And Then There Were None By Agatha C. -Reading Chapter 10-18

Please join me while I read chapters 10-End of "And Then There Were None" by Agatha Christie. This is a 3hour 32 minute story, accompanied by an additional 10 minutes of ambient music.

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Transcript

Welcome to Restful Journeys.

In this track,

I will continue reading,

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie.

This will be chapter 10 through to the last chapter.

Please find a comfortable place to sit or lie down and relax.

Take a few moments to clear your mind and allow yourself to listen to these words and help you become calm.

Let's continue with chapter 10.

1.

Do you believe it?

Vera asked.

She and Philip Lombard sat on the windowsill of the living room.

Outside the rain poured down and the wind howled in great shuddering gust against the window panes.

Philip Lombard cocked his head slightly on one side before answering.

Then he said,

You mean,

Do I believe that old Wargrave is right when he says it's one of us?

Yes,

Philip Lombard said slowly.

It's difficult to say.

Logically,

You know,

He's right and yet.

.

.

Vera took the words out of his mouth.

And yet it seems so incredible.

Philip Lombard made a grimace.

The whole thing's incredible.

But after MacArthur's death,

There's no more doubt as to one thing.

There's no question now of accidents or suicides.

It's definitely murder.

Three murders up to date.

Vera shivered.

She said,

It's like some awful dream.

I keep feeling that things like this can't happen.

He said with an understanding,

I know.

Presently a tap will come on the door and early morning tea will be brought in.

Vera said,

Oh,

How I wish that could happen.

Philip Lombard said gravely,

Yes,

But it won't.

We're all in the dream and we've got to be pretty much upon our guard from now on.

Vera said,

Lowering her voice,

If it is one of them,

Which do you think it is?

Philip Lombard grinned suddenly.

He said,

I take it you are accepting our two selves?

Well,

That's right.

I know very well that I'm not the murderer and I don't fancy that there's anything insane about you,

Vera.

You strike me as being one of the sanest and most level-headed girls I've come across.

I'd stake my reputation on your sanity.

With a slightly wry smile,

Vera said,

Thank you.

He said,

Come now,

Miss Vera Claythorne,

Aren't you going to return the compliment?

Vera hesitated a minute,

Then she said,

You've admitted,

You know,

That you don't hold human life particularly sacred,

But all the same,

I can't see you as,

As the man who dictated that gramophone record.

Lombard said,

Quite right.

If I were to commit one of those murders,

It would be solely for what I could get out of them.

This mass clearance isn't my line of country.

Good,

Then we'll eliminate ourselves and concentrate on our five fellow prisoners.

Which of them is you and Owen?

Well,

At a guess,

And with obviously nothing to go upon,

I'd plump for Wargrave.

Oh,

Vera sounded surprised.

She thought a minute or two,

And then said,

Why?

Hard to say exactly,

But to begin with,

He's an old man and he's been presiding over courts of laws for years.

That is to say,

He's played God Almighty for a good many months every year.

That must go to a man's head eventually.

He gets to see himself as all-powerful,

As holding the power of life and death,

And it's possible that his brain might snap and he might want to go one step further and be executioner and judge extraordinary.

Vera said slowly,

Yes,

I suppose that's possible?

Lombard said,

Who do you plump for?

Without any hesitation,

Vera answered,

Dr.

Armstrong.

Lombard gave a low whistle.

The doctor,

Eh?

You know,

I should have put him last of all.

Vera shook her head.

Oh,

No,

Two of the deaths have been poison.

That rather points to a doctor,

And then you can't get over the fact that the only thing we are absolutely certain Mrs.

Rogers had was the sleeping draught that he gave her.

Lombard admitted,

Yes,

That's true.

Vera persisted,

If a doctor went mad,

It would be a long time before anyone suspected,

And doctors overwork and have a lot of strain.

Lombard said,

Yes,

But I doubt he could have killed MacArthur.

He wouldn't have had had time during the brief interval when I left him,

Not,

That is,

Unless he fairly haired down there and back again,

And I doubt if he's in good enough training to do that and show no signs of it.

Vera said,

He didn't do it then.

He had an opportunity later.

When?

When he went down to call the general to lunch.

Philip whistled again,

Very softly.

He said,

So you think he did it then?

Pretty cool thing to do.

Vera said impatiently,

What risk was there?

He's the only person here with medical knowledge.

He can swear the body's been dead at least an hour,

And who's to contradict him?

Philip looked at her thoughtfully.

You know,

He said,

That's a clever idea of yours.

I wonder.

2.

Who is it,

Mr.

Blore?

That's what I want to know.

Who is it?

Roger's face was working.

His hands were clenched around the polishing leather that he held in his hand.

Ex-Inspector Blore said,

Eh,

My lad,

That's the question.

One of us,

His lordship said.

Which one?

That's what I want to know.

Who's the fiend in human form?

That,

Said Blore,

Is what we would all like to know.

Roger's said shrewdly,

But you got an idea,

Mr.

Blore.

You've got an idea,

Haven't you?

I may have an idea,

Said Blore slowly,

But that's a long way from being sure.

I may be wrong.

All I can say is that if I'm right,

The person in question is a very cool customer.

A very cool customer indeed.

Roger's wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

He said hoarsely,

It's like a bad dream.

That's what it is,

Blore said,

Looking at him curiously.

Got any ideas yourself,

Rogers?

The butler shook his head.

He said hoarsely,

I don't know.

I don't know at all.

And that's what's frightening the life out of me.

To have no idea.

3.

Dr.

Armstrong said violently,

We must get out of here.

We must.

We must.

At all costs.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave looked thoughtfully out of the smoking room window.

He played with the cord of his glasses.

He said,

I do not,

Of course,

Profess to be a weather prophet,

But I should say that it is very unlikely that a boat could reach us,

Even if they knew our plight in under 24 hours.

And even then,

Only the wind drops.

Dr.

Armstrong dropped his head in his hands and groaned.

He said,

And in the meantime,

We may all be murdered in our beds.

I hope not.

Said Mr.

Justice Wargrave.

I intend to take every possible precaution against such a thing happening.

It flashed across Dr.

Armstrong's mind that an old man like the judge was far more tenacious of life than a younger man would be.

He had often marveled at that fact in his professional career.

However,

Here was he,

Junior to the judge by perhaps twenty years,

And yet with a vastly inferior sense of self-preservation.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave was thinking,

Murdered in our beds?

These doctors are all the same.

They think in cliches,

A thoroughly commonplace mind.

The doctor said,

There have been three victims already,

Remember?

Certainly,

But you must remember that they were unprepared for the attack.

We are forewarned.

Dr.

Armstrong said bitterly,

What can we do,

Sooner or later?

I think,

Said Mr.

Justice Wargrave,

That there are several things we can do.

Armstrong said,

We've no idea even who it can be.

The judge stroked his chin and murmured,

Oh,

You know,

I wouldn't quite say that.

Armstrong stared at him,

Do you mean you know?

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said cautiously,

As regards to actual evidence,

Such as is necessary in court,

I admit that I have none,

But it appears to me,

Reviewing the whole business,

That one particular person is sufficiently clearly indicated.

Yes,

I think so.

Armstrong stared at him.

He said,

I don't understand.

4.

Miss Brent was upstairs in her bedroom.

She took her Bible and went to sit by the window.

She opened it.

Then,

After a minute's hesitation,

She set it aside and went back over to the dressing table.

From a drawer in it,

She took out a small black covered notebook.

She opened it and began writing,

A terrible thing has happened.

General MacArthur is dead.

His cousin married Elsie MacPherson.

There is no doubt but that he was murdered.

After luncheon,

The judge made us a most interesting speech.

He is convinced that the murderer is one of us.

That means that one of us is possessed by a devil.

I had already suspected that.

Which of us is it?

They are all asking themselves that.

I alone know.

She sat for some time without moving.

Her eyes grew vague and flimsy.

The pencil straggled drunkenly at her fingers.

In shaking loose capitals,

She wrote,

The murderer's name is Beatrice Taylor.

Her eyes closed.

Suddenly,

With a start,

She awoke.

She looked down at the notebook.

With an angry exclamation,

She scored through the vague,

Unevenly scrawled characters of the last sentence.

She said in a low voice,

Did I write that?

Did I?

I must be going mad.

5.

The storm increased.

The wind howled against the side of the house.

Everyone was in the living room.

They sat listlessly,

Huddled together,

And surreptitiously they watched each other.

When Rogers brought in the tea tray,

They all jumped.

He said,

Shall I draw the curtains?

It would make it more cheerful-like.

Receiving an assent to this,

The curtains were drawn and the lamps turned on.

The room grew more cheerful.

A little of the shadow lifted.

Surely by tomorrow,

The storm would be over and someone would come.

A boat would arrive.

Vera Claythorne said,

Will you pour out tea,

Miss Brent?

The elder woman replied,

No,

You do it,

Dear.

That teapot is so heavy and I've lost two skeins of my gray knitting wool.

So annoying.

Vera moved to the tea table.

There was a cheerful rattle and clink of china.

Normality returned.

Tea.

Bless ordinary everyday afternoon tea,

Philip Lombard made a cherry remark.

Blore responded,

Dr.

Armstrong told a humorous story.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave,

Who ordinarily hated tea,

Sipped approvingly.

Into this relaxed atmosphere came Rogers and Roger was upset.

He said nervously and at random,

Excuse me,

Sir,

But does anyone know what's become of the bathroom curtain?

Lombard's head went up with a jerk.

The bathroom curtain?

What the devil do you mean,

Rogers?

It's gone,

Sir.

Clean vanished.

I was going round all the curtains and the one in the left,

Bathroom,

Wasn't there any longer.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave asked,

Was it there this morning?

Oh,

Yes,

Sir,

Blore said.

What kind of curtain was it?

Scarlet oil silk,

Sir.

It went with the scarlet tiles,

Lombard said.

And it's gone?

Gone,

Sir.

They stared at each other.

Blore said heavily.

Well,

After all,

What of it?

It's mad,

But so is everything else.

Anyway,

It doesn't matter.

You can't kill anybody with an oil silk curtain.

Forget about it.

Rogers said,

Yes,

Sir,

Thank you,

Sir.

He went out shutting the door behind him.

Inside the room,

The pall of fear had fallen anew.

Again,

Surreptitiously,

They watched each other.

6.

Dinner came,

Was eaten,

And cleared away.

A simple meal,

Mostly out of tens.

Afterwards,

In the living room,

The strain was almost too great to be borne.

At nine o'clock,

Emily Brent rose to her feet.

She said,

I'm going to bed,

Vera said.

I'll go to bed,

Too.

The two women went upstairs and Lombard and Blore came with them.

Standing at the top of the stairs,

The two men watched the women go into their respective rooms and shut the doors.

They heard the sound of two bolts being shot and the turning of two keys.

Blore said with a grin,

No need to tell them to lock their doors.

Lombard said,

Well,

They're all right for the night,

At any rate.

He went down again and the other followed him.

7.

The four men went to bed an hour later.

They went up together.

Rogers,

From the dining room where he was setting the table for breakfast,

Saw them go up.

He heard them pause on the landing above.

Then the judge's voice spoke,

I need hardly advise you gentlemen to lock your doors,

Blore said.

And what's more,

Put a chair under the handle.

There are ways of turning locks from the outside.

Lombard murmured,

My dear Blore,

The trouble with you is,

You know too much.

The judge said gravely,

Good night,

Gentlemen.

May we all meet safely in the morning.

Rogers came out of the dining room and slipped halfway up the stairs.

He saw four figures pass through four doors and heard the turning of four locks and the shooting of four bolts.

He nodded his head.

That's all right,

He muttered.

He went back into the dining room.

Yes,

Everything was ready for the morning.

His eye lingered on the center plaque of looking glass and the seven little china figures.

A sudden grin transformed on his face.

He murmured,

I'll see no one plays tricks tonight at any rate.

Crossing the room,

He locked the door to the pantry.

Then going through the other door to the hall,

He pulled the door too.

Locked it and slipped the key into his pocket.

Then,

Extinguishing the lights,

He hurried up the stairs and into his new bedroom.

There was only one possible hiding place in it,

The tall wardrobe,

And he looked into that immediately.

Then,

Locking and bolting the door,

He prepared for bed.

He said to himself,

No more china soldier tricks tonight,

I've seen to that.

That concludes chapter 10.

Chapter 11.

1.

Philip Lombard had the habit of waking at daybreak.

He did so on this particular morning.

He raised himself on an elbow and listened.

The wind had somewhat abated,

But was still blowing.

He could hear no sound of rain.

At eight o'clock,

The wind was blowing more strongly,

But Lombard did not hear it.

He was asleep again.

At nine thirty,

He was still sitting on the edge of his bed,

Looking at his watch.

He put it to his ear.

Then his lips drew back from his teeth in that curious wolf-like smile characteristic of the man.

He said very softly,

I think the time has come to do something about this.

At twenty-five minutes to ten,

He was tapping on the closed door of Bloor's room.

The ladder opened it cautiously.

His hair was tussled and his eyes were still dim with sleep.

Philip Lombard said affably,

Sleep in the clock round,

Well,

Shows you've got an easy conscious.

Bloor said shortly,

What's the matter?

Lombard answered,

Anybody called you or brought you any tea?

Do you know what time it is?

Bloor looked over his shoulder at a small travelling clock by his bedside.

He said,

Twenty-five to ten,

Wouldn't have believed I could have slept like that.

Where's Rogers?

Philip Lombard said,

It's a case of echo answers here.

What do you mean?

Asked the other sharply.

Lombard said,

I mean that Rogers is missing.

He isn't in his room or anywhere else and there's no kettle on and the kitchen fire isn't even lit.

Bloor swore under his breath.

He said,

Where the devil can he be,

Out on the island somewhere?

Wait till I get some clothes on,

See if the others know anything.

Philip Lombard nodded,

He moved along the line of closed doors.

He found Armstrong up and nearly dressed.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave,

Like Bloor,

Had to be roused from sleep.

Vera Cleethorn was dressed,

Emily Brent's room was empty.

The little party moved through the house.

Rogers' room,

As Philip Lombard had already ascertained,

Was unattended.

The bed had been slept in and his razor and sponge and soap were wet.

Lombard said,

He got up all right.

Vera said in a low voice,

Which he tried to make firm and assured,

You don't think he's hiding somewhere,

Waiting for us?

Lombard said,

My dear girl,

I'm prepared to think anything of anyone.

My advice is that we keep together until we find him.

Armstrong said,

He must be out on the island somewhere.

Bloor,

Who had joined them,

Dressed,

But still unshaved,

Said,

Where's Miss Brent got to?

That's another mystery.

But as they arrived in the hall,

Emily Brent came through the front door.

She had on a Macintosh.

She said,

The sea is as high as ever,

I shouldn't think any boat could get put out today.

Bloor said,

Have you been wondering about the island alone,

Miss Brent?

Don't you realize that that's an exceedingly foolish thing to do?

Emily Brent said,

I assure you,

Mr.

Bloor,

That I kept an extremely sharp lookout.

Bloor grunted,

He said,

Seen anything of Rogers?

Miss Brent's eyebrows rose.

Rogers?

No,

I haven't seen him this morning.

Why?

Mr.

Justice Wargrave,

Shaved,

Dressed,

And with his false teeth in position,

Came down the stairs.

He moved to the open dining room door.

He said,

Ha,

Lay the table for breakfast,

I see,

Lombard said.

He might have done that last night.

