V
The eggs were in the fryingpan. Vera, at the stove, 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 levelheadedness!
"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 near 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 sangfroid...
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 bacon 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 fresh pieces of bacon in the fryingpan, 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 to 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
mass 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 flieth by day..." It was daylight now there was no terror. "We shall none of us leave this island... Who had 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."
VI
Breakfast was a curious meal. Every one was very polite.
"May I get you some more coffee, Miss Brent?"
"Miss Claythorne, a slice of ham?"
"Another piece of bacon?"
Six people, all outwardly selfpossessed 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's the ticket... Looking at her, though, you can hardly believe it... Suppose I'm wrong..."
"It's crazy every thing'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 damned 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 give you some ham?"
Six people, behaving normally at breakfast...
Chapter 12
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 drawingroom?"
Every one 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 to "
"No!"
The word burst from her lips like an exploding shell.
It took every one 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. Blore 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 diningroom.
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 windowpane.
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 came from the river...
She had only to turn her head and she would see her.
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 windowpane the bee was buzzing buzzing...
And then she felt the prick.
The bee sting on the side of her neck...
II
In the drawingroom they were waiting for Emily Brent.
Vera Claythorne said:
"Shall I go and fetch her?"
Blore said quickly:
"Just a minute."
Vera sat down again. Every one looked inquiringly at Blore.
He said:
"Look here, everybody, my opinion's this: we needn't look farther for the author of these deaths than the diningroom at this minute. I'd 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!"
Blore said:
"There's another thing. She's the only one who wouldn't give an explanation after that 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 a feeling of remorse for her attitude in the matter?"
"None whatever," said Vera. "She was completely unmoved."
Blore 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."
Blore said:
"Aren't you going to take any action?"
The judge said:
"I fail 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 demeanour very carefully. Let us now go into the diningroom."
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 staring eyes. Blore said:
"My God, she's dead!"
Ill
The small quiet voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"One more of us acquitted 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 right side of the 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:
"What poison was 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 coincidence?"
Lombard said grimly:
"Oh, no, it isn't coincidence! It's our murderer's touch of local colour! 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 have still, I hope, our reasoning powers. Did any one bring a hypodermic syringe to this house?"
Dr. Armstrong, straightening 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.
IV
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 some one must have taken it."
Blore was looking at Lombard who returned his gaze.
The judge said:
"There are five of us here 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 now ask you, Dr. Armstrong, what drugs you
have in your possession?"
Armstrong replied:
"I have a small medicine case here. You can examine it. You will find some
sleeping stuff trional and sulphonal tablets a packet of bromide, bicarbonate of soda, aspirin. Nothing else. I have no cyanide in my possession."
The judge said:
"I have, myself, some sleeping tablets sulphonal, 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 sulphonal tablets, your revolver and anything else of the 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'm damned if I'll give up my revolver!"
Wargrave said sharply:
"Mr. Lombard, you are a very strongly built and powerful young man, but ex Inspector Blore 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 Blore'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 got it all 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 by 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 bedtable and jerked open the drawer.
Then he recoiled with an oath.
The drawer of the bedtable was empty.
V
"Satisfied?" asked Lombard.
He had stripped to the skin and he and his room had been meticulously searched by the other three men. Vera Claythorne was outside in the corridor.
The search proceeded methodically. In turn, Armstrong, the judge and Blore submitted to the same test.
The four men emerged from Blore's room and approached Vera. It was the judge who spoke.
"I hope you will 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 tightfitting silk rucked 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 the 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 him. There was a small case
there designed for the purpose of holding silver and plate. 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 of 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 cumbrous proceeding and one which could hardly be carried out without 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 dint showed in Philip Lombard's nostrils. He said:
"You damned pigheaded 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 hidingplace. 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 round the house.
A little distance away from the diningroom window he found the syringe. Beside it was a smashed china figure a sixth broken Indian 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.
Chapter 13
"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 pretence now no formal veneer of conversation. They were five
enemies linked together by a mutual instinct of selfpreservation.
And all of them, suddenly, looked less like human beings. They were reverted to
more bestial types. Like a wary old tortoise, Mr. Justice Wargrave sat hunched
up, his body motionless, his eyes keen and alert. Exinspector Blore looked
coarser and clumsier in build. His walk was that of a slow padding 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 its 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 twitched and his hands
shook. He lighted cigarette after cigarette and stubbed them out almost immediately. The forced inaction 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 we shouldn't just sit here doing 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 drawingroom. 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 signallight 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 close together, they had returned to the drawingroom 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 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 some one knows
where it is..."
"They're going mad... they're all go 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 Judgement Day not that! If I
could only 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 any one want tea?"
There was a moment's silence. Blore said:
"I'd like a cup."
Vera rose. She said:
"I'll go and 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 drawingroom. 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's not been run today since Rogers hasn't been there to see to 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.
II
At twenty past six, Vera felt that to sit there 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 her door, she suddenly halted and stood stock still.
Her nostrils quivered.
The sea... The smell of the sea at St. Tredennick...
