Агата Кристи - Десять негритят / And Then There Were None

He went back into the dining-room. Yes, everything was ready for the morning. His eye lingered on the centre plaque of looking-glass and the seven little china figures.

A sudden grin transformed 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 to, 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 Soldier tricks tonight I’ve seen to that…»

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 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 Blore’s room.

The latter opened it cautiously. His hair was tousled and his eyes were still dim with sleep.

Philip Lombard said affably:

«Sleeping the clock round? Well, shows you’ve got an easy conscience.»

Blore said shortly: «What’s the matter?»

Lombard answered: «Anybody called you – or brought you any tea? Do you know what time it is?»

Blore 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 where?»

«What d’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.»

Blore 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 Blore, had to be roused from sleep. Vera Claythorne was dressed. Emily Brent’s room was empty.

The little party moved through the house. Rogers’ room, as Philip Lombard had already ascertained, was untenanted. 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 she 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 any one! My advice is that we keep together until we find him.»

Armstrong said: «He must be out on the island somewhere.»

Blore 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 in through the front door. She had on a mackintosh.

She said: «The sea is as high as ever. I shouldn’t think any boat could put out today.»

Blore said: «Have you been wandering 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. Blore, that I kept an extremely sharp lookout.»

Blore 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:

«He laid 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 bigger 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 Rogers’ 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 round. 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 any one who’s mentally unhinged has a good deal of unsuspected strength.»

The judge nodded thoughtfully.

Blore rose from 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 uncomprehendingly. 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 damned 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 Blore said:

«Well, you dealt with that all right, doctor.»