They all moved inside the room,

Looking at the neatly set plates and cutlery,

At the row of cups on the sideboard,

At the felt mats placed ready for the coffee urn.

It was Vera who saw it first.

She caught the judge's arm,

And the grip of her athletic fingers made the old gentleman wince.

She cried out,

The soldiers,

Look!

There were only six china figures in the middle of the table.

They found him shortly afterwards.

He was in the little wash house across the yard.

He had been chopping sticks in preparation for lighting the kitchen fire.

The small chopper was still in his hand.

A big chopper,

A heavy affair,

Was leaning against the door.

The metal of it stained a dull brown.

It corresponded only too well with the deep wound in the back of Roger's head.

Perfectly clear,

Said Armstrong.

The murderer must have crept up behind him,

Swung the chopper once,

And brought it down on his head as he was bending over.

Blore was busy on the handle of the chopper and the flour sifter from the kitchen.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave asked,

Would it have needed great force,

Doctor?

Armstrong said gravely,

A woman could have done it,

If that's what you mean.

He gave a quick glance around.

Vera Claythorne and Emily Brent had retired to the kitchen.

The girl could have done it easily.

She's an athletic type.

In appearance,

Miss Brent is fragile looking,

But that type of woman has often a lot of wiry strength.

And you must remember that anyone who's mentally unhinged has a good deal of unsuspected strength.

The judge nodded thoughtfully.

Blore rose to his knees with a sigh.

He said,

No fingerprints.

Handle was wiped afterwards.

A sound of laughter was heard.

They turned sharply.

Vera Claythorne was standing in the yard.

She cried out in a high,

Shrill voice,

Shaken with wild bursts of laughter.

Do they keep bees on this island?

Tell me that.

Where do we go for honey?

Ha ha.

They stared at her uncomprehendedly.

It was as though the sane,

Well-balanced girl had gone mad before their eyes.

She went on in that high,

Unnatural voice.

Don't stare like that,

As though you thought I was mad.

It's sane enough what I'm asking.

Bees,

Hives,

Bees.

Oh,

Don't you understand?

Haven't you read that idiotic rhyme?

It's up in all your bedrooms,

Put there for you to study.

We might have come here straightaway if we'd had sense.

Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks.

And the next verse.

I know the whole thing by heart,

I tell you.

Six little soldier boys playing with a hive.

And that's why I'm asking.

Do they keep bees on this island?

Isn't it funny?

Isn't it dang funny?

She began laughing wildly again.

Dr.

Armstrong strode forward.

He raised his hand and struck her a flat blow on the cheek.

She gasped,

Hiccuped,

And swallowed.

She stood motionless a minute.

Then she said,

Thank you,

I'm all right now.

Her voice was once more calm and controlled.

The voice of the efficient games mistress.

She turned and went across the yard into the kitchen,

Saying,

Miss Brent and I are getting you breakfast.

Can you bring some sticks to light the fire?

The marks of the doctor's hand stood out red on her cheek.

As she went into the kitchen,

Bloor said,

Well,

You dealt with that all right,

Doctor.

Armstrong said apologetically,

Had to.

We can't cope with hysteria on the top of everything else.

Philip Lombard said,

She's not a hysterical type.

Armstrong agreed.

Oh,

No.

Good,

Healthy,

Sensible girl.

Just the sudden shock.

It might happen to anybody.

Rogers had chopped a certain amount of firewood before he had been killed.

They gathered it up and took it into the kitchen.

Vera and Emily Brent were busy.

Miss Brent was raking out the stove.

Vera was cutting the rind off the bacon.

Emily Brent said,

Thank you.

We'll be as quick as we can.

Say half an hour to three quarters.

The kettle's got to boil.

Four.

Ex-Inspector Bloor said in a low,

Hoarse voice to Philip Lombard,

Know what I'm thinking?

Philip Lombard said,

As you're just about to tell me,

It's not worth the trouble of guessing.

Ex-Inspector Bloor was an earnest man.

A light touch was incomprehensible to him.

He went on heavily.

There was a case in America.

Old gentleman and his wife both killed with an axe.

Middle of the morning.

Nobody in the house but the daughter and the maid.

Maid,

It was proved,

Couldn't have done it.

Daughter was a respectable middle-aged spinster.

Seemed incredible.

So incredible that they acquitted her.

But they never found any other explanation.

He paused.

I thought of that when I saw the axe.

And then when I went into the kitchen and saw her there,

So neat and calm.

Hadn't turned a hair.

That girl,

Coming all over hysterical.

Well,

That's natural.

The sort of thing you'd expect.

Don't you think so?

Philip Lombard said laconically,

It might be.

Bloor went on.

But the other,

So neat and prim.

Wrapped up in that apron.

Mrs.

Rogers' apron.

I suppose,

Saying,

Breakfast will be ready in half an hour or so.

If you ask me,

That woman's as mad as a hatter.

Lots of elderly spinsters go that way.

I don't mean go in for homicide on a grand scale,

But go queer in their heads.

Unfortunately,

It's taken her this way.

Religious mania.

Think she's God's instrument.

Something of that kind.

She sits in her room,

You know,

Reading her Bible.

Philip Lombard sighed and said,

That's hardly proof positive of an unbalanced mentality,

Bloor.

But Bloor went on.

Plottingly.

Perseveringly.

And then she was out.

In her Macintosh.

Said she'd been down to look at the sea.

The other shook his head.

He said,

Rogers was killed as he was chopping firewood.

That is to say,

First thing when he got up.

Then Brent wouldn't have needed to wonder about outside for hours afterwards.

If you ask me,

The murderer of Rogers would take jolly good care to be rolled up in bed snoring.

Bloor said,

You're missing the point,

Mr.

Lombard.

If the woman was innocent,

She'd be too dead scared to go wondering about by herself.

She'd only do that if she knew that she had nothing to fear.

That's to say,

If she herself is the criminal.

Philip Lombard said,

That's a good point.

Yes.

I hadn't thought of that.

He added with a faint grin,

Glad you don't suspect me.

Bloor said rather shamefacedly,

I did start by thinking of you.

That revolver and the queer story you told,

Or didn't tell.

But I've realized now that that was really a bit too obvious.

He paused and said,

Hope you feel the same about me.

Philip said thoughtfully,

I may be wrong,

Of course,

But I can't feel that you've got enough imagination for this job.

All I can say is,

If you're the criminal,

You're a dang fine actor,

And I take my hat off to you.

He lowered his voice.

Just between ourselves,

Bloor,

And taking into account that we'll probably both be a couple of stiffs before another day is out,

You did indulge in that spot of perjury,

I suppose.

Bloor shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

He said at last,

Doesn't seem to make much odds now.

Oh well,

Here goes.

Lander was innocent right enough.

The gang had got me squared and between us,

We'd got him put away for a stretch.

Mind you,

I wouldn't admit this.

If there were any witnesses,

Finished Lombard with a grin,

It's just between you and me.

Well,

I hope you made a tidy bit out of it.

Didn't make what I should have done.

Mean crowd.

The Purcell gang.

I got my promotion though.

And Lindor got penal servitude and died in prison.

I couldn't know he was going to die.

Could I?

Demanded Bloor.

No,

That was your bad luck.

Mine?

His you mean?

Yours too.

Because as a result of it,

It looks as though your own life is going to be cut unpleasantly short.

Me?

Bloor stared at him.

Do you think I'm going to go the way of Rogers and the rest of them?

Not me.

I'm watching out for myself pretty carefully,

I can tell you.

Lombard said,

Oh well,

I'm not a bidding man.

And anyway,

If you were dead,

I wouldn't get paid.

Look here,

Mr.

Lombard.

What do you mean?

Philip Lombard showed his teeth.

He said,

I mean,

My dear Bloor,

That in my opinion,

You haven't got a chance.

What?

Your lack of imagination is going to make you absolutely a sitting target.

A criminal of the imagination of you and Owen can make rings around you anytime he or she wants to.

Bloor's face went crimson.

He demanded angrily,

And what about you?

Philip Lombard's face went hard and dangerous.

He said,

I've got a pretty good imagination of my own.

I've been in tight places before now and got out of them.

I think,

I won't say more than that,

But I think I'll get out of this one.

Five The eggs were in the frying pan.

Vera,

Toasting bread,

Thought to herself,

Why did I make a hysterical fool of myself?

That was a mistake.

Keep calm,

My girl.

Keep calm.

After all,

She'd always prided herself on her level-headedness.

Miss Claythorne was wonderful.

Kept her head.

Started off swimming after Cyril at once.

Why think of that now?

All that was over.

Over.

Cyril had disappeared long before she got to the rock.

She had felt the current take her,

Sweeping her out to sea.

She had let herself go with it,

Swimming quietly,

Floating till the boat arrived at last.

They had praised her courage and her sang-froid,

But not Hugo.

Hugo had just looked at her.

God,

How it hurt,

Even now,

To think of Hugo.

Where was he?

What was he doing?

Was he engaged?

Married?

Emily Brent said sharply,

Vera,

That toast is burning.

Oh,

Sorry,

Miss Brent.

So it is.

How stupid of me.

Emily Brent lifted out the last egg from the sizzling fat.

Vera,

Putting a fresh piece of bread on the toasting fork,

Said curiously,

You're wonderfully calm,

Miss Brent.

Emily Brent said,

Pressing her lips together.

I was brought up to keep my head and never make a fuss.

Vera thought mechanically.

Repressed as a child,

That accounts for a lot.

She said,

Aren't you afraid?

She paused and then added,

Or don't you mind dying?

Dying.

It was as though a sharp little gimlet had run into the solid,

Congealed mess of Emily Brent's brain.

Dying.

But she wasn't going to die.

The others would die,

Yes,

But not she,

Emily Brent.

This girl didn't understand.

Emily wasn't afraid,

Naturally.

None of the Brents were afraid.

All her people were service people.

They faced death unflinchingly.

They led upright lives just as she,

Emily Brent,

Had led an upright life.

She had never done anything to be ashamed of.

And so,

Naturally,

She wasn't going to die.

The Lord is mindful of his own.

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night,

Nor for the arrow that flyeth by day.

It was daylight now.

There was no terror.

We shall none of us leave this island.

Who said that?

General MacArthur,

Of course,

Whose cousin had married Elsie MacPherson.

He hadn't seemed to care.

He had seemed,

Actually,

To welcome the idea.

Wicked,

Almost impious to feel that way.

Some people thought so little of death that they actually took their own lives.

Beatrice Taylor,

Last night she had dreamed of Beatrice,

Dreamt that she was outside pressing her face against the window and moaning,

Asking to be let in.

But Emily Brent hadn't wanted to let her in.

Because if she did,

Something terrible would happen.

Emily came to herself with a start.

That girl was looking at her very strangely.

She said in a brisk voice,

Everything's ready,

Isn't it?

We'll take the breakfast in.

Six.

Breakfast was a curious meal.

Everyone was very polite.

May I get you some more coffee,

Miss Brent?

Miss Claythorne,

A slice of ham?

Another piece of toast?

Six people,

All outwardly self-possessed and normal.

And within,

Thoughts that ran round in a circle,

Like squirrels in a cage.

What next?

What next?

Who?

Which?

Would it work?

I wonder.

It's worth trying.

If there's time.

My God,

If there's time.

Religious mania that ticket.

Looking at her,

Though you can hardly believe it.

Suppose I'm wrong.

It's crazy.

Everything's crazy.

I'm going crazy.

Wool disappearing.

Red silk curtains.

It doesn't make sense.

I can't get the hang of it.

The dang fool.

He believed every word I said to him.

It was easy.

I must be careful,

Though.

Very careful.

Six of those little china figures.

Only six.

How many will there be by tonight?

Who'll have the last egg?

Marmalade?

Thanks.

Can I cut you some bread?

Six people behaving normally at breakfast.

That concludes chapter eleven.

Chapter twelve.

One.

The meal was over.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave cleared his throat.

He said in a small authoritative voice.

It would be advisable,

I think,

If we met to discuss the situation.

Shall we say in half an hour's time in the drawing room?

Everyone made a sound suggestive of agreement.

Vera began to pile plates together.

She said,

I'll clear away and wash up.

Philip Lombard said,

We'll bring the stuff out to the pantry for you.

Thanks.

Emily Brent,

Rising to her feet,

Sat down again.

She said,

Oh,

Dear.

The judge said,

Anything the matter,

Miss Brent?

Emily said apologetically,

I'm sorry.

I'd like to help Miss Claythorne,

But I don't know how it is.

I feel just a little giddy.

Giddy,

Eh?

Dr.

Armstrong came towards her.

Quite natural.

Delayed shock.

I can give you something,

Too.

No.

The word burst from her lips like an exploding shell.

It took everyone aback.

Dr.

Armstrong flushed a deep red.

There was no mistaking the fear and suspicion in her face.

He said stiffly,

Just as you please,

Miss Brent.

She said,

I don't wish to take anything,

Anything at all.

I will just sit here quietly till the giddiness passes off.

They finished clearing away the breakfast things.

Bloor said,

I'm a domestic sort of man.

I'll give you a hand,

Miss Claythorne.

Vera said,

Thank you.

Emily Brent was left alone sitting in the dining room.

For a while,

She heard a faint murmur of voices from the pantry.

The giddiness was passing.

She felt drowsy now,

As though she could easily go to sleep.

There was a buzzing in her ears.

Or was it a real buzzing in the room?

She thought,

It's like a bee.

A bumblebee.

Presently,

She saw the bee.

It was crawling up the window pane.

Vera Claythorne had talked about bees this morning.

Bees and honey.

She liked honey.

Honey in the comb,

And strain it yourself through a muslin bag.

Drip,

Drip,

Drip.

There was somebody in the room.

Somebody all wet and dripping.

Beatrice Taylor come from the river.

She had only to turn her head and she would see.

But she couldn't turn her head.

If she were to call out.

But she couldn't call out.

There was no one else in the house.

She was all alone.

She heard footsteps.

Soft dragging footsteps coming up behind her.

The stumbling footsteps of the drowned girl.

There was a wet dank smell in her nostrils.

On the window pane,

The bee was buzzing.

Buzzing.

And she felt the prick.

The bee sting on the side of her neck.

Two In the drawing room,

They were waiting for Emily Brent.

Vera Claythorne said,

Shall I go and fetch her?

Bloor said quickly.

Just a minute.

Vera sat down again.

Everyone looked inquiringly at Bloor.

He said,

Look here,

Everybody.

My opinion's this.

We needn't look farther for the author of these deaths than the dining room at this minute.

I take my oath that woman's the one we're after.

Armstrong said,

And the motive?

Religious mania.

What do you say,

Doctor?

Armstrong said,

It's perfectly possible.

I've nothing to say against it.

But of course we've no proof.

Vera said,

She was very odd in the kitchen when we were getting breakfast.

Her eyes.

She shivered.

Lombard said,

You can't judge her by that.

We're all a bit off our heads by now.

Bloor said,

There's another thing.

She's the only one who wouldn't give an explanation after the gramophone record.

Why?

Because she hadn't any to give.

Vera stirred in her chair.

She said,

That's not quite true.

She told me.

Afterwards.

Wargrave said,

What did she tell you,

Miss Claythorne?

Vera repeated the story of Beatrice Taylor.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave observed,

A perfectly straightforward story.

I personally should have no difficulty in accepting it.

Tell me,

Miss Claythorne.

Did she appear to be troubled by a sense of guilt or feeling of remorse for her attitude in the matter?

None whatever,

Said Vera.

She was completely unmoved.

Bloor said,

Hearts as hard as flints,

These righteous spinsters.