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 spoilt 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 draught from the window caught the flame of the candle. It flickered and went out...
Tn 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. Tredennick... That wasn't imagined.
It was true...
And there was some one 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...
Ill
Vera screamed. She screamed and screamed screams of the utmost terror wild desperate cries for help.
She did not hear the sounds from below, of 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 some one bending over her, of some one forcing her head down between her knees.
Then 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 some one took her head and forced it between her knees.
Aeons of time seemed to pass. They were offering her something to drink pressing the glass against her lips. She smelt 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 it, or some one 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 the house. Thoughtful of U.N. 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 colour 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:
"H'm, impossible to say. Young healthy subject no cardiac weakness. Unlikely. On the other hand "
He picked up the glass of brandy that Blore had brought. He dipped a finger in it, tasted it gingerly. His expression did not alter. He said dubiously: "H'm, tastes all right."
Blore stepped forward angrily. He said:
"If you're saying that 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."
Blore 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:
"It's damned odd..."
Blore cried:
"We must look for him."
He started for the door. The others followed him, Vera last.
As they went down the stairs Armstrong said over his shoulder:
"Of course he may have stayed in the livingroom..."
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 to the drawingroom door, Armstrong stopped dead. The others crowded up and looked over his shoulder.
Somebody cried out.
Mr. Justice Wargrave was silting in his highbacked 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 a 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 raised the limp 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 the head. Instantaneous."
Vera stooped to the wig. She said, and her voice shook with terror:
"Miss Brent's missing grey 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 Indian 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 of the black cap! Here's the last time he'll
ever sit in court! No more summing up and sending innocent men to death. How
Edward Seton 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 Lombard's 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!"
Chapter 14
They had carried Mr. Justice Wargrave up to his room and laid him on the bed. Then they had come down again and had stood in the hall looking at each other. Blore 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 a 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. Blore said:
"Only four of us now... Who'll be the next?"
Armstrong stared. He said, almost mechanically:
"We must be very careful " and stopped.
Blore nodded.
"That's what he said... And now he's dead!"
Armstrong said:
"How did it happen, I wonder?"
Lombard swore. He said:
"A damned clever double cross! That stuff was planted in Miss Claythorne's room and it worked just as it was intended to. Every one dashes up there thinking
she's being murdered. And so in the confusion some one caught the old boy off his guard."
Blore said:
"Why didn't any one 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 time."
Blore 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..."
Blore 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."
Blore said:
"I've no objection..."
The doctor murmured:
"The best thing to do although I doubt if any of us will sleep."
They moved to the door. Blore said:
"I wonder where that revolver is now?..."
II
They went up the stairs.
The next move was a little like a scene in a farce.
Each one of the four stood with a hand 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.
III
Philip Lombard drew a breath of relief as he turned from adjusting a chair under the door handle.
He strolled across to the dressingtable.
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 wolflike smile flashed out.
He undressed quickly.
He went over to the bed, placing his wristwatch 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... IV
Vera Claythorne lay in bed.
The candle still burned beside her.
As 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'd begin 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 had 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 be all 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 brazen 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 untruthful 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 faroff way...? Had Hugo known?
Was that why he had gone off after the inquest so hurriedly?
He hadn't answered the one letter she had written to 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, stared 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 that cold clammy touch on her neck...
She didn't like that hook on the ceiling. It drew your eyes, fascinated you... a big black hook...
V
Exinspector Blore sat on the side of his bed.
His small eyes, redrimmed 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.
Blore snorted with a kind of savage satisfaction.
"What was it the old geezer had said?"
"We must be very careful..."
Selfrighteous smug old hypocrite. Sitting up in 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 Blore.
He'd see to that all right.
(But the revolver... What about the revolver? That was the disturbing factor the revolver!)
Blore sat on his bed, his brow furrowed, his little eyes creased 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 ageold fears awoke 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 small strawcoloured moustache...
A face he had seen sometime or other but when? Not on the island. No, much longer ago than that.
Funny, that he couldn'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 a 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 had 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 that revolver...
Downstairs a clock struck one.
Blore's thoughts were cut short. He sat up on the bed, suddenly alert. For he had heard a sound a very faint sound somewhere outside his bedroom door.
There was some one moving about in the darkened house.
The perspiration broke out on his forehead. Who was it, moving secretly and silently along the corridors? Some one who was up to no good, he'd bet that! Noiselessly, in spite of his heavy build, he dropped off the bed and with two
strides was standing by the door listening.
But the sound did not come again. Nevertheless Blore was convinced that he was
not mistaken. He had heard a footfall just outside his door. The hair rose slightly on his scalp. He knew fear again...
Some one 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 Blore to hear what he
had heard, counting on him coming out to investigate.
Blore stood rigid listening. He could hear sounds everywhere now, cracks, mstles, 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 his ears as
Blore 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, Blore 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 Blore acted, he acted quickly, surprisingly so for a man who looked so heavy and slow. He tiptoed back to the bed, slipped matches into his pocket, detached the plug of the electric lamp by his bed, and picked it up winding the flex round 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; Blore ran noiselessly in his stockinged feet to the head of the stairs.
