dangers of poison in her hands. That was the only time she touched the bottle to my knowledge, and that was how her finger-prints came upon it.

  ‘The professor invited his guest to join him in a drink,’ went on the strange Mr Quinny in a lowered voice. ‘He turned away to the decanters, and Derek Capel took this chance to lean across and whisper to Eleanor. The professor saw a reflection of that action in a mirror hanging over the wall. He came back, poured out port for himself and whisky for Derek Capel—and in the moment of toasting, charged his wife in the most ugly terms with infidelity and ordered her up to her room.

  ‘He went with her, grasping her arm,’ went on this mysteriously omniscient stranger. ‘He escorted her half-way up the stairs … and in the interval of time thus allowed him, Derek Capel seized his opportunity to kill Professor Appleby. He took the poison bottle in his gloved hands, emptied some of the contents into the glass of port, and the remainder into the decanter.’

  ‘Good Heavens!’ burst from Alec Portal.

  Mr Quinny raised a shaking hand for silence.

  ‘I think Derek Capel was a little bit mad just then. He did not reason everything out so cunningly. He did not plot to get away with his crime. There was a quarrel between him and the professor, and he left the house. But he waited—until he heard screams and shouts, the crash of a falling body. Then he came back, to be in at the death as it were’—Mr Quinny’s lips writhed in a mirthless smile at his own grim joke.

  ‘He wanted to commit suicide then. You see he had a moment of bravery. He thought that the contents of the decanter would be analysed, poison would be found in it, and all the evidence would point towards his guilt. So he took up the decanter to pour out his own death drink.’

  Mr Quinny shuddered and stared round him with unseeing eyes. Those same peering eyes fixed at last on the glass in his hand. But then with a start he looked up.

  ‘That brings us to the crucial point. It was then, I suppose, that Eleanor Appleby had a flash of intuition, and half-guessed what Derek Capel had done—and what his intentions were. She snatched the decanter from his hands and dropped it.’

  A concerted sound that was half a gasp, half a sigh came from his listeners in the room.

  Mr Quinny all at once became very listless. He stared hard at the floor, making no effort to check the convulsive tremors that ran through his body. Once he peered at the glass he held in his hand and half-raised it to his lips, then set it down again in a fit of violent shuddering.

  He looked up. ‘That is the story, ladies and gentlemen. The rest I think you know. How Eleanor Appleby was tried for the murder of her husband, and of her acquittal. If she held back any secret, it was her own half-knowledge that Derek Capel was the real murderer. She did not know for certain, but she would not betray him by word or by look. Imagine her anguish of mind! She almost believed that he had done it for her sake. That letter she had sent in the stress of her terror and fear—she could not tell whether it had spurred him to this mad deed or not. She did not know. Bravely, nobly, she prepared herself to take the consequences for it, however.

  ‘And Derek Capel! God, how he paid for his crime! He watched and prayed and hoped during the course of the trial. He went through Hell. But always he was the schemer. There was no altruistic motive in the man. He murdered Professor Appleby because he coveted his wife. And he had the brazen effrontery, the supreme egotistical callousness to watch the woman he loved suffering the tortures of the damned, hoping that she would go free and that he would win her in the end.’

  At this point Mr Quinny was forced to stop, overcome by a fit of coughing. It was not a nice sound.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he resumed at last in a choking voice, ‘I still maintain that Professor Appleby was a vile creature, and his death was a ridda
nce for the good of humanity. But God’s punishment swiftly overtook the man who sought to interfere in His providence. Derek Capel was defeated by his own ends. He saw the woman he loved give her heart to another.’ He peered over at Alec Portal. ‘She loved you, my friend,’ he said sadly. ‘She came to rely on you during those dreadful weeks and months, and to think of you as her saviour. And Derek Capel watched it—saw himself losing her and drained his cup of bitterness to the dregs.’

  As he finished speaking, Mr Quinny raised his glass to his lips, and with his peering eyes fixed on Alec Portal he gulped down its contents in a paroxysm of trembling.

  Seized by a sudden awful foreboding, a prescience of the staggering truth, Alec Portal raised himself from his seat and in a bound crossed over to Mr Quinny.

  ‘What have you done?’ he cried, staring in horror and dawning understanding at the shaking wreck of humanity before him. ‘Who are you? How do you know these things? Heavens, man, speak—speak!’

  Mr Quinny was suddenly stricken by a silent, animal-like frenzy. With gasping, choking breath he tore at his collar, his necktie; his face became gray and empurpled; his spectacles dropped revealing eyes that were glazed and rolling in their sockets. No one could doubt but that he was in his death throes.

  He closed his eyes at last, his breathing coming in a dry rattle.

  ‘Come closer, my friend,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Come closer. Everything is going black. There is need for haste. I feel that—she—is—in—danger!’