Envy,

Mostly.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

It is now five minutes to eleven.

I think we should summon Miss Brent to join our conclave.

Bloor said,

Aren't you going to take any action?

The judge said,

I failed to see what action we can take.

Our suspicions are,

At the moment,

Only suspicions.

I will,

However,

Ask Dr.

Armstrong to observe Miss Brent's demeanor very carefully.

Let us now go into the dining room.

They found Emily Brent,

Sitting in the chair in which they had left her.

From behind,

They saw nothing amiss,

Except,

That she did not seem to hear their entrance into the room.

And then,

They saw her face,

Suffused with blood,

With blue lips,

And starting eyes.

Bloor said,

My God,

She's dead.

Three.

The small quiet voice of Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

One more of us acquitted,

And,

Too late.

Armstrong was bent over the dead woman.

He sniffed the lips,

Shook his head,

Peered into the eyelids.

Lombard said impatiently,

How did she die,

Doctor?

She was all right when we left her here.

Armstrong's attention was riveted on a mark on the side of her neck.

He said,

That's the mark of a hypodermic syringe.

There was a buzzing sound from the window.

Vera cried,

Look,

A bee,

A bumblebee.

Remember what I said this morning?

Armstrong said grimly,

It wasn't that bee that stung her.

A human hand held the syringe.

The judge asked,

Was poison injected?

Armstrong answered,

At a guess,

One of the cyanides,

Probably potassium cyanide,

Same as Anthony Marston.

She must have died almost immediately by asphyxiation.

Vera cried,

But that bee,

It can't be a coincidence.

Lombard said grimly,

Oh no,

It isn't a coincidence.

It's our murderer's touch of local color.

He's a playful beast,

Likes to stick to his damnable nursery jingle as closely as possible.

For the first time his voice was uneven,

Almost shrill.

It was as though even his nerves,

Seasoned by a long career of hazards and dangerous undertakings,

Had given out at last.

He said violently,

It's mad.

Absolutely mad.

We're all mad.

The judge said calmly,

We may still,

I hope,

Our reasoning powers.

Did anyone bring a hypodermic syringe to this house?

Dr.

Armstrong straightened himself,

Said in a voice that was not too well assured,

Yes,

I did.

Four pairs of eyes fastened on him.

He braced himself against the deep hostile suspicion of those eyes.

He said,

Always travel with one.

Most doctors do.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said calmly,

Quite so.

Will you tell us,

Doctor,

Where that syringe is now?

In the suitcase in my room.

Wargrave said,

We might,

Perhaps,

Verify that fact.

The five of them went upstairs,

A silent procession.

The contents of the suitcase were turned out on the floor.

The hypodermic syringe was not there.

Four Armstrong said violently,

Somebody must have taken it.

There was silence in the room.

Armstrong stood with his back to the window.

Four pairs of eyes were on him,

Black with suspicion and accusation.

He looked from Wargrave to Vera and repeated helplessly,

Weakly,

I tell you,

Someone must have taken it.

Blore was looking at Lombard,

Who returned his gaze.

The judge said,

There are five of us in this room.

One of us is a murderer.

The position is fraught with grave danger.

Everything must be done in order to safeguard the four of us who are innocent.

I will ask you now,

Dr.

Armstrong,

What drugs have you in your possession?

Armstrong replied,

I have a small medicine case here.

You can examine it.

You will find some sleeping stuff,

Trional and sulfonyl tablets,

A pack of bromide,

Bicarbonate of sodium,

Aspirin,

Nothing else.

I have no cyanide in my possession.

The judge said,

I have,

Myself,

Some sleeping tablets,

Sulfonyl,

I think they are.

I presume they would be lethal if a sufficiently large dose were given.

You,

Mr.

Lombard,

Have in your possession a revolver.

Philip Lombard said sharply,

What if I have?

Only this.

I propose that the doctor's supply of drugs,

My own sulfonyl tablets,

Your revolver,

And anything else of nature of drugs or firearms Should be collected together and placed in a safe place.

That after this is done,

We should each of us submit to a search,

Both of our persons and of our effects.

Lombard said,

I'll be damned if I give up my revolver.

Wargrave said sharply,

Mr.

Lombard,

You are a very strongly built and powerful young man,

But Ex-Inspector Bloor is also a man of powerful physique.

I do not know what the outcome of a struggle between you would be,

But I can tell you this,

On Bloor's side,

Assisting him to the best of our ability will be myself,

Dr.

Armstrong,

And Miss Claythorne.

You will appreciate,

Therefore,

That the odds against you,

If you choose to resist,

Will be somewhat heavy.

Lombard threw his head back.

His teeth showed in what was almost a snarl.

Oh,

Very well then,

Since you've all got it taped out.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave nodded his head.

You are a sensible young man.

Where is this revolver of yours?

In the drawer of the table of my bed.

Good.

I'll fetch it.

I think it would be desirable if we went with you,

Philip said with a smile,

That was still nearer a snarl.

Suspicious devil,

Aren't you?

They went along the corridor to Lombard's room.

Philip strode across to the bed table And jerked open the drawer.

Then he recoiled with an oath.

The drawer of the bed table was empty.

Satisfied?

Asked Lombard.

He had stripped to the skin And he and his room had been meticulously searched By the other three men.

Miss Claythorne was outside in the corridor.

The search proceeded methodically.

In turn,

Armstrong,

The judge,

And Bloor Submitted to the same test.

The four men emerged from Bloor's room And approached Vera.

It was the judge who spoke.

I hope you understand,

Miss Claythorne,

That we can make no exceptions.

That revolver must be found.

You have,

I presume,

A bathing dress with you?

Vera nodded.

Then I will ask you to go into your room And put it on,

And then come out to us here.

Vera went into her room and shut the door.

She reappeared in under a minute,

Dressed in a tight-fitting,

Silk-rugged bathing dress.

Wargrave nodded approval.

Thank you,

Miss Claythorne.

Now if you will remain here,

We will search your room.

Vera waited patiently in the corridor until they emerged.

Then she went in,

Dressed,

And came out to where they were waiting.

The judge said,

We are now assured of one thing.

There are no lethal weapons or drugs in the possession of any of us five.

That is one point to be good.

We will now place the drugs in a safe place.

There is,

I think,

A silver chest,

Is there not,

In the pantry?

Blore said,

That's all very well,

But who's to have the key?

You,

I suppose?

Mr.

Justice Wargrave made no reply.

He went down to the pantry,

And the others followed.

There was a small case there designed for the purpose of holding silver plates.

By the judge's directions,

The various drugs were placed in this,

And it was locked.

Then,

Still on Wargrave's instructions,

The chest was lifted into the plate cupboard,

And this,

In turn,

Was locked.

The judge then gave the key of the chest to Philip Lombard,

And the key to the cupboard to Blore.

He said,

You two are the strongest physically.

It would be difficult for either of you to get the key from the other.

It would be impossible for any of us three to do so.

To break open the cupboard or the plate chest would be a noisy and cumbersome proceeding,

And one which could hardly be carried out without any attention being attracted to what was going on.

He paused,

Then went on.

We are still faced by one very grave problem.

What has become of Mr.

Lombard's revolver?

Blore said,

Seems to me its owner is the most likely person to know that.

A white dent showed in Philip Lombard's nostrils.

He said,

You dank pig-headed fool.

I tell you it's been stolen from me.

Wargrave asked,

When did you see it last?

Last night.

It was in the drawer when I went to bed,

Ready in case anything happened.

The judge nodded.

He said,

It must have been taken this morning during the confusion of searching for Rogers,

Or after his dead body was discovered.

Vera said,

It must be hidden somewhere about the house.

We must look for it.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave's finger was stroking his chin.

He said,

I doubt if our search will result in anything.

Our murderer has had plenty of time to devise a hiding place.

I do not fancy we shall find that revolver easily.

Blore said forcefully,

I don't know where the revolver is,

But I'll bet I know where something else is.

That hypodermic syringe.

Follow me.

He opened the front door and led the way around the house.

A little distance away from the dining room window,

He found the syringe.

Beside it was a smashed china figure,

A sixth broken soldier boy.

Blore said in a satisfied voice,

Only place it could be.

After he'd killed her,

He opened the window and threw out the syringe and picked up the china figure from the table and followed on with that.

There were no prints on the syringe.

It had been carefully wiped.

Vera said in a determined voice,

Now let us look for the revolver.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

By all means,

But in doing so,

Let us be careful to keep together.

Remember,

If we separate,

The murderer gets his chance.

They searched the house carefully from attic to cellars,

But without result,

The revolver was still missing.

That concludes chapter 12.

Chapter 13 ONE One of us,

One of us,

One of us.

Three words,

Endlessly repeated,

Dinning themselves hour after hour into receptive brains.

Five people,

Five frightened people.

Five people who watched each other,

Who now hardly troubled to hide their state of nervous tension.

There was little pretense now,

No formal veneer of conversation.

They were five enemies linked together by a mutual instinct of self-preservation.

And all of them,

Suddenly,

Looked less like human beings.

They were reverting to more bestial types,

Like a weary old tortoise.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave sat hunched up,

His body motionless,

His eyes keen and alert.

Ex-Inspector Bloor looked coarser and clumsier in build.

His walk was that of a slow-panning animal.

His eyes were bloodshot.

There was a look of mingled ferocity and stupidity about him.

He was like a beast at bay,

Ready to charge his pursuers.

Philip Lombard's senses seemed heightened rather than diminished.

His ears reacted to the slightest sound.

His step was lighter and quicker.

His body was lithe and graceful.

And he smiled often,

His lips curling back from his long white teeth.

Vera Claythorne was very quiet.

She sat most of the time huddled in a chair.

Her eyes stared ahead of her into space.

She looked dazed.

She was like a bird that has dashed its head against glass and that has been picked up by a human hand.

It crouches there,

Terrified,

Unable to move,

Hoping to save itself by its immobility.

Armstrong was in a pitiable condition of nerves.

He twished and his hands shook.

He lighted cigarette after cigarette and stubbed them out almost immediately.

The force and action of their position seemed to gall him more than the others.

Every now and then,

He broke out into a torrent of nervous speech.

We shouldn't just sit here and do nothing.

There must be something.

Surely,

Surely there is something that we can do.

If we lit a bonfire.

Blore said heavily.

In this weather?

The rain was pouring down again.

The wind came in fitful gusts.

The depressing sound of the pattering rain nearly drove them mad.

By tacit consent,

They had adopted a plan of campaign.

They all sat in the big drawing room.

Only one person left the room at a time.

The other four waited till the fifth returned.

Lombard said,

It's only a question of time.

The weather will clear,

Then we can do something.

Signal,

Light fires,

Make a raft,

Something.

Armstrong said with a sudden cackle of laughter.

A question of time?

Time?

We can't afford time.

We shall all be dead.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

And his small,

Clear voice was heavy with passionate determination.

Not if we are careful.

We must be very careful.

The midday meal had been duly eaten,

But there had been no conventional formality about it.

All five of them had gone to the kitchen.

In the larder,

They had found a great store of tinned foods.

They had opened a tin of tongue and two tins of fruit.

They had eaten standing round the kitchen table.

Then,

Herding them close together,

They had returned to the drawing room to sit there.

Sit,

Watching each other.

And by now the thoughts that ran through their brains were abnormal,

Feverish,

Diseased.

It's Armstrong.

I saw him looking at me sideways just then.

His eyes are mad,

Quite mad.

Perhaps he isn't a doctor at all.

That's it,

Of course.

He's a lunatic.

Escaped from some doctor's house,

Pretending to be a doctor.

It's true.

Shall I tell them?

Shall I scream it out?

No,

It won't do to put him on his guard.

Besides,

He can seem so sane.

What time is it?

Only a quarter past three.

Oh God,

I shall go mad myself.

Yes,

It's Armstrong.

He's watching me now.

They won't get me.

I can take care of myself.

I've been in tight places before.

Where the hell is that revolver?

Who took it?

Who's got it?

Nobody's got it.

We know that.

We were all searched.

Nobody can have it.

But someone knows where it is.

They're going mad.

They're all going mad.

Afraid of death.

We're all afraid of death.

I'm afraid of death.

Yes,

But that doesn't stop death coming.

The hearse is at the door,

Sir.

Where did I read that?

The girl.

I'll watch the girl.

Yes,

I'll watch the girl.

Twenty to four.

Only twenty to four.

Perhaps the clock has stopped.

I don't understand.

No,

I don't understand.

This sort of thing can't happen.

It is happening.

Why don't we wake up?

Wake up.

Judgment day.

No,

Not that.

If only I could think.

My head.

Something's happening in my head.

It's going to burst.

It's going to split.

This sort of thing can't happen.

What's the time?

Oh,

God.

It's only a quarter to four.

I must keep my head.

I must keep my head.

If only I keep my head.

It's all perfectly clear.

All worked out.

But nobody must suspect.

It may do the trick.

It must.

Which one?

That's the question.

Which one?

I think.

Yes.

I rather think.

Yes.

Him.

When the clock struck five,

They all jumped.

Vera said,

Does anyone want tea?

There was a moment's silence.

Blore said,

I'd like a cup.

Vera rose.

She said,

I'll go make it.

You can all stay here.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said gently,

I think,

My dear young lady,

We would all prefer to come and watch you make it.

Vera stared,

Then gave a short,

Rather hysterical laugh.

She said,

Of course,

You would.

Five people went into the kitchen.

Tea was made and drunk by Vera and Blore.

The other three had whiskey.

Opening a fresh bottle and using a siphon from a nailed up case.

The judge murmured with a reptilian smile,

We must be very careful.

They went back again to the drawing room.

Although it was summer,

The room was dark.

Lombard switched on the lights,

But they did not come on.

He said,

Of course,

The engine has not been run today since Rogers hasn't been there to see it.

He hesitated and said,

We could go out and get it going,

I suppose.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

There are packets of candles in the larder.

I saw them,

Better use those.

Lombard went out.

The other four sat watching each other.

He came back with a box of candles and a pile of saucers.

Five candles were lit and placed about the room.

The time was a quarter to six.

Two At twenty past six,

Vera felt that to sit longer was unbearable.

She would go to her room and bathe her aching head and temples in cold water.

She got up and went towards the door.

Then she remembered and came back and got a candle out of the box.

She lighted it,

Let a little wax pour into a saucer and stuck the candle firmly to it.

Then she went out of the room,

Shutting the door behind her and leaving the four men inside.

She went up the stairs and along the passage to her room.

As she opened the door,

She suddenly halted and stood stuck still.

Her nostrils quivered.

The sea.

The smell of the sea at St.

Tretinic.

That was it.

She could not be mistaken.

Of course,

One smelt the sea on an island anyway,

But this was different.

It was the smell there had been on the beach that day,

With the tide out and the rocks covered with seaweed drying in the sun.

Can I swim out to the island,

Miss Claythorne?

Why can't I swim out to the island?

Horrid,

Whiny,

Spalter little brat.

If it weren't for him,

Hugo would be rich,

Able to marry the girl he loved.

Hugo.

Surely.

Surely Hugo was beside her.

No,

Waiting for her in the room.

She made a step forward.

The draft from the window caught the flame of the candle.

It flickered and went out.

In the dark,

She was suddenly afraid.

Don't be a fool,

Vera Claythorne urged herself.

It's all right.

The others are downstairs.

All four of them.

There's no one in the room.

There can't be.

You're imagining things,

My girl.

But that smell,

That smell of the beach at St.

Tretinac,

That wasn't imagined.

It was true.

And there was someone in the room.

