'The Harlequin Apartments' by SeaSnap
SeaSnap
Cornwall, United Kingdom
in All stories
In this forum I'll be posting my own Mr Quin story. Please feel to comment but DON'T post another story in this. Make your own forum please!
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Every morning, the paperboy arrived at Harlequin Cottage to deliver the morning’s paper at 9 O’clock. Mr Satterthwaite had always just finished his breakfast by 9. But, one Sunday morning, the paperboy didn’t arrive when Mr Satterthwaite had finished his toast. Nor had he arrived 30 minutes later. In fact, the paperboy had not even arrived by the time Mr Satterthwaite had come home from church with Bruce Alcott, his neighbour. The paperboy arrived at 2pm, with blood on his brown tweed waistcoat, with cries of “Murder! Murder at Harlequin Apartments!”
Mr Satterthwaite leapt from his comfortable, leather chair by the fire and ran along the road in the direction of the paperboy’s voice. The voice that came in the direction of the Harlequin Apartments. By the time Mr Satterthwaite arrived, him being an old man, most of the residents of Stoptide had crowded round the young boy.
“I saw him! I saw him I tell you!” cried the young boy’s squeaky voice “He was up in Apartment 27. I…I…I was knocked out wasn’t I. Woke up and ran.” He carried on, but Mr Satterthwaite had gone inside of the Apartments, and up to Number 27.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
With caution and care, Mr Satterthwaite eased open the door. The sight that met him was surprising, for it was not what Mr Satterthwaite intended. What he saw was a room of extreme neatness and order. It was almost perfectly symmetrical. Nothing seemed out of place. Mr Satterthwaite wouldn’t have known this was a scene of crime but for the fact that the elderly man in the armchair, to the left of the door, wasn’t moving. The table behind the armchair where the man was sitting was pristine, except for the morning’s paper lying on it. The corpse was lying back within the chair, and the chair was pulled up by the fire. There was no sign of a struggle, and the only sign of murder was the thick red line around the poor man’s neck. The man had been strangled.
Looking out the window, Mr Satterthwaite saw that the crowd around the boy had dispersed. No one else had come towards the apartments, so Mr Satterthwaite guessed that no one took the boy seriously. But, Bruce Alcott had stayed behind and seemed to be thrusting money into the paperboy’s scrawny hand, which the boy placed into a wallet. Then, Bruce left. But only after he grabbed the boy by the cuff, lifted him up to his and murmured something in the boy’s ear. It was only then that Mr Satterthwaite noticed that the paperboy, who was only 4 foot 5 and was dwarfed by Mr Satterthwaite’s 6 foot neighbour, looked smug. He looked like he had power over Bruce Alcott. He looked in control.
Sunday was Bridge Club night. Mr Satterthwaite played low, but never lost. No one new ever joined. In fact, it was only ever Mr Satterthwaite, Bruce Alcott, Hannah Alcott, Mrs Whitehall from the post office and 4 other pensioners, with whom Mr Satterthwaite was not connected, who ever played. But tonight, a man appeared, almost out thin air. A man Mr Satterthwaite knew well. Harley Quin. “Good evening, Satterthwaite” said Mr Quin placidly. “So it is, Quin” replied Mr Satterthwaite, slightly annoyed at the man’s informality, “I take it that you know exactly what happened” his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well,” murmured Mr Quin, not picking up on Mr Satterthwaite’s sarcasm, “I do have an idea of what went on in that apartment, and it’s probably right. I think that the deceased man’s name will enlighten you.” Mr Satterthwaite was about to ask what it was, and how it made any difference, when he looked and saw that the enigmatic Mr Harley Quin had vanished as mysteriously as he had come.
Later, as Mr Satterthwaite was putting the cards back in the pack after a successful night, he noticed an incredible similarity between the joker and Mr Harley Quin. With great care, Mr Satterthwaite turned over the card to find the name ‘Calvin Alcott’ written in spindly multi-colours. Suddenly, with the deceased’s name, Mr Satterthwaite thought he knew how Calvin Alcott, the man in the armchair, was murdered.
The police station was sparse and bare. Constable Matthews was a plump man, who spoke in loud, sharps sentences. “What do you want?” he shouted, even though Mr Satterthwaite was only across the policeman’s small, wooden desk. “I wish to report a murder in Number 27 of the Harlequin Apartments” said Mr Satterthwaite, very calmly and very pleasantly. Constable Matthews spat the hot, steaming coffee back into his cup. “What‽” Mr Satterthwaite repeated, just as calmly. “Tell me everything you know” said Constable Matthews, reaching in to one of his desk drawers for a pen and pencil. So Mr Satterthwaite began.
“…Bruce Alcott.” interjected a man who had appeared behind Mr Satterthwaite. The man looked like the joker of a pack of cards. “And what is your name?” barked Constable Matthews. “Mr Quin.” Replied Harley Quin, as if that was enough. “So, Mr Quin” asked Constable Matthews “how you came to know that Bruce Alcott is the vile killer.” “I will explain once Mr Satterthwaite has left.” Mr Quin stated. So, reluctantly, Mr Satterthwaite left. Once outside, he tried to work out how his next-door neighbour was the murderer. If the paperboy wasn’t the murderer, how was he involved? After all, he had been paid by Bruce. But what had he been paid to do?
Later, after Bruce had been arrested, Harley Quin sat down in Mr Satterthwaite. When he was told its name, Harlequin Cottage, he smiled. “You got it wrong, Satterthwaite” said a very grave Mr Quin. “How?” asked Mr Satterthwaite “How did Bruce do it? What about the paper boy?” “I will explain.” replied Mr Harley Quin.
“Yes.” replied Harley Quin. “You were going to send an innocent boy to hang."