The Face of Helen: An Agatha Christie Short Story

‘He made a wonderful hit with a Shepherd’s Song.’

‘I read about it,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘The refrain ends each time with a high note – a kind of cry. A note midway between A and B flat. Very curious.’

Yoaschbim had taken three calls, bowing and smiling. The lights went up and the people began to file out. Mr Satterthwaite leant over to watch the girl with the golden head. She rose, adjusted her scarf, and turned.

Mr Satterthwaite caught his breath. There were, he knew, such faces in the world – faces that made history.

The girl moved to the gangway, her companion, a young man, beside her. And Mr Satterthwaite noticed how every man in the vicinity looked – and continued to look covertly.

‘Beauty!’ said Mr Satterthwaite to himself. ‘There is such a thing. Not charm, nor attraction, nor magnetism, nor any of the things we talk about so glibly – just sheer beauty. The shape of a face, the line of an eyebrow, the curve of a jaw. He quoted softly under his breath: ‘The face that launched a thousand ships.’ And for the first time he realized the meaning of those words.

He glanced across at Mr Quin, who was watching him in what seemed such perfect comprehension that Mr Satterthwaite felt there was no need for words.

‘I’ve always wondered,’ he said simply, ‘what such women were really like.’

‘You mean?’

‘The Helens, the Cleopatras, the Mary Stuarts.’

Mr Quin nodded thoughtfully.

‘If we go out,’ he suggested, ‘we may – see.’

They went out together, and their quest was successful. The pair they were in search of were seated on a lounge half-way up the staircase. For the first time, Mr Satterthwaite noted the girl’s companion, a dark young man, not handsome, but with a suggestion of restless fire about him. A face full of strange angles; jutting cheek-bones, a forceful, slightly crooked jaw, deep-set eyes that were curiously light under the dark, overhanging brows.