She had heard something.

Surely she had heard something.

And then,

As she stood there,

Listening,

A cold,

Clammy hand touched her throat.

A wet hand,

Smelling of the sea.

Vera screamed.

She screamed and screamed.

Screams of the utmost terror.

Wild,

Desperate cries for help.

She did not hear the sounds from below.

A chair being overturned.

Of a door opening.

Of men's feet running up the stairs.

She was conscious only of supreme terror.

Then,

Restoring her sanity,

Lights flickered in the doorway.

Candles.

Men hurrying into the room.

What the devil?

What's happened?

Good God,

What is it?

She shuddered.

Took a step forward.

Collapsed on the floor.

She was only half aware of someone bending over her.

Of someone forcing her head down between her knees.

Then at a sudden exclamation,

A quick,

My God,

Look at that!

Her senses returned.

She opened her eyes and raised her head.

She saw what it was.

The men with the candles were looking at.

A broad ribbon of wet seaweed was hanging down from the ceiling.

It was that which in the darkness had swayed against her throat.

It was that which she had taken for a clammy hand.

A drowned hand.

Come back from the dead to squeeze the life out of her.

She began to laugh hysterically.

She said,

It was seaweed?

Only seaweed?

And that's what the smell was.

And then the faintness came over her once more.

Waves upon waves of sickness.

Again someone took her head and forced it between her knees.

Eons of time seemed to pass.

They were offering her something to drink,

Pressing the glass against her lips.

She smelled brandy.

She was just about to gulp the spirit gratefully down when suddenly a warning note,

Like an alarm bell,

Sounded in her brain.

She sat up,

Pushing the glass away.

She said sharply,

Where did this come from?

Blore's voice answered.

He stared a minute before speaking.

He said,

I got it from downstairs.

Vera cried,

I won't drink it.

There was a moment's silence.

Then Lombard laughed.

He said with appreciation,

Good for you,

Vera.

You've got your wits about you.

Even if you have been scared half out of your life,

I'll get a fresh bottle that hasn't been opened.

He went swiftly out.

Vera said uncertainly,

I'm all right now.

I'll have some water.

Armstrong supported her as she struggled to her feet.

She went over to the basin,

Swaying and clutching at him for support.

She let the cold tap run and then filled the glass.

Blore said resentfully,

That brandy's all right.

Armstrong said,

How do you know?

Blore said angrily,

I didn't put anything in it.

That's what you're getting at,

I suppose.

Armstrong said,

I'm not saying you did.

You might have done,

Or someone might have tampered with the bottle for just this emergency.

Lombard came swiftly back into the room.

He had a new bottle of brandy in his hands and a corkscrew.

He thrust the sealed bottle under Vera's nose.

There you are,

My girl.

Absolutely no deception.

He peeled off the tin foil and drew the cork.

Lucky there's a good supply of spirits in this house.

Thoughtful of you and Owen.

Vera shuddered violently.

Armstrong held the glass while Philip poured the brandy into it.

He said,

You'd better drink this,

Miss Claythorne.

You've had a nasty shock.

Vera drank a little of the spirit.

The color came back to her face.

Philip Lombard said with a laugh,

Well,

Here's one murder that hasn't gone according to plan.

Vera said,

Almost in a whisper,

You think that was what was meant?

Lombard nodded.

Expected you to pass out through fright.

Some people would have,

Wouldn't they,

Doctor?

Armstrong did not commit himself.

He said doubtfully,

Hmm,

Impossible to say.

Young healthy subject.

No cardiac weakness.

Unlikely.

On the other hand.

.

.

He picked up the glass of brandy that Bloor had brought.

He dipped a finger in it.

Tasted it gingerly.

His expression did not alter.

He said dubiously,

Hmm,

Tastes alright.

Bloor stepped forward angrily.

He said,

If you're saying I tampered with that,

I'll knock your ruddy block off.

Vera,

Her wits revived by the brandy,

Made a diversion by saying,

Where's the judge?

The three men looked at each other.

That's odd.

Thought he came up with us.

Bloor said,

So did I.

What about it,

Doctor?

You came up the stairs behind me?

Armstrong said,

I thought he was following me.

Of course,

He'd be bound to go slower than we did.

He's an old man.

They looked at each other again.

Lombard said,

That's dang odd.

Bloor cried,

We must look for him.

He started for the door.

The others followed him.

Vera last.

As they went down the stairs,

Armstrong set over his shoulder.

Of course,

He may have stayed in the living room.

They crossed the hall.

Armstrong called out loudly,

Wargrave?

Wargrave?

Where are you?

There was no answer.

A deadly silence filled the house.

Apart from the gentle patter of the rain.

Then,

In the entrance of the drawing room door,

Armstrong stopped dead.

The others crowded up and looked over his shoulder.

Somebody cried out.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave was sitting in his high-backed chair at the end of the room.

Two candles burnt on either side of him.

But what shocked and startled the onlookers was the fact that he sat there robed in scarlet with the judge's wig upon his head.

Dr.

Armstrong motioned to the others to keep back.

He himself walked across to the silent staring figure,

Reeling a little as he walked like a drunken man.

He bent forward,

Peering into the still face.

Then,

With a swift movement,

He raised the wig.

It fell to the floor,

Revealing the high bald forehead with,

In the very middle,

A round stained mark from which something had trickled.

Dr.

Armstrong lifted a lifeless hand and felt for the pulse.

Then he turned to the others.

He said,

And his voice was expressionless,

Dead,

Far away.

He's been shot.

Blore said,

God,

The revolver!

The doctor said,

Still in the same lifeless voice.

Got him through his head,

Instantaneous.

Vera stooped to the wig.

She said,

And her voice shook with horror.

Miss Brent's missing gray wool,

Blore said,

And the scarlet curtain that was missing from the bathroom.

Vera whispered,

So this is what they wanted them for?

Suddenly,

Philip Lombard laughed,

A high,

Unnatural laugh.

Five little soldier boys going in for law.

One got in chancery,

And then there were four.

That's the end of Mr.

Bloody Justice Wargrave.

No more pronouncing sentence for him.

No more putting on the black cap.

Here's the last time he'll ever sit in court.

No more summoning up and sending innocent men to death.

How Edward Setton would laugh if he were here.

God,

How he'd laugh.

His outburst shocked and startled the others.

Vera cried,

Only this morning you said he was the one.

Philip's Lombard face changed,

Sobered.

He said in a low voice,

I know I did.

Well,

I was wrong.

Here's one more of us who's been proved innocent.

Too late.

That concludes Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

One.

They had carried Mr.

Justice Wargrave up to his room and laid him on the bed.

Then they had come down again and stood in the hall looking at each other.

Lore said heavily,

What do we do now?

Lombard said briskly,

Have something to eat.

We've got to eat,

You know.

Once again,

They went into the kitchen.

Again,

They opened the tin of tongue.

They ate mechanically,

Almost without tasting.

Vera said,

I shall never eat tongue again.

They finished the meal.

They sat round the kitchen table staring at each other.

Lore said,

Only four of us now.

Who will be next?

Armstrong stared.

He said,

Almost mechanically,

We must be very careful.

And stopped.

Lore nodded.

That's what he said,

And now he's dead.

Armstrong said,

How did it happen,

I wonder?

Lombard swore.

He said,

A damed clever double-cross.

That stuff was planted in Miss Claythorne's room,

And it worked just as it was intended to.

Everyone dashes up there thinking she's being murdered.

And so,

In the confusion,

Someone caught the old boy off his guard.

Lore said,

Why didn't anyone hear the shot?

Lombard shook his head.

Miss Claythorne was screaming.

The wind was howling.

We were running about and calling out.

No,

It wouldn't be heard.

He paused.

But that trick's not going to work again.

He'll have to try something else next.

Lore said,

He probably will.

There was an unpleasant tone in his voice.

The two men eyed each other.

Armstrong said,

Four of us,

And we don't know which.

Lore said,

I know.

Vera said,

I haven't the least doubt.

Armstrong said slowly,

I suppose I do know,

Really.

Philip Lombard said,

I think I've got a pretty good idea now.

Again,

They all looked at each other.

Vera staggered to her feet.

She said,

I feel awful.

I must go to bed.

I'm dead beat.

Lombard said,

Might as well.

No good sitting watching each other.

Lore said,

I've no objections.

The doctor murmured.

The best thing to do,

Although I doubt if any of us will sleep.

They moved to the door.

Lore said,

I wonder where that revolver is now.

Two.

They went up the stairs.

The next move was a little like a scene in a farce.

Each one of the four stood on his or her bedroom door handle.

Then,

As though at a signal,

Each one stepped into the room and pulled the door shut.

There were sounds of bolts and locks,

Of the moving of furniture.

Four frightened people were barricaded in until morning.

Three.

Philip Lombard drew a breath of relief as he turned from adjusting a chair under the door handle.

He strolled across to the dressing table.

By the light of the flickering candle,

He studied his face curiously.

He said softly to himself,

Yes,

This business has got you rattled all right.

His sudden wolf-like smile flashed out.

He undressed quickly.

He went over to his bed,

Placing his wrist watch on the table by the bed.

Then he opened the drawer of the table.

He stood there,

Staring down at the revolver that was inside it.

Four.

Vera Claythorne lay in bed.

The candle still burned beside her,

And yet she could not summon the courage to put it out.

She was afraid of the dark.

She told herself again and again,

You're all right until morning.

Nothing happened last night.

Nothing will happen tonight.

Nothing can happen.

You're locked and bolted in.

No one can come near you.

And she thought suddenly,

Of course.

I can stay here.

Stay here locked in.

Food doesn't really matter.

I can stay here,

Safely,

Till help comes.

Even if it's a day or two days.

Stay here.

Yes.

But could she stay here?

Hour after hour,

With no one to speak to.

With nothing to do but think.

She began to think of Cornwall.

Of Hugo.

Of.

.

.

Of what she'd said to Cyril.

Horrid,

Whiny little boy,

Always pestering her.

Miss Claythorne,

Why can't I swim out to the rock?

I can.

I know I can.

Was it her voice that answered?

Of course you can,

Cyril.

Really,

I know that.

Can I go then,

Miss Claythorne?

Well,

You see,

Cyril,

Your mother gets so nervous about you.

I'll tell you what.

Tomorrow you can swim out to the rock.

I'll talk to your mother on the beach and distract her attention.

And then,

When she looks for you,

There you'll be,

Standing on the rock,

Waving to her.

It will be a surprise.

Oh,

Good egg,

Miss Claythorne.

That will be a lark.

She'd said it now.

Tomorrow.

Hugo was going to Newquay.

When he came back,

It would all be over.

Yes.

But supposing it wasn't?

Supposing it went wrong?

Cyril might be rescued in time.

And then,

Then he'd say,

Miss Claythorne said I could.

Well,

What of it?

One must take some risk.

If the worst happened,

She'd praise it out.

How can you tell such a wicked lie,

Cyril?

Of course.

I never said any such thing.

They'd believe her,

All right.

Cyril often told stories.

He was an awful child.

Cyril would know,

Of course.

But that didn't matter.

And anyway,

Nothing would go wrong.

She'd pretend to swim out after him.

But she'd arrive too late.

Nobody would ever suspect.

Had Hugo suspected?

Was that why he had looked at her in that queer-off way?

Had Hugo known?

Was that why he'd gone off after the inquest so hurriedly?

He hadn't answered the one letter she had written him.

Hugo.

Vera turned restlessly in bed.

No.

No.

She mustn't think of Hugo.

It hurt too much.

That was all over.

Over and done with.

Hugo must be forgotten.

Why,

This evening,

Had she suddenly felt that Hugo was in the room with her?

She stared up at the ceiling,

Staring at the big black hook in the middle of the room.

She'd never noticed that hook before.

The seaweed had hung from that.

She shivered as she remembered the cold,

Clammy touch on her neck.

She didn't like the hook on the ceiling.

It drew your eyes.

Fascinated you.

A big black hook.

Five.

Ex-Inspector Bloor sat on the side of his bed.

His small eyes,

Red-rimmed and bloodshot,

Were alert in the solid mass of his face.

He was like a wild boar waiting to charge.

He felt no inclination to sleep.

The menace was coming very near now.

Six out of ten.

For all his sagacity,

For all his caution and astuteness,

The old judge had gone the way of the rest.

Bloor snorted with a kind of savage satisfaction.

What was it the old geezer had said?

We must be very careful.

Self-righteous smuggled hypocrite,

Sitting up in the court feeling like God Almighty.

He'd got his all right.

No more being careful for him.

And now there were four of them.

The girl,

Lombard,

Armstrong,

And himself.

Very soon another of them would go.

But it wouldn't be William Henry Bloor.

He'd see to that all right.

But the revolver.

What about the revolver?

That was the disturbing factor.

The revolver.

Bloor sat on his bed,

His brow furrowed,

His little eyes ceased and puckered while he pondered the problem of the revolver.

In the silence,

He could hear the clocks strike downstairs.

Midnight.

He relaxed a little now.

Even went so far as to lie down on his bed.

But he did not undress.

He lay there,

Thinking,

Going over the whole business from the beginning,

Methodically,

Painstakingly,

As he had been wont to do in his police officer days.

It was thoroughness that paid in the end.

The candle was burning down.

Looking to see if the matches were within easy reach of his hand,

He blew it out.

Strangely enough,

He found the darkness disquieting.

It was as though a thousand aged fears woke and struggled for supremacy in his brain.

Faces floated in the air.

The judge's face crowned with that mockery of grey wool.

The cold dead face of Mrs.

Rogers.

The convulsed purple face of Anthony Marston.

Another face.

Pale.

Spectacled.

With a straw-colored mustache.

A face that he had seen sometime or other.

But when?

Not on the island.

No.

Much longer ago than that.

Funny that he wouldn't put a name to it.

Silly sort of face,

Really.

Fellow looked a bit of a mug.

Of course,

It came to him with real shock.

Landor.

Odd to think he'd completely forgotten what Landor looked like.

Only yesterday he'd been trying to recall the fellow's face and hadn't been able to.

And now,

Here it was.

Every feature,

Clear and distinct,

As though he'd seen it only yesterday.

Landor had had a wife.

A thin slip of a woman with a worried face.

There'd been a kid,

Too.

A girl,

About fourteen.

For the first time,

He wondered what had become of them.

The revolver.

What had become of the revolver?

That was much more important.

The more he thought about it,

The more puzzled he was.

He didn't understand this revolver business.

Somebody in the house had got to that revolver.

Downstairs,

A clock struck one.

Bloor's thoughts were cut short.

He sat up in bed,

Suddenly alert.

For he had heard a sound.

A very faint sound.

Somewhere outside his bedroom door.

There was someone moving about in the darkened house.

The perspiration broke out on his forehead.

Who was it?

Moving secretly and silently along the corridors.

Someone who was up to no good.

He bet that.

Noiselessly,

In spite of his heavy build,

He dropped off the bed.

And with two strides,

And was standing by the door,

Listening.

But the sound did not come again.

Nevertheless,

Bloor was convinced that he was not mistaken.

He had heard a football just outside his door.

The hair rose slightly on his scalp.

He knew fear again.

Someone creeping about stealthily in the night.

He listened.

But the sound was not repeated.

And now a new temptation assailed him.

He wanted,

Desperately,

To go out and investigate.

If he could only see who it was prowling about in the darkness.

But to open his door would be the action of a fool.

Very likely,

That was exactly what the other was waiting for.

He might even have meant Bloor to hear what he had heard,

Counting on him coming out to investigate.

Bloor stood rigid,

Listening.