  His eyelids flickered upwards as Alec bent over him, and he smiled a little twisted smile.

  ‘Do you know me, my friend?’ he whispered. ‘I am Derek Capel, I killed Professor Appleby because I loved her—loved her! I am going out now, Alec—I have just taken a dose of that very same poison. But try to think kindly of me. When I heard you were married, and that letter was locked in the drawer, I came back. I found that letter today, I saw you were unhappy … and so I came here tonight to try to make amends—’

  He seemed to relapse, his eyes closed, his breathing coming heavily, only to rally again with a start forward, his emaciated hand clutching at Alec’s arm.

  ‘Go to her, Alec,’ he whispered. ‘For Heaven’s sake go! She is in danger—I feel it, I know it. She was listening upstairs, and she thinks … Oh, God, stop her!’ he shrieked suddenly. ‘She is there, by the pond!’

  He fell back, panting and writhing convulsively, his eyes closed. Alec stared around him, trying desperately to make a clutch at his reeling senses, Eleanor—where was she? Wildly his eyes stared up to the balcony, and then he dashed up the stairs. She was not there, not in her room. The conviction came upon him that Derek Capel was right.

  Hatless, and with an awful fear at his heart, he raced out into the grounds.

  Fleet as the wind he raced through the shrubberies. He saw her at last, standing at the edge of the lake. She looked like a beautiful wraith in her gown of cream ninon. Her hands were outstretched, and there was a rapt look upon her face. He ran, his heart in his mouth.

  ‘Eleanor!’ he called.

  She turned, and for a moment she looked like a trapped, desperate creature. But she must have seen something in his face, for she stared and held out her slender white arms to him.

  He reached her side and fell at her feet.

  ‘Eleanor, forgive me—forgive me!’ he cried. ‘I was a blind fool. I should have known you were innocent. But God forgive me, I did not quite believe.’

  She touched his head. She uttered his name in a tone singularly low and sweet, and throbbing with gladness.

  ‘Alec—Alec—what shall I say? Oh, how do you know even now?’

  He looked up. ‘That man, Eleanor. He was Derek Capel. He came to confess—’

  For a long moment she was silent, palpitating. When he looked up again the tears were streaming down her face.

  He sprang to his feet. ‘Eleanor—look at me! Oh, my darling, I can’t bear it! Am I past forgiveness? You won’t say that. Tell me, Eleanor—’

  For answer she came close to him, and hid her face. ‘Alec … oh, Alec! Take me … I shall die if you leave me again.’

  ‘Eleanor!’ Her name burst from his lips in a sob of happiness.

  He caught her up, and murmuring to her, carried her away into the scented light of the flower-haunted gardens.

  THE END

  APPENDIX

  FIRST UK APPEARANCES OF THE HARLEY QUIN STORIES

  The Grand Magazine (published by George Newnes)

  1. The Passing of Mr Quinn (aka The Coming of Mr Quin) – No.229, Mar 1924

  2. The Shadow on the Glass – No.236, Oct 1924

  3. A Sign in the Sky (aka The Sign in the Sky) – No.245, Jun 1925

  4. A Man of Magic (aka At the ‘Bells and Motley’) – No.249, Nov 1925

  The Story-teller magazine (Cassell & Co.)

  5. At the Crossroads (aka The Love Detectives) – No.236, Dec 1926

  6. The Soul of the Croupier – No.237, Jan 1927

  7. The World’s End – No.238, Feb 1927

  8. The Voice in the Dark – No.239, Mar 1927

  9. The Face of Helen – No.240, Apr 1927

  10. Harlequin’s Lane – No.241, May 1927

  The Grand Magazine (George Newnes)

  11. The Dead Harlequin – No.288, Mar 1929

  Britannia & Eve magazine (British National Newspapers)

  12. The Man from the Sea – Vol.1 No.6, Oct 1929

  The Mysterious Mr Quin (W. Collins Sons & Co.)

  13. The Bird with the Broken Wing – Apr 1930

  Winter’s Crimes No.3 (Macmillan & Co.)

  14. The Harlequin Tea Set – Nov 1971

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  THE MYSTERIOUS MR QUIN

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  MR SATTERTHWAITE is a dried-up elderly little man who has never known romance or adventure himself. He is a looker-on at life. But he feels an increasing desire to play a part in the drama of other people—especially is he drawn to mysteries of unsolved crime. And here he has a helper—the mysterious Mr Quin—the man who appears from nowhere—who ‘comes and goes’ like the invisible Harlequin of old. Who is Mr Quin? No one knows, but he is one who ‘speaks for the dead who cannot speak for themselves’, and he is also the friend of lovers. Prompted by his mystic influence. Mr Satterthwaite plays a real part in life at last, and unravels mysteries that seem incapable of solution. In Mr Quin, Agatha Christie has created a character as fascinating as Hercule Poirot himself.

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