Chapter - 14 | And Then There Were None

I
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?’
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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 doublecross! 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.’
Blore said:
‘Why didn’t anyone hear the shot?’
Lombard shook his head.
‘Miss Claythorne was screaming, the wind was howl-
ing, 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.’
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:
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‘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
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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 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 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 . . .
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IV
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’d begin to think of Cornwall – of Hugo – of –
of what she’d said to Cyril.
Horrid whiney 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?’
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‘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 far-off 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 . . .
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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
Ex-Inspector Blore 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.
Blore snorted with a kind of savage satisfaction.
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What was it the old geezer had said?
‘We must be very careful . . .’
Self-righteous 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 therewerefour of them. Thegirl, 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 down-
stairs.
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.
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Strangely enough, he found the darkness disquieting.
It was as though a thousand age-old 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 small straw-
coloured moustache.
A face that 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.)
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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 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’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 . . .
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 Blore to hear
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what he had heard, counting on him coming out to
investigate.
Blore 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 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
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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 him-
self ! 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 neatly into
Blore’s hands.
For, of the three tenanted rooms upstairs, one must
now be empty. All that had to be done was to ascer-
tain 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.
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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.
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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.’
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Philip Lombard racing down the stairs chuckled.
He said:
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ He undid the front
door, remarking, ‘Latch pushed back – so 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.
‘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. 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.
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VI
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 power-
ful 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 pos-
sibly 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
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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.
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 someone
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 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
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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 to the house.’
Blore said:
‘We thought of that. We’ve searched the house, too.
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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 dining-
room window has been smashed – and there are only
three little soldier boys on the table.’
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