He could hear sounds everywhere now.

Cracks,

Rustles,

Mysterious whispers.

But his dogged,

Realistic brain knew them for what they were.

The creations of his own heated imagination.

And then suddenly he heard something that was not imagination.

Footsteps.

Very soft.

Very cautious.

But plainly audible to a man listening with all ears,

As Bloor was listening.

They came softly along the corridor.

Both Lombard's and Armstrong's rooms were farther from the stairhead than his.

They passed his door without hesitating or faltering.

And as they did so,

Bloor made up his mind.

He meant to see who it was.

The footsteps had definitely passed his door,

Going to the stairs.

Where was the man going?

When Bloor acted,

He acted quickly.

Surprisingly so for a man who looked so heavy and slow.

He tiptoed back to the bed,

Slipped matches back into his pocket,

Detached the plug of electric lamp by his bed,

And picked it up.

Winding the flex around it,

It was a chromium affair with a heavy ebonite base.

A useful weapon.

He sprinted noiselessly across the room,

Removed the chair from under the door handle,

And with precaution,

Unlocked and unbolted the door.

He stepped out into the corridor.

There was a faint sound in the hall below.

Bloor ran noiselessly in his stock and feet to the head of the stairs.

At that moment,

He realized why it was he had heard all those sounds so clearly.

The wind had died down completely,

And the sky must have cleared.

There was faint moonlight coming in through the landing window,

And it illuminated the hall below.

Bloor had an instantaneous glimpse of a figure just passing out through the front door.

In the act of running down the stairs in pursuit,

He paused.

Once again,

He had nearly made a fool of himself.

This was a trap,

Perhaps to lure him outside the house.

But what the other man didn't realize was that he had made a mistake and delivered himself neatly into Bloor's hands.

For,

Of the three tenanted rooms upstairs,

One must now be empty.

All that had been done was to ascertain which.

Bloor went swiftly back along the corridor.

He paused first at Dr.

Armstrong's door and tapped.

There was no answer.

He waited a minute,

Then went on to Philip Lombard's room.

Here,

The answer came at once.

Who's there?

It's Bloor.

I don't think Armstrong is in his room.

Wait a minute.

He went on to the door at the end of the corridor.

Here,

He tapped again.

Miss Claythorne?

Miss Claythorne?

Bear's voice,

Startled,

Answered him.

Who is it?

What's the matter?

It's all right,

Miss Claythorne.

Wait a minute.

I'll come back.

He raced back to Lombard's room.

The door opened as he did so.

Lombard stood there.

He held a candle in his left hand.

He had pulled on his trousers over his pajamas.

His right hand rested in the pocket of his pajama jacket.

He said sharply,

What the hell is this?

Bloor explained rapidly.

Lombard's eyes lit up.

Armstrong,

Eh?

So he's our pigeon.

He moved along to Armstrong's door.

Sorry,

Bloor,

But I don't take anything on trust.

He rapped sharply on the panel.

Armstrong?

Armstrong?

There was no answer.

Lombard dropped to his knees and peered through the keyhole.

He inserted his little finger gingerly into the lock.

He said,

Key's not in the door on the inside.

Bloor said,

That means he locked it on the outside and took it with him.

Philip nodded.

Extraordinary precaution to take.

We'll get him,

Bloor.

This time,

We'll get him.

Half a second.

He raced along to Vera's room.

Vera?

Yes.

We're hunting for Armstrong.

He's out of his room.

Whatever you do,

Don't open your door.

Understand?

Yes,

I understand.

If Armstrong comes along and says that I've been killed or Bloor's been killed,

Pay no attention.

See?

Only open your door if both Bloor and I speak to you.

Got that?

Vera said,

Yes,

I'm not a complete fool.

Lombard said,

Good.

He joined Bloor.

He said,

And now,

After him.

The hunt's up.

Bloor said,

We'd better be careful.

He's got a revolver.

Remember?

Philip Lombard,

Racing down the stairs,

Chuckled.

He said,

That's where you're wrong.

He undid the front door,

Remarking,

Let's push back,

So he could get in again easily.

He went on,

I've got that revolver.

He took it half out of his pocket and spoke,

Found it put back in my drawer tonight.

Bloor stopped dead on the doorstep.

His face changed.

Philip Lombard saw it.

Don't be a damned fool,

Bloor.

I'm not going to shoot you.

Go back and barricade yourself in if you like.

I'm going after Armstrong.

He started off into the moonlight.

Bloor,

After a minute's hesitation,

Followed him.

He thought to himself,

I suppose I'm asking for it.

After all,

He had tackled criminals armed with revolvers before now.

Whatever else he lacked,

Bloor did not lack courage.

Show him the danger,

And he would tackle it pluckily.

He was not afraid of danger in the open.

Only of danger undefined and tinged with the supernatural.

Vera,

Left to await results,

Got up and dressed.

She glanced over once or twice at the door.

It was a good solid door.

It was both bolted and locked and had an oak chair wedged under the handle.

It could not be broken open by force.

Certainly not by Dr.

Armstrong.

He was not a physically powerful man.

If she were,

Armstrong intent on murder,

It was cunning that she would employ,

Not force.

She amused herself by reflecting on the means he might employ.

He might,

As Philip had suggested,

Announce that one of the other two men was dead.

Or he might possibly pretend to be mortally wounded himself,

Might drag himself,

Groaning to her door.

There were other possibilities.

He might inform her that the house was on fire.

More,

He might actually set the house on fire.

Yes,

That would be a possibility.

Lure the other two men out of the house.

Then,

Having previously laid a trail of petrol,

He might set light to it.

And she,

Like an idiot,

Would remain barricaded in her room until it was too late.

She crossed over to the window.

Not too bad.

At a pinch,

One could escape that way.

It would mean a drop,

But there was a handy flower bed.

She sat down and picking up her diary,

Began to write in it in a clear flowing hand.

One must pass the time.

Suddenly,

She stiffened to attention.

She had heard a sound.

It was,

She thought,

A sound like breaking glass.

It came from somewhere downstairs.

She listened hard,

But the sound was not repeated.

She heard,

Or thought she heard,

Stealthy sounds of footsteps,

The creak of stairs,

The rustle of garments.

But there was nothing definite,

And she concluded,

As Bloor had done earlier,

That such sounds had their origin in her own imagination.

But presently,

She heard sounds of more concrete nature,

People moving about downstairs,

The murmur of voices,

Then the very decided sound of someone mounting the stairs,

Doors opening and shutting,

Feet going up to the attic overhead,

More noises from there.

Finally,

The steps came along the passage.

Lumbar's voice said,

Vera,

You all right?

Yes,

What happened?

Bloor's voice said,

Will you let us in?

Vera went to the door.

She removed the chair,

Unlocked the door,

And slid back the bolt.

She opened the door.

The two men were breathing hard.

Their feet and the bottom of their trousers were soaking wet.

She said again,

What's happened?

Lumbar's said,

Armstrong's disappeared.

Seven Vera cried.

What?

Lumbar's said.

Vanished.

Clean off the island.

Clean off the island.

Bloor concurred.

Vanished.

That's the word.

Like some damned conjuring trick.

Vera said impatiently,

Nonsense.

He's hiding somewhere.

Bloor said.

No,

He isn't.

I tell you,

There's nowhere to hide on this island.

It's as bare as your hand.

There's moonlight outside,

As clear as day it is,

And he's not to be found.

Vera said.

He doubled back to the house.

Bloor said.

We thought that.

We've searched the house too.

You must have heard us.

He's not here,

I tell you.

He's gone.

Clean vanished.

Vamoosed.

Vera said incredulously.

I don't believe it.

Lumbar's said.

It's true,

My dear.

He paused and then said.

There's one other little fact.

A pane in the dining room window has been smashed and there are only three little soldier boys on the table.

That concludes chapter 14.

Chapter 15 One Three people sat eating breakfast in the kitchen.

Outside,

The sun shone.

It was a lovely day.

The storm was a thing of the past and with the change in the weather,

A change had come in the mood of the prisoners on the island.

They felt now like people just awakening from a nightmare.

There was danger.

Yes,

But it was danger in daylight.

That paralyzing atmosphere of fear that had wrapped them round like a blanket yesterday while the wind howled outside was gone.

Lumbar's said.

We'll try heliographing today with a mirror from the highest point of the island.

Some bright lad wandering off the cliff will recognize S.

O.

S.

When he sees it.

In the evening,

We could try a bonfire,

Only there isn't much wood and anyway,

They might think it was song and dance and merriment.

Vera said.

Surely someone can read Morse and then they'll come to take us off long before this evening.

Lumbar's said.

The weather's cleared all right but the sea hasn't gone down yet.

Terrific swell on.

They won't be able to get a boat near the island before tomorrow.

Vera cried.

Another night in this place?

Lumbar's shrugged his shoulders.

May as well face it.

24 hours will do it,

I think.

If we can last out that,

We'll be all right.

Bloor cleared his throat.

He said.

We'd better come to a clear understanding.

What's happened to Armstrong?

Lumbar's said.

Well,

We've got one piece of evidence.

Only three little soldier boys left on the dinner table.

It looks as though Armstrong has got his quietus.

Vera said.

Then why haven't you found his dead body?

Bloor said.

Exactly.

Lumbar's shook his head.

He said.

It's damned odd.

No getting over it.

Bloor said doubtfully.

It might have been thrown into the sea.

Lumbar's said sharply.

By whom?

You?

Me?

You saw him go out the front door.

You come along and find me in my room.

We go out and search together.

When the devil had I had the time to kill him and carry his body around the island.

Bloor said.

I don't know.

But I do know one thing.

Lumbar's said.

What's that?

Bloor said.

The revolver.

It was your revolver.

It's in your possession now.

There's nothing to show that it hasn't been in your possession all along.

Come on,

Bloor.

We were all searched.

Yes,

You'd hidden it away before that happened.

Afterwards,

You just took it back again.

My good blockhead.

I swear to you that it was put back in my drawer.

Greatest surprise I ever had in my life when I found it there.

Bloor said.

You ask us to believe a thing like that.

Why the devil should Armstrong,

Or anyone else for that matter,

Put it back?

Lumbar raised his shoulders hopelessly.

I haven't the least idea.

It's just crazy.

The last thing one would expect.

There seems no point in it.

Bloor agreed.

No,

There isn't.

You might have thought of a better story.

Rather proof that I'm telling the truth,

Isn't it?

I don't look at it that way.

Philip said.

You wouldn't.

Bloor said.

Look here,

Lombard,

If you're an honest man,

As you pretend.

Philip murmured.

When did I lay claims to being an honest man?

No,

Indeed,

I never said that.

Bloor went on stolidly.

If you're speaking the truth,

There's only one thing to be done.

As long as you have that revolver,

Miss Claythorne and I are at your mercy.

The only fair thing is to put that revolver with the other things that are locked up,

And you and I will hold the two keys still.

Philip Lombard lit a cigarette.

As he puffed smoke,

He said.

Don't be an ass.

You don't agree to that.

No,

I won't.

The revolver's mine.

I need it to defend myself,

And I'm going to keep it.

Bloor said.

In that case,

We're bound to come to one conclusion.

That I'm Ewan Owen?

Think what you dang well please,

But I'll ask you,

If that's so,

Why I didn't pot you with the revolver last night?

I could have.

About twenty times over.

Bloor shook his head.

He said.

I don't know,

And that's a fact.

You must have had some reason.

Vera had taken no part in the discussion.

She stirred now and said.

I think you're both behaving like a pair of idiots.

Lombard looked at her.

What's this?

Vera said.

You've forgotten the nursery rhyme.

Don't you see?

There's a clue there.

She recited in a meaning voice.

Four little soldier boys going out to sea.

A red herring swallowed one,

And then there were three.

She went on.

A red herring.

That's the vital clue.

Armstrong's not dead.

She said.

He took away the China soldier to make you think he was.

You may say what you like.

Armstrong's on the island still.

His disappearance is just a red herring across the track.

Lombard sat down again.

He said.

You know,

You may be right.

Bloor said.

Yes,

But if so,

Where is he?

We've searched the place,

Outside and inside.

Vera said scornfully.

We all searched for the revolver,

Didn't we?

And couldn't find it,

But it was somewhere all the time.

Lombard murmured.

There's a slight difference in size,

My dear,

Between a man and a revolver.

Vera said.

I don't care.

I'm sure I'm right.

Bloor murmured.

Rather giving himself away,

Wasn't it?

Actually mentioning a red herring in the verse.

He could have written it up a bit different.

Vera cried.

But don't you see?

He's mad.

It's all mad.

The whole thing of going by the rhyme is mad.

Dressing up the judge.

Killing Rogers when he was chopping sticks.

Drugged Mrs.

Rogers so that she overslept herself.

Arranged for a bumblebee when Miss Brent died.

It's like some horrible child playing a game.

It's all got to fit in.

Bloor said.

Yes,

You're right.

He thought a minute.

At any rate,

There's no zoo on the island.

He'll have a bit of trouble getting over that.

Vera cried.

Don't you see?

We're the zoo.

Last night,

We were hardly human anymore.

We're the zoo.

Two They spent the morning on the cliffs,

Taking in turns to flash a mirror at the mainland.

There were no signs that anyone saw them.

No answering signals.

The day was fine with a slight haze.

Below,

The sea heaved in gigantic swells.

There were no boats out.

They had made another abortive search of the island.

There was no trace of the missing physician.

Vera looked up at the house from where they were standing.

She said,

Her breath coming with a slight catch in it.

Wouldn't feel safer here,

Out in the open.

Don't let's go back into the house again.

Lombard said.

Not a bad idea.

We're pretty safe here.

No one can get at us without our seeing him a long time beforehand.

Vera said.

We'll stay here.

Bloor said.

Have to pass the night somewhere.

We'll have to go back to the house then.

Vera shuddered.

I can't bear it.

I can't go through another night.

Phillip said.

You'll be safe enough,

Locked in your room.

Vera murmured.

I suppose so.

She stretched out her hands,

Murmuring.

It's lovely to feel the sun again.

She thought.

How odd.

I'm almost happy.

And yet I suppose I'm actually in danger.

Somehow,

Now,

Nothing seems to matter.

Not in daylight.

I feel full of power.

I feel that I can't die.

Bloor was looking at his wrist watch.

He said.

It's two o'clock.

What about lunch?

Vera said,

Obstinately.

I'm not going back to the house.

I'm going to stay here,

In the open.

Oh,

Come now,

Miss Claythorne.

Gotta keep your strength up,

You know.

Vera said.

If I even see a tinned tongue,

I shall be sick.

I don't want any food.

People go days on end with nothing sometimes,

When they're on a diet.

Bloor said.

Well,

I need my meals regular.

What about you,

Lombard?

Philip said.

You know,

I don't relish the idea of tinned tongue particularly.

I'll stay here with Miss Claythorne.

Bloor hesitated.

Vera said.

I shall be quite all right.

I don't think he'll shoot me as soon as your back is turned.

If that's what you're afraid of.

Bloor said.

It's all right if you say so,

But we agreed we ought not to separate.

Philip said.

You're the one who wants to go into the lion's den.

I'll come with you if you like.

No,

You won't,

Said Bloor.

You'll stay here.

Philip laughed.

So you're still afraid of me?

Why?

I could shoot you both this very minute if I liked.

Bloor said.

Yes,

But that wouldn't be according to plan.

It's one at a time and it's got to be done in a certain way.

Well,

Said Philip.

You seem to know all about it.

Of course,

Said Bloor.