At that moment he realized why it was he had heard all these 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.
Blore 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 out of the house!
But what the other man didn't realize was that he had made a mistake, had
delivered himself neady into Blore's hands.
For, of the three tenanted rooms upstairs, one must now be empty. All that had to be done was to ascertain which!
Blore 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 Blore. 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."
Vera'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
pyjamas. His right hand rested in the pocket of his pyjama jacket. He said sharply:
"What the hell's all this?"
Blore explained rapidly. Lombard's eyes lit up.
"Armstrong eh? So he's our pigeon!" He moved along to Armstrong's door.
"Sorry, Blore, 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."
Blore said:
"That means he locked it on the outside and took it with him."
Philip nodded:
"Ordinary precaution to take. We'll get him, Blore... This time, we'll get him! Half a second."
He raced along to Vera's room.
"Vera."
"Yes."
"We're hunting 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 Blore's been killed, pay no attention. See? Only open your door if both Blore and I speak to you. Got
that?"
Vera said:
"Yes. I'm not a complete fool."
Lombard said:
"Good."
He joined Blore. He said:
"And now after him! The hunt's up!"
Blore said:
"We'd better be careful. He's got a revolver, remember."
Philip Lombard raced down the stairs chuckling.
He said:
"That's where you're wrong." He undid the front door, remarking: "Latch pushed back so that he could get in again easily."
He went on:
"I've got that revolver!" He took it half out of his pocket as he spoke. "Found it put back in my drawer tonight."
Blore stopped dead on the doorstep. His face changed. Philip Lombard saw it.
He said impatiently:
"Don't be a damned fool, Blore! I'm not going to shoot you! Go back and barricade yourself in if you like! I'm off after Armstrong."
He started off into the moonlight. Blore, after a minute's hesitation, followed
him.
He thought to himself:
"I suppose I'm asking for it. But after all "
After all he had tackled criminals armed with revolvers before now. Whatever
else he lacked, Blore 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.
VI
Vera, left to wait 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 flowerbed.
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. And 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
Blore had done earlier, that such sounds had their origin in her own imagination.
But presently she heard sounds of a more concrete nature.
People moving about downstairs the murmur of voices. Then the very decided
sound of some one mounting the stairs doors opening and shutting feet going
up to the attics overhead. More noises from there.
Finally the steps came along the passage. Lombard's voice said:
"Vera? You all right?"
"Yes. What's happened?"
Blore'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?"
Lombard said:
"Armstrong's disappeared..."
VII
Vera cried:
"What?"
Lombard said:
"Vanished clean off the island."
Blore concurred:
"Vanished that's the word! Like some damned conjuring trick."
Vera said impatiently:
"Nonsense! He's hiding somewhere!"
Blore 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 into the house."
Blore said:
"We thought of 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."
Lombard said:
"It's true, my dear."
He paused and then said:
"There's one other little fact. A pane in the diningroom window has been smashed and there are only three little Indian boys on the table."
Chapter 15
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, yet, 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.
Lombard said:
"We'll try heliographing today with a mirror from the highest point of the island.
Some bright lad wandering on the cliff will recognize SOS when he sees it, I hope.
In the evening we could try a bonfire only there isn't much wood and anyway they might just think it was song and dance and merriment."
Vera said:
"Surely some one can read Morse. And then they'll come to take us off. Long before this evening."
Lombard 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!"
Lombard shrugged his shoulders.
"May as well face it! Twentyfour hours will do it, I think. If we can last out that, we'll be all right."
Blore cleared his throat. He said:
"We'd better come to a clear understanding. What's happened to Armstrong?" Lombard said:
"Well, we've got one piece of evidence. Only three little Indian boys left on the dinnertable. It looks as though Armstrong had got his quietus."
Vera said:
"Then why haven't you found his dead body?"
Blore said:
"Exactly."
Lombard shook his head. He said:
"It's damned odd no getting over it."
Blore said doubtfully:
"It might have been thrown into the sea."
Lombard said sharply:
"By whom? You? Me? You saw him go out of the front door. You come along and
find me in my room. We go out and search together. When the devil had I time to kill him and carry his body round the island?"
Blore said:
"I don't know. But I do know one thing."
Lombard said:
"What's that?"
Blore 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 now, Blore, 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."
Blore said:
"You ask us to believe a thing like that! Why the devil should Armstrong, or any one else for that matter, put it back?"
Lombard 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."
Blore 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."
Blore said:
"Look here, Mr. 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." Blore 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 won't agree to that?"
"No, I won't. That revolver's mine. I need it to defend myself and I'm going to keep it."
Blore said:
"In that case we're bound to come to one conclusion."
"That I'm U.N. Owen? Think what you damned 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."
Blore 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 Indian 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... He took away the china Indian 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."
Blore 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."
Blore 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
drugging Mrs. Rogers so that she overslept herself arranging for a bumblebee
when Miss Brent died! It's like some horrible child playing a game. It's all got to fit in."
Blore 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 any more. We're the Zoo..."