It's a bit jumpy going up to the house alone.

Philip said softly.

And therefore,

Will I lend you my revolver?

Answer.

No,

I will not.

Not quite so simple as that,

Thank you.

Bloor shrugged his shoulders and began to make his way up to the steep slope to the house.

Lombard said softly.

Feeding time at the zoo.

The animals are very regular in their habits.

Vera said anxiously.

Isn't it very risky,

What he's doing?

In this sense,

You mean?

No,

I don't think it is.

Armstrong's not armed,

You know.

And anyway,

Bloor's twice a match for him in physique and he's very much on his guard.

And anyway,

It's a sheer impossibility that Armstrong can be in the house.

I know he's not there.

But what other solution is there?

Philip said softly.

There's Bloor.

Oh,

Do you really think?

Listen,

My girl.

You heard Bloor's story.

You've got to admit that,

If it's true,

I can't possibly have had anything to do with Armstrong's disappearance.

His story clears me.

But it doesn't clear him.

We've only his word for it,

That he heard footsteps and saw a man going downstairs and out the front door.

The whole thing may be a lie.

They may have got rid of Armstrong a couple of hours before that.

How?

Lombard shrugged his shoulders.

That,

We don't know.

But if you ask me,

We've only one danger to fear.

And that danger is Bloor.

What do we know about the man?

Less than nothing.

All this ex-policeman story may be bunkum.

He may be a nobody.

A mad millionaire.

A crazy businessman.

An escaped inmate of Broadmoor.

One thing's certain.

He could have done every one of these crimes.

Vera had gone rather white,

She said in a slightly breathless voice.

And supposing he gets us?

Lombard said softly,

Patting the revolver in his pocket.

I'm going to take very good care he doesn't.

Then he looked at her curiously.

Touching faith in me,

Haven't you,

Vera?

Quite sure I wouldn't shoot you?

Vera said,

One has got to trust someone.

As a matter of fact,

I think you're wrong about Bloor.

I still think it's Armstrong.

She turned to him suddenly.

Don't you feel all the time that there's someone?

Someone watching and waiting?

Lombard said slowly.

That's just nerves.

Vera said eagerly.

Then you have felt it.

She shivered.

She bent a little closer.

Tell me,

You don't think?

She broke off,

Went on.

I read a story once about two judges that came to a small American town from the Supreme Court.

They administered justice,

Absolute justice,

Because they didn't come from this world at all.

Lombard raised his eyebrows.

He said,

Heavenly visitante.

No,

I don't believe in the supernatural.

This business is human enough.

Vera said in a low voice.

Sometimes,

I'm not sure.

Lombard looked at her.

He said,

That's conscience.

After a moment's silence,

He said very quietly.

So you did drown that kid after all?

Vera said vehemently.

I didn't.

I didn't.

You have no right to say that.

He laughed easily.

Oh,

Yes you did,

My good girl.

I don't know why.

Can't imagine.

There was a man in it,

Probably.

Was that it?

A sudden feeling of lassitude,

Of intense weariness spread over Vera's limbs.

She said in a dull voice.

Yes,

There was a man in it.

Lombard said softly.

Thanks,

That's what I wanted to know.

Vera sat up suddenly.

She exclaimed.

What was that?

It wasn't an earthquake.

Lombard said.

No,

No.

Queer,

Though.

A thud shook the ground,

And I thought.

Did you hear a sort of cry?

I did.

They stared up at the house.

Lombard said.

It came from there.

We'd better go up and see.

No,

No.

I'm not going.

Please yourself.

I am.

Vera said desperately.

All right.

I'll come with you.

They walked up the slope to the house.

The terrace was peaceful and innocuous looking in the sunshine.

They hesitated there for a minute.

Then instead of entering by the front door,

They made a cautious circuit of the house.

They found Blore.

He was spread-eagled on the stone terrace on the east side.

His head crushed and mangled by a block of white marble.

Philip looked up.

He said.

Whose is that window just above?

Vera said in a low shuddering voice.

It's mine.

And that's the clock for my mantelpiece.

I remember now.

It was shaped like a bear.

She repeated,

And her voice shook and quavered.

It was shaped like a bear.

Three Philip grasped her shoulder.

He said,

And his voice was urgent and grim.

This settles it.

Armstrong is in hiding somewhere in that house.

I'm going to get him.

Vera clung to him.

She cried.

Don't be a fool.

It's us now.

We're next.

He wants us to look for him.

He's counting on it.

Philip stopped.

He said thoughtfully.

There's something in that.

Vera cried.

At any rate,

You do admit now I was right.

He nodded.

Yes,

You win.

It's Armstrong,

All right.

But where the devil did he hide himself?

We went over this place with a fine-toothed comb.

Vera said urgently.

If you didn't find him last night,

You won't find him now.

That's common sense.

Lombard said reluctantly.

Yes,

But.

.

.

He must have prepared a secret place beforehand.

Naturally.

Of course,

That's just what he would do.

You know,

Like a priesthole in an old manor house is.

This isn't an old house of that kind.

He could have made one.

Philip Lombard shook his head.

He said.

We measured the place that first morning.

I'll swear there's no space unaccounted for.

Vera said.

There must be.

Lombard said.

I'd like to see.

Vera cried.

Yes,

You'd like to see,

And he knows that.

He's in there,

Waiting for you.

Lombard said,

Half bringing out the revolver from his pocket.

I've got this,

You know.

You said Bloor was all right.

That he was more than a match for Armstrong.

So he was physically,

And he was on the lookout too.

But what you don't seem to realize is that Armstrong is mad.

And a madman has all the advantages on his side.

He's twice as cunning as any one sane can be.

Lombard put back the revolver in his pocket.

He said.

Come on then.

Four.

Lombard said at last.

What are we going to do when night comes?

Vera didn't answer.

He went on accusingly.

You haven't thought of that?

She said helplessly.

What can we do?

Oh my God.

I'm frightened.

Philip Lombard said thoughtfully.

It's fine weather.

There will be a moon.

We must find a place.

Up by the top cliffs perhaps.

We can sit there and wait for morning.

We mustn't go to sleep.

We must watch the whole time.

And if anyone comes up towards us,

I shall shoot.

He paused.

You'll be cold perhaps.

In that thin dress.

Vera said with a ruckus laugh.

Cold?

I should be colder if I were dead.

Philip Lombard said quietly.

Yes,

That's true.

Vera moved restlessly.

She said.

I shall go mad if I sit here any longer.

Let's move about.

All right.

They paced slowly up and down along the line of the rocks overlooking the sea.

The sun was dropping towards the west.

The light was golden and mellow.

It enveloped them in a golden glow.

Vera said with a sudden nervous little giggle.

Pity we can't have a bath.

Philip was looking down towards the sea.

He said abruptly.

What's that?

There?

You see?

By that big rock?

No,

A little farther to the right.

Vera stared.

She said.

It looks like somebody's clothes.

A bather,

Eh?

Lombard laughed.

Queer.

I suppose it's only seaweed.

Vera said.

Let's go and look.

It is clothes.

Said Lombard as they drew nearer.

A bundle of them.

That's a boot.

Come on,

Let's scramble along here.

They scrambled over the rocks.

Vera stopped suddenly.

She said.

It's not clothes.

It's a man.

The man was wedged between two rocks,

Flung there by the tide earlier in the day.

Lombard and Vera reached it in a last scramble.

They bent down.

A purple,

Discolored face.

A hideous,

Drowned face.

Lombard said.

My God!

It's Armstrong!

That concludes Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

One.

Eons passed.

Worlds spun and whirled.

Time was motionless.

It stood still.

It passed to a thousand ages.

No,

It was only a minute or so.

Two people were standing,

Looking down on a dead man.

Slowly,

Very slowly,

Vera Claythorne and Philip Lombard lifted their heads and looked into each other's eyes.

Two.

Lombard laughed.

He said.

So that's it.

Is it,

Vera?

Vera said.

There's no one on the island.

No one at all.

Except us two.

Her voice was a whisper.

Nothing more.

Lombard said.

Precisely.

So we know where we are,

Don't we?

Vera said.

How has it worked?

That trick with the marble bear?

He shrugged his shoulders.

A conjuring trick,

My dear.

A very good one.

Their eyes met again.

Vera thought.

Why did I never see his face properly before?

A wolf.

That's what it is.

A wolf's face.

Those horrible teeth.

Lombard said.

And his voice was a snarl.

Dangerous.

Menacing.

This is the end,

You understand.

We've come to the truth now.

And it's the end.

Vera said quietly.

I understand.

She stared out to sea.

General MacArthur had stared out to sea.

When,

Only yesterday.

Or was it the day before?

He too had said.

This is the end.

He had said it with acceptance.

Almost with welcome.

But to Vera,

The words,

The thought,

Brought rebellion.

No,

It should not be the end.

She looked down at the dead man.

She said.

Poor Dr.

Armstrong.

Lombard sneered.

He said.

What's this?

Womanly pity?

Vera said.

Why not?

Haven't you any pity?

He said.

I've no pity for you.

Don't expect it.

Vera looked down again at the body.

She said.

We must move him.

Carry him up to the house.

To join the other victims,

I suppose?

All neat and tidy.

As far as I'm concerned,

He can stay where he is.

Vera said.

At any rate,

Let's get him out of the reach of the sea.

Lombard laughed.

He said.

If you like.

He bent,

Tugging at the body.

Vera leaned against him,

Helping him.

She pulled and tugged with all her might.

Lombard panted.

Not such an easy job.

They managed it,

However,

Drawing the body clear of high water mark.

Lombard said as he straightened up.

Satisfied?

Vera said.

Quite.

Her tone warned him.

He spun around.

Even as he clapped his hand to his pocket.

He knew that he would find it empty.

She had moved a yard or two away and was facing him.

Revolver in hand.

Lombard said.

So that's the reason for your womanly solicitude.

You wanted to pick my pocket.

She nodded.

She held it steadily and unwaveringly.

Death was very near Philip Lombard now.

It had never,

He knew,

Been nearer.

Nevertheless,

He was not beaten yet.

He said authoritatively.

Give that revolver to me.

Vera laughed.

Lombard said.

Come on,

Hand it over.

His quick brain was working.

Which way?

Which method?

Talk her over.

Lull her into security.

Or a swift dash.

All his life Lombard had taken the risky way.

He took it now.

He spoke slowly.

Argumentatively.

Now look here,

My dear girl.

You just listen.

And then he sprang.

Quick as a panther.

As any other feline creature.

Automatically Vera pressed the trigger.

Lombard's leaping body stayed poised in mid-spring.

Then crashed heavily to the ground.

Vera came warily forward.

The revolver ready in her hand.

But there was no need of caution.

Philip Lombard was dead.

Shot through the heart.

3.

Relief possessed Vera.

Enormous,

Exquisite relief.

At last it was over.

There was no more fear.

No more stealing of her nerves.

She was alone on the island.

Alone with nine dead bodies.

But what did that matter?

She was alive.

She sat there.

Exquisitely happy.

Exquisitely at peace.

No more fear.

4.

The sun was setting when Vera moved at last.

Sheer reaction had kept her immobile.

There had been no room in her for anything but the glorious sense of safety.

She realized now that she was hungry and sleepy.

Principally sleepy.

She wanted to throw herself on her bed and sleep and sleep and sleep.

Tomorrow,

Perhaps,

They would come and rescue her.

But she didn't really mind.

She didn't mind staying here.

Not now that she was alone.

Oh,

Blessed,

Blessed peace.

She got to her feet and glanced up at the house.

Nothing to be afraid of any longer.

No terrors waiting for her.

Just an ordinary,

Well-built,

Modern house.

And yet,

A little earlier in the day,

She had not been able to look at it without shivering.

Fear.

What a strange thing fear was.

Well,

It was over now.

She had conquered,

Had triumphed over the most deadly peril.

By her own quick-wittedness and adroitness,

She had turned the tables on her would-be destroyer.

She began to walk up towards the house.

The sun was setting.

The sky to the west was streaked with red and orange.

It was beautiful and peaceful.

Vera thought,

The whole thing might be a dream.

How tired she was.

Terribly tired.

Her limbs ached.

Her eyelids were dropping.

Not to be afraid anymore.

To sleep,

Sleep,

Sleep,

Sleep.

To sleep safely since she was alone on the island.

One little soldier boy left all alone.

She smiled to herself.

She went in at the front door.

The house,

Too,

Felt strangely peaceful.

Vera thought,

Ordinarily,

One wouldn't care to sleep where there's a dead body in practically every bedroom.

Should she go to the kitchen and get herself something to eat?

She hesitated a moment.

Then decided against it.

She was really too tired.

She paused by the dining room door.

There were still three little china figures in the middle of the table.

Vera laughed.

She said,

You're behind the times,

My dears.

She picked up two of them and tossed them out through the window.

She heard them crash on the stone of the terrace.

The third little figure she picked up and held in her hand.

She said,

You can come with me.

We've won,

My dear.

We've won.

The hall was dim in the dying light.

Vera,

The little soldier boy clasped in her hand,

Began to mount the stairs.

Slowly,

Because her legs were suddenly very tired.

One little soldier boy left all alone.

How did it end?

Oh,

Yes.

He got married and then there were none.

Married.

Funny how she suddenly got the feeling again that Hugo was in the house.

Very strong.

Yes,

Hugo was upstairs waiting for her.

Vera said to herself,

Don't be a fool.

You're just tired that you're imagining the most fantastic things.

Slowly up the stairs.

At the top of them,

Something fell from her hand,

Making hardly any noise on the soft pile of carpet.

She did not notice that she had dropped the revolver.

She was only conscious of clasping a little china figure.

How very quiet the house was.

And yet,

It didn't seem like an empty house.

Hugo,

Upstairs,

Waiting for her.

One little soldier boy left all alone.

What was the last line again?

Something about being married?

Or was it something else?

She had come now to the door of her room.

Hugo was waiting for her inside.

She was quite sure of it.

She opened the door.

She gave a gasp.

What was that,

Hanging from the hook in the ceiling?

A rope with a noose already,

And a chair to stand upon.

A chair that could be kicked away.

That was what Hugo wanted.

And of course,

That was the last line of the rhyme.

He went and hanged himself,

And then there were none.

The little china figure fell from her hand.

It rolled unheeded and broke against the fender.

Like an automation,

Vera moved forward.

This was the end.

Here,

Where the cold wet hand,

Cyril's hand of course,

Had touched her throat.

You can go to the rock,

Cyril.

That was what murder was.

As easy as that.

But afterwards,

You went on remembering.

She climbed up on the chair.

Her eyes staring in front of her like a sleepwalker's.

She adjusted the noose round her neck.

Hugo was there to see what she had to do.

She kicked away the chair.

That concludes chapter sixteen.

The Epilogue Sir Thomas Lay,

Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard,

Said irritably,

But the whole thing's incredible.

Inspector Maine said respectfully,

I know,

Sir.

The Assistant Commissioner went on,

Ten people dead on an island and not a living soul on it.

It doesn't make sense.

Inspector Maine said stolidly,

Nevertheless,

It happened,

Sir.

Sir Thomas Lay said,

Dang it all.

Maine,

Somebody must have killed them.

That's just our problem,

Sir.

Nothing helpful in the doctor's report?

No,

Sir.

Wargrave and Lombard were shot.

The first through the head.

The second through the heart.

Miss Brenton Marston died of cyanide poisoning.

Mrs.

Rogers died of an overdose of chloral.

Rogers' head was split open.

Blore's head was crushed in.

Armstrong died of drowning.

MacArthur's skull was fractured by a blow on the back of the head.

And Vera Claythorne was hanged.

The Assistant Commissioner winced.

He said,

Nasty business.

I'll love it.

He considered for a minute or two.

He said irritably,

Do you mean that you haven't been able to get anything helpful out of the Sticklehaven people?

Dash it,

They must know something.

Inspector Maine shrugged his shoulders.

They're ordinary decent seafaring folk.

They know that the island was bought by a man called Owen.

And that's about all they do know.

Who provisioned the island and made all the necessary arrangements?

A man called Morris.

Isaac Morris.

And what does he say about it all?

He can't say anything,

Sir.

He's dead.

The Assistant Commissioner frowned.

Do we know anything about this Morris?

Oh,

Yes,

Sir.

We know about him.

He wasn't a very savory gentleman,

Mr.

Morris.

He was implicated in that share-pushing fraud of Benito's three years ago.

We're sure of that,

Though we can't prove it.

And it was mixed up in the dope business.

And again,

We can't prove it.

He was a very careful man,

Morris.

And he was behind this island business?

Yes,

Sir.

He put the sale through.

Though he made it clear that he was buying Soldier Island for a third party,

Unnamed.

Surely there's something to be found out on the financial angle there.

Inspector Maine smiled.

Not a few knew Morris.

He can wingle figures until the best chartered accountant in the world wouldn't know if he was on his head or his heels.

We've had a taste of that in the Benito business.

No,

He covers his employer's tracks all right.

The other man sighed.

Inspector Maine went on.

It was Morris who made all the arrangements down at Stigglehaven.

Represented himself as acting for Mr.

Owen.

And it was he who explained to the people down there that there was some experiment done.

Some bet about living on a desert island for a week.

And that no notice was to be taken of any appeal for help from out there.

Sir Thomas Leigh stirred uneasily.

He said,

And you're telling me that those people didn't smell a rat?

Not even then.

Maine shrugged his shoulders.

He said,

You're forgetting,

Sir.

That Soldier Island previously belonged to young Elmer Robson,

The American.

He had the most extraordinary parties down there.

I've no doubt the local people's eyes fairly popped out over them.

But they got used to it.

And they'd begun to feel that anything to do with Soldier Island would necessarily be incredible.

It's natural.

That,

Sir,

When you come to think of it.

The assistant commissioner admitted gloomily that he supposed it was.

Maine said,

Fred Naricot,

That's the man who took the party out there.

Did say one thing that was illuminating.

He said,

He was surprised to see what sort of people these were.

Not at all like Mr.

Robson's parties.

I think it was the fact that they were all so normal and so quiet.

That made him override Morris's orders and take out a boat to the island after he heard about the SOS signals.

When did he and the other men go?

These signals were seen by a party of Boy Scouts on the morning of the 11th.

There was no possibility of getting out there that day.

The men got there on the afternoon of the 12th at the first moment to run a boat ashore there.

They're all quite positive that nobody could have left the island before they got there.

There was a big sea on after the storm.

Could someone have swum ashore?

It's over a mile to the coast and there were heavy seas and big breakers inshore.

And there were a lot of people,

Boy Scouts and others on the cliffs,

Looking out towards the island and watching.

The assistant commissioner sighed.

He said,

What about that gramophone record you found in the house?

Couldn't you get a hold of anything there that might help?

Inspector Maine said,

I've been into that.

It was supplied by a firm that do a lot of theatrical stuff and film effects.

It was sent to U.

N.

Owen Esquire,

Care of Isaac Morris,

And was understood to be required for the amateur performance of a hitherto unacted play.

The transcript of it was returned with the record.

Lay said,

And what about the subject matter,

Eh?

Inspector Maine said gravely,

I'm coming to that,

Sir.

He cleared his throat.

I've investigated those accusations as thoroughly as I can.

Starting with the Rogers,

Who were the first to arrive on the island,

They were in service with a Miss Brady who died suddenly.

Can't get anything definite out of the doctor who attended her.

He says they certainly didn't poison her,

Or anything like that.

But his personal belief is that there was some funny business.

That she died as a result of neglect on their part.

Says it's the sort of thing that's quite impossible to prove.

Then there's Mr.

Justice Wargrave.

That's okay.

He was the judge who sentenced Setton.

By the way,

Setton was guilty.

Unmistakably guilty.

Evidence turned up later,

After he was hanged,

That proved that beyond any shadow of doubt.

But there was a good deal of comment at the time.

Nine people out of ten thought Setton was innocent.

And that the judge's summoning up had been vindictive.

The Claythorne girl,

I find,

Was governess in a family where death occurred by drowning.

However,

She doesn't seem to have had anything to do with it.

And as a matter of fact,

She behaved very well,

Swam out to rescue,

And was actually carried out to sea,

And was only just rescued in time.

Go on,

Said the assistant commissioner with a sigh.

Maine took a deep breath.

Dr.

Armstrong now,

Well-known man,

Had a consulting room in Harley Street.

Absolutely straight and above board in his profession.

Haven't been able to trace any record of illegal operation,

Or anything of that kind.

It's true that there was a woman called Cleese,

Who was operated on by him way back in 1925 in Leithmore,

When he was attached to the hospital there.

Peritonitis,

And she died on the operating table.

Maybe he wasn't very skillful over the O.

P.

After all,

He hadn't much experience.

But after all,

Clumsiness isn't a criminal offense.

There was certainly no motive.

Then there's Miss Emily Brent.

Girl,

Beatrice Taylor,

Was in her service.

Got pregnant,

Was turned out by her mistress,

And went and drowned herself.

Not a nice business,

But again,

Not criminal.

That,

Said the assistant commissioner,

Seems to be the point.

U.

N.

Owen dealt with these cases that the law couldn't touch.

Maine went stolidly on with his list.

Young Marston was a fairly reckless car driver.

Had his license endorsed twice,

And he ought to have been prohibited from driving in my opinion.

That's all there is to him.

The two names John and Lucy Combs were those of two kids he knocked down and killed near Cambridge.

Some friends of his gave evidence for him,

And he was let off with a fine.

Can't find anything definitive about General MacArthur.

Fine record,

War service,

All the rest of it.

Arthur Richmond was serving under him in France,

And was killed in action.

No friction of any kind between him and the general.

They were close friends as a matter of fact.

There were some blunders made about that time.

Commanding officers sacrificed men unnecessarily.

Possibly this was a blunder of that kind.

Possibly,

Said the assistant commissioner.

Now,

Philip Lombard.

Lombard has been mixed up in some various curious shows abroad.

He's sailed very near the law once or twice.

Got a reputation for daring,

And for not being over scrupulous.

Sort of fellow who might do several murders in some quiet out of the way spot.

Then we come to Bloor.

Maine hesitated.

He,

Of course,

Was one of our lot.

The other man stirred.

Bloor,

Said the assistant commissioner forcibly,

Was a bad hat.

You think so,

Sir?

The assistant commissioner said.

I always thought so,

But he was clever enough to get away with it.

It's my opinion that he committed black perjury in the Landor case.

I wasn't happy about it at the time,

But I couldn't find anything.

I put Harris on to it,

And he couldn't find anything.

But I'm still of the opinion that there was something to find if we'd known how to set about it.

The man wasn't straight.

There was a pause.

Then Sir Thomas Leigh said.

And Isaac Morris is dead,

You say?

When did he die?

I thought you'd soon come to that,

Sir.

Isaac Morris died on the night of August 8th.

Took an overdose of sleeping stuff.

One of the barbiturates,

I understand.

There wasn't anything to show whether it was an accident or suicide.

Leigh said slowly.

Care to know what I think,

Maine?

Perhaps I can guess,

Sir.

Leigh said heavily.

That death of Morris' is a dang sight to opportune.

Inspector Maine nodded.

He said.

I thought you'd say that,

Sir.

The assistant commissioner brought down his fist with a bang on the table.

He cried out.

The whole thing's fantastic.

Impossible.

Ten people killed on a bare rock of an island and we don't know who did it or why or how.

Maine coughed.

He said.

Well,

It's not quite like that,

Sir.

We do know why,

More or less.

Some fanatic with a bee in his bonnet about justice.

He was out to get people who were beyond the reach of the law.

He picked ten people.

Whether they were really guilty or not doesn't matter.

The commissioner stirred.

He said sharply.

Doesn't it?

It seems to me.

He stopped.

Inspector Maine waited respectfully.

With a sigh,

Leigh shook his head.

Carry on.

He said.

Just for a minute I felt I'd got somewhere.

Got,

As it were,

The clue to the thing.

It's gone now.

Go ahead with what you were saying.

Maine went on.

There were ten people to be executed,

Let's say.

They were executed.

You and Owen accomplished his task.

And somehow or other he spirited himself off that island into thin air.

The assistant commissioner said.

First-class vanishing trick.

But you know,

Maine,

There must be an explanation.

Maine said.

You're thinking,

Sir,

That if the man wasn't on the island,

He couldn't have left the island.

And according to the account of the interested parties,

He never was on the island.

Well,

Then the only explanation possible is that he was actually one of the ten.

The assistant commissioner nodded.

Maine said earnestly.

We thought of that,

Sir.

We went into it.

Now,

To begin with,

We're not quite in the dark as to what happened on Soldier Island.

Vera Claythorne kept a diary.

So did Emily Brent.

Old Wargrave made some notes.

Try legal cryptic stuff.

But quite clear.

And Blore made notes too.

All those accounts tally.

The deaths occurred in this order.

Marston,

Mrs.

Rogers.

MacArthur,

Rogers.

Miss Brent,

Wargrave.

After its death,

Vera Claythorne's diary states that Armstrong left the house in the night and that Blore and Lombard had gone after him.

Blore has one more entry in his notebook.

Just two words.

Armstrong disappeared.

Now,

Sir,

It seems to me,

Taking everything into account,

That we might find here a perfectly good situation.

Armstrong was drowned,

You remember.

Granting that Armstrong was mad,

What was to prevent him having killed off all the others and then committed suicide by throwing himself over the cliff?

Or perhaps while trying to swim to the mainland?

That was a good solution.

But it won't do.

No,

Sir,

It won't do.

First of all,

There's the police surgeon's evidence.

He got to the island early on the morning of August 13th.

He couldn't say much to help us.

All he could say,

All the people had been dead at least 36 hours and probably a good deal longer.

But he was fairly definite about Armstrong.

Said he must have been from 8 to 10 hours in the water before his body washed up.

That works out at this.

That Armstrong must have gone into the sea sometime during the night of the 10th,

11th,

And I'll explain why.

We found the point where the body was washed up.

It had been wedged between two rocks and there were bits of cloth,

Hair,

Etc.

On them.

It must have been deposited there at high water on the 11th.

That's to say,

Around 11 o'clock a.

M.

After that,

The storm subsided and succeeding high water marks are considerably lower.

You might say,

I suppose,

That Armstrong managed to polish off the other three before he went into the sea that night.

But there's another point,

And one you can't get over.

Armstrong's body had been dragged above high water marks.

We found it well above the reach of any tide and it was laid out straight on the ground,

All neat and tidy.

So that settles one point definitely.

Someone was alive on the island after Armstrong was dead.

He paused and then went on.

And that leaves just what exactly?

Here's the position early on the morning of the 11th.

Armstrong has disappeared,

Drowned.

That leaves us three people,

Lombard,

Blore and Vera Claythorne.

Lombard was shot.

His body was down by the sea near Armstrong's.

Vera Claythorne was found hanged in her own bedroom.

Blore's body was found on the terrace.

His head was crushed in by a heavy marble clock that it seems reasonable to suppose fell on him from the window above.

The assistant commissioner said sharply,

Whose window?

Vera Claythorne's.

Now,

Sir,

Let's take each of these cases separately.

First,

Philip Lombard.

Let's say he pushes over that lump of marble onto Blore.

Then he doped Vera Claythorne and strung her up.

Lastly,

He went down to the seashore and shot himself.

But if so,

Who took away the revolver from him?

For that revolver was found up in the house just inside the door at the top of the stairs,

Wargrave's room.

The assistant commissioner said,

Any fingerprints on it?

Yes,

Sir.

Vera Claythorne's.

But,

Man alive.

Then,

I know what you're going to say,

Sir,

That it was Vera Claythorne that she shot Lombard,

Took the revolver back to the house,

Toppled the marble block onto Blore,

And then hanged herself.

And that's quite alright,

Up to a point.

There's a chair in her bedroom,

And on the seat of it,

There are marks of seaweed same as on her shoes.

Looks as though she stood on the chair,

Adjusted the rope around her neck,

And kicked away the chair.

But,

That chair wasn't found kicked over.

It was,

Like all the other chairs,

Neatly put back against the wall.

That was done,

After Vera Claythorne's death,

By someone else.

That leaves us with Blore.

And if you tell me that after shooting Lombard and inducing Vera Claythorne to hang herself,

He then went out and pulled down a whacking great block of marble on himself,

By tying a string to it,

Or something like that,

Well,

I simply don't believe you.

Men don't commit suicide that way.

And what's more,

Blore wasn't that kind of man.

We knew Blore,

And he was not the man that you'd ever accuse of desire for abstract justice.

The Assistant Commissioner said,

I agree.

Inspector Maine said,

But,

In that case,

He stopped.

The Assistant Commissioner said,

In that case,

He sighed.

He shook his head.

He leaned forward.

But,

In that case,

He said,

Who killed them?

That concludes the epilogue.

The Last Chapter A manuscript document sent to Scotland Yard by the Master of the Emma Jane Fishing Trawler From my earliest youth,

I realized that my nature was a mass of contradictions.

I have,

To begin with,

An incurably romantic imagination.

The practice of throwing a bottle into the sea with an important document inside was one that never failed to thrill me when reading adventure stories as a child.

It thrills me still,

And for that reason,

I have adopted this course,

Writing my confession,

Enclosing it in a bottle,

Sealing the latter,

And casting it into the waves.

There is,

I suppose,

A hundred to one chance that my confession may be found,

And then,

Or do I flatter myself,

A hitherto unsolved murder mystery will be explained.

I was born with other traits,

Besides my romantic fantasy.

I have a definite sadistic delight in seeing or causing death.

I remember experiments with wasps,

With various garden pests.

From an early age,

I knew very strongly the lust to kill.

But side by side with this went a contradictory trait,

A strong sense of justice.

It is abhorrent to me that an innocent person or creature should suffer or die by any act of mine.

I have always felt strongly that right should prevail.

It may be understood,

I think a psychologist would understand,

That with my mental makeup being what it was,

I adopted the law as a profession.

The legal profession satisfied nearly all my instincts.

Crime and its punishment have always fascinated me.

I enjoyed reading every kind of detective story and thriller.

I have devised for my own private amusement the most ingenious ways of carrying out a murder.

When in due course,

I came to preside over a court of law,

That other secret instinct of mine was encouraged to develop.

To see a wretched criminal squirming in the dock,

Suffering the tortures of the damned,

As his doom came slowly and slowly nearer,

Was to me an exquisite pleasure.

Mind you,

I took no pleasure in seeing an innocent man there.

On at least two occasions,

I stopped cases where,

To my mind,

The accused was palpably innocent,

Directing the jury that there was no case.

Thanks,

However,

To the fairness and efficiency of our police force,

The majority of the accused persons who have come before me to be tried for murder have been guilty.

I will say here,

That such was the case with the man,

Edward Setton.

His appearance and manner were misleading,

And he created a good impression on the jury.

But not only the evidence,

Which was clear,

Though unspectacular,

But my own knowledge of criminals told me without any doubt that the man had actually committed the crime with which he was charged.

The brutal murder of an elderly woman who trusted him.

I have a reputation as a hanging judge,

But that is unfair.

I have always been strictly just and scrupulous in my summoning up a case.

All I have done is to protect the jury against the emotional effect of emotional appeals by some of our emotional counsel.

I have drawn their attention to the actual evidence.

For some years past,

I have been aware of a change within myself,

A lessening of control,

A desire to act instead of to judge.

I have wanted,

Let me admit it frankly,

To commit a murder myself.

I recognized this as the desire of the artist to express himself.

I was,

Or could be,

An artist in crime.

My imagination,

Sternly checked by my exigencies of my profession,

Waxed secretly to colossal force.

I must,

I must,

I must commit a murder.

And what is more,

It must be no ordinary murder.

It must be a fantastical crime,

Something stupendous,

Out of the common.

In that one aspect,

I have still,

I think,

An adolescent's imagination.

I wanted something theatrical,

Impossible.

I wanted to kill.

Yes,

I wanted to kill.

But,

Incongruous as it may be,

To some,

I was restrained and hampered by my innate sense of justice.

The innocent must not suffer.

And then,

Quite suddenly,

The idea came to me.

Started by a chance remark uttered during a casual conversation.

It was a doctor to whom I was talking,

Some ordinary,

Undistinguished general practitioner.

He mentioned casually how often murder must be committed which the law was unable to touch.

And,

He instanced a particular case,

That of an old lady,

A patient of his who had recently died.

He was,

He said,

Himself convinced that her death was due to the withholding of a restorative drug by a married couple who attended on her and who stood to benefit very substantially by her death.

That sort of thing,

He explained,

Was quite impossible to prove.

But he was nevertheless quite sure of it in his own mind.

He added that there were many cases of a similar nature going on all the time.

Cases of deliberate murder and all quite untouchable by the law.

That was the beginning of the whole thing.

I suddenly saw my way clear and I determined to commit not one murder,

But murder on a grand scale.

A childish rhyme of my infancy came back to my mind.

The rhyme of the ten little soldier boys.

It had fascinated me as a child of two.

The inexorable diminishment,

The sense of inevitability.

I began secretly to collect victims.

I will not take up space here by going into detail of how this was accomplished.

I had a certain routine line of conversation which I employed with nearly everyone I met.

And the results I got were really surprising.

During the time I was in a nursing home I collected the case of Dr.

Armstrong,

A violently teetotal sister who attended on me,

Being anxious to prove to me the evils of drink by recounting to me a case many years ago in hospital when a doctor under the influence of alcohol had killed a patient on whom he was operating.

A careless question as to where the sister in question had trained,

Etc.

Soon gave me the necessary data.

I tracked down the doctor and the patient mentioned without difficulty.

A conversation between two old military gossips in my club put me on the track of General MacArthur,

A man who had recently returned from the Amazon,

Gave me a devastating resume of activities of one Philip Lombard,

An indignant memsahib in Majorca,

Recounted the tale of the Puritan Emily Brent and her wretched servant girl.

Anthony Marston,

I selected from a large group of people who had committed similar offenses.

His complete callousness and his inability to fill any responsibility for the lives he had taken made him,

I considered,

A type dangerous to the community and unfit to live.

Ex-Inspector Bloor came my way quite naturally,

Some of my profession brethren discussing the Lindor case with freedom and vigor.

I took a serious view of his offense.

The police,

As servants of the law,

Must be a high order of integrity for their word is perforce believed by virtue of their profession.

Finally,

There was the case of Vera Claythorne.

It was when I was crossing the Atlantic.

At a late hour one night,

The sole occupants of the smoking room were myself and a good-looking young man called Hugo Hamilton.

Hugo Hamilton was unhappy.

To assuage that unhappiness,

He had taken a considerable quantity of drink.

He was in the maudlin confidential stage.

Without much hope of any result,

I automatically started my routine conversational gambit.

The response was startling.

I can remember his words now.

He said,

You're right.

Murder isn't what most people think.

Giving someone a dollop of arsenic,

Pushing them over a cliff,

That sort of stuff.

He leaned forward,

Thrusting his face into mine.

He said,

I've known a murderess.

Known her,

I tell you.

And what's more,

I was crazy about her.

God help me.

Sometimes I think I still am.

It's hell,

I tell you.

Hell.

You see,

She did it more or less for me.

Not that I ever dreamed.

Women are fiends.

Absolute fiends.

You wouldn't think a girl like that.

A nice,

Straight,

Jolly girl.

You wouldn't think that she'd do that.

Would you?

That she'd take a kid out to sea and let him drown?

You wouldn't think a woman could do a thing like that.

I said to him,

Are you sure she did do it?

He said,

And in saying it,

He seemed suddenly to sober up.

I'm quite sure.

Nobody else ever thought of it.

But I knew the moment I looked at her,

When I got back,

After,

And she knew I knew.

What she didn't realize was that I loved that kid.

He didn't say anymore,

But it was easy enough for me to track back the story and reconstruct it.

I needed a tenth victim.

I found him in a man named Morris.

He was a shady little creature.

Amongst other things,

He was a dope peddler and he was responsible for inducing the daughter of friends of mine to take to drugs.

She committed suicide at the age of 21.

During all this time of search,

My plan had been gradually maturing in my mind.

It was now complete and the coping stone to it was an interview I had with my doctor in Harley Street.

I have mentioned that I underwent an operation.

My interview in Harley Street told me that another operation would be useless.

My medical advisor wrapped up the information very prettily,

But I am accustomed to getting at the truth of a statement.

I did not tell the doctor of my decision that my death should not be a slow and protracted one as it would be in the course of nature.

No,

My death should not take place in a blaze of excitement.

I would live before I died.

And now to the actual mechanics of the crime of Soldier Island.

To acquire the island,

Using the man Morris to cover my tracks was easy enough.

He was an expert to that sort of thing.

Tabulating the information I had collected about my prospective victims,

I was able to concoct a suitable bait for each.

None of my plans miscarried.

All my guests arrived at Soldier Island on the 8th of August.

The party included myself.

Morris was already accounted for.

He suffered from indigestion.

Before leaving London,

I gave him a capsule to take last thing at night which had,

I said,

Done wonders for my own gastric juices.

He accepted unhesitatingly.

The man was a slight hypochondriac.

I had no fear that he would leave any compromising documents or memoranda behind.

He was not that sort of man.

The order of death upon the island had been subjected by me to special thought and care.

There were,

I considered amongst my guests,

Varying degrees of guilt.

Those whose guilt was the lightest should,

I decided,

Pass out first and not suffer the prolonged mental strain and fear that the more cold-blooded offenders were to suffer.

Anthony Marston and Mrs.

Rogers died first,

The one instantaneously,

The other in a peaceful sleep.

Marston,

I recognized,

Was a type born without that feeling of moral responsibility which most of us have.

He was a moral pagan.

Mrs.

Rogers,

I had no doubt,

Had acted very largely under the influence of her husband.

I need not describe closely how those two met their deaths.

The police will have been able to work that out quite easily.

Potassium cyanide is easily obtained by householders for putting down wasps.

I had some in my possession,

And it was very easy to slip it into Marston's almost empty glass during the tense period after the gramophone recital.

I may say that I watched the faces of my guests closely during that indictment,

And I had no doubt whatever after my long court experience,

That one and all were guilty.

Brandy During recent bouts of pain,

I had been ordered a sleeping draught,

A chloral hydrate.

It had been easy for me to suppress this until I had a lethal amount in my possession.

When Rogers brought up some brandy for his wife,

He set it down on a table,

And in passing that table,

I put the stuff into the brandy.

It was easy,

For at that time suspicion had not begun to set in.

General MacArthur met his death quite painlessly.

He did not hear me come up behind him.

I had,

Of course,

To choose my time for leaving the terrace very carefully,

But everything was successful.

As I had anticipated,

A search was made of the island,

And it was discovered that there was no one on it but our seven selves,

That at once created an atmosphere of suspicion.

According to my plan,

I should shortly need an ally.

I selected Dr.

Armstrong for that part.

He was a gullible sort of man.

He knew me by sight and reputation,

And it was inconceivable to him that a man of my standing should actually be a murderer.

All his suspicions were directed against Lombard,

And I pretended to concur in these.

I hinted to him that I had a scheme by which it might be possible to trap the murderer into incriminating himself.

Though a search had been made of everyone's room,

No search had yet been made of the persons themselves,

But that was bound to come soon.

I killed Rogers on the morning of August 10th.

He was chopping sticks for lighting the fire,

And did not hear me approach.

I found the key to the dining room door in his pocket.

He had locked it the night before.

In the confusion attending the finding of Rogers' body,

I slipped into Lombard's room and abstracted his revolver.

I knew that he would have one with him.

In fact,

I had instructed Morse to suggest as much when he interviewed him.

At breakfast,

I slipped my last dose of chloral into Mrs.

Brent's coffee when I was refilling her cup.

We left her in the dining room.

I slipped in there a little while later.

She was nearly unconscious,

And it was easy to inject a strong solution of cyanide into her.

The bumblebee business was really rather childish,

But somehow,

You know,

It pleased me.

I liked adhering as closely as possible to my nursery rhyme.

Immediately after this,

What I had already foreseen,

Happened.

Indeed,

I believe I suggested it myself.

We all submitted to a rigorous search.

I had safely hidden away the revolver and had no more cyanide or chloral in my possession.

It was then I intimated to Armstrong that we must carry our plan into effect.

It was simple,

This.

I must appear to be the next victim that would perhaps rattle the murderer.

At any rate,

Once I was supposed to be dead,

I can move about the house and spy upon the unknown murderer.

Armstrong was keen on the idea.

He carried it out that evening.

A little plaster of red mud on the forehead,

The red curtain and the wool,

And the stage was set.

The lights of the candles were very flickering and uncertain,

And the only person who could examine me closely was Armstrong.

It worked perfectly.

Miss Claythorne screamed the house down when she found the seaweed,

Which I had thoughtfully arranged in her room.

They all rushed up and I took my pose of a murdered man.

The effect on them when they found me was all that could be desired.

Armstrong acted his part in the most professional manner.

They carried me upstairs and laid me on my bed.

Nobody worried about me.

They were all too deadly scared and terrified of each other.

I had a rendezvous with Armstrong outside the house at a quarter to two.

I took him up a little way behind the house on the edge of the cliff.

I said that here we could see if anyone else approached us,

And we should not be seen from the house as the bedrooms faced the other way.

He was still quite unsuspicious,

And yet he ought to have been warned.

If he had only remembered the words of the nursery rhyme,

A red herring swallowed one.

He took the red herring all right.

It was quite easy.

I uttered an exclamation,

Leaned over the cliff,

Told him to look.

Wasn't that the mouth of a cave?

He leant right over.

A quick,

Vigorous push sent him off his balance and splashed into the heaving sea below.

I returned to the house.

It must have been my footfall that Velour heard.

A few minutes after I returned to Armstrong's room,

I left it,

This time making a certain amount of noise so that someone should hear me.

I heard a door open as I got to the bottom of the stairs.

They must have just glimpsed my figure as I went out the front door.

It was a minute or two before they followed me.

I had gone straight around the house and in at the dining room window which I had left open.

I shut the window and later I broke the glass.

Then I went upstairs and laid myself out on my bed again.

I calculated that they would search the house again,

But I did not think they would look closely at any of the corpses.

A mirror twitched inside of the sheet to satisfy themselves that it was not Armstrong masquerading as a body.

This is exactly what occurred.

I forgot to say that I returned the revolver to Lombard's room.

It may be of interest to someone to know where it was hidden during the search.

There was a big pile of tinned food in the larder.

I opened the bottom most of the tins.

Biscuits,

I think it contained,

Bedded the revolver and replaced the strip of adhesive tape.

I calculated,

And rightly,

That no one would think of working their way through a pile of apparently untouched foodstuffs,

Especially as all the top tins were soldered.

The red curtain I had concealed by laying it flat on the seat of one of the drawing room chairs under the chintz cover and the wool in the seat cushion cutting a small hole.

And now came the moment that I had anticipated.

Three people who were so frightened of each other that anything might happen,

And one of them had a revolver.

I watched them from the windows of the house.

When Blore came up alone,

I had the big marble clock poised ready.

Exit,

Blore.

From my window,

I saw Vera Claythorne shoot Lombard,

A daring and resourceful young woman.

I always thought she was a match for him and more.

As soon as that had happened,

I set the stage in her bedroom.

It was an interesting psychological experiment.

Would the consciousness of her own guilt,

The state of nervous tension consequent on having just shot a man,

Be sufficient,

Together with the hypnotic suggestion of the surroundings,

To cause her to take her own life?

I thought it would.

I was right.

Vera Claythorne hung herself before my eyes,

Where I stood in the shadow of the wardrobe.

And now for the last stage.

I came forward,

Picked up the chair and set it against the wall.

I looked for the revolver and found it at the top of the stairs,

Where the girl had dropped it.

I was careful to preserve her fingerprints on it.

And now,

I shall finish writing this.

I shall enclose it and seal it in a bottle into the sea.

Why?

Yes,

Why?

It was my ambition to invent a murder mystery that no one could solve.

But no artist,

I now realize,

Can be satisfied with art alone.

There is a natural craving for recognition which cannot be gainsaid.

I have,

Let me confess it in all my humility,

A pitiful human wish that someone should know just how clever I have been.

In all this,

I have assumed that the mystery of Soldier Island will remain unsolved.

It may be,

Of course,

That the police will be cleverer than I think.

There are,

After all,

Three clues.

One,

The police are perfectly aware that Edward Sutton was guilty.

They know,

Therefore,

That one of the ten people on the island was not a murderer in any sense of the word.

And it follows,

Paradoxically,

That the person must logically be the murderer.

The second clue lies in the seventh verse of the Nursery Rhyme.

Armstrong's death is associated with the red herring which he swallowed,

Or rather which resulted in swallowing him.

That is to say that at that stage of the affair some hocus-pocus is clearly indicated,

And that Armstrong was deceived by it and sent to his death.

That might start a promising line of inquiry,

For at that period there are only four persons,

And of those four I am clearly the only one likely to inspire him with confidence.

The third is symbolical,

The manner of my death marking me on the forehead,

The brand of cane.

There is,

I think,

Little more to say.

After entrusting my bottle and its message to the sea,

I shall go to my room and lay myself down on the bed.

To my eyeglasses is attached what seems the length of a fine black cord,

But it is elastic cord.

I shall lay the weight of the body on the glasses.

The cord I shall loop round the door handle and attach it,

Not too solidly,

To the revolver.

What I think will happen is this.

My hand,

Protected with a handkerchief,

Will suppress the trigger.

My hand will fall to my side.

The revolver,

Pulled by the elastic,

Will recoil to the door.

Jarred by the door handle,

It will detach itself from the elastic and fall.

The elastic,

Released,

Will hang down innocently from the eyeglasses on which my body is lying.

A handkerchief lying on the floor will cause no comment whatsoever.

I shall be found,

Laid neatly on my bed,

Shot to the forehead,

In accordance with the record kept by my fellow victims.

The times of death cannot be stated with any accuracy by the time our bodies are examined.

When the sea goes down,

There will come from the mainland boats and men,

And they will find ten dead bodies and an unsolved problem on Soldier Island.

Signed,

Lawrence Wargrave I hope you have enjoyed this story.

Become relaxed and possibly fallen asleep.

Reviews

Grim! But got me off and on to sleep many times 😂 thank you!