Kitabı oku: «Ten Little Niggers / Десять негритят», sayfa 2

IV

Fred Narracott, looking at his passengers, thought to himself that this was a queer company. He’d expected that Mr. Owen’s guests would be all very rich and important-looking.

Quite different from Mr. Elmer Robson’s parties. Fred Narracott grinned faintly as he remembered the millionaire’s guests. That had been a party if you like – and the drink they’d got through!

This Mr. Owen must be a very different sort of gentleman. It was strange, thought Fred, that Mr. Owen had never been down here yet. Everything had been ordered and paid for by that Mr. Morris. The papers said there was some mystery about Owen. Mr. Narracott agreed with them.

Perhaps it was indeed Miss Gabrielle Turl who had bought the island. But he rejected that theory as he looked at his passengers. They could hardly have anything to do with a film star.

He sized them up objectively.

One spinster – the sour kind – he knew them well enough. She was a dragon, he could bet. Old military gentleman. Nice-looking young lady – but the ordinary kind, not glamourous – no Hollywood touch about her. That bluff cheery gent – he wasn’t a real gentleman. Retired tradesman, that’s what he is, thought Fred Narracott. The other gentleman, the thin hungry looking gentleman with the quick eyes, he was a queer one.

No, there was only one satisfactory passenger in the boat. The last gentleman, the one who had arrived in the car (and what a car!).

He was the right kind. Born to money, he was. If the party had been all like him… he’d understand it…

Queer business – the whole thing was queer – very queer.

V

The boat went round the rock. The south side of the island was quite different. It sloped gently down to the sea. Now at last they saw the house – low and square and modern-looking with rounded windows letting in all the light.

An exciting house – a house that lived up to expectation!¹²

Fred Narracott stopped the engine, they nosed their way gently into a little natural inlet between rocks.

Philip Lombard said sharply:

“Must be difficult to land here in bad weather.”

Fred Narracott said cheerfully:

“Can’t land on Nigger Island when there’s a southeasterly. Sometimes it’s cut off for a week or more.”

Fred Narracott jumped out and he and Lombard helped the others to get out. Narracott tied the boat to a ring in the rock. Then they went up the steps cut in the rock.

General Macarthur said:

“Ha, enchanting spot!”

But he felt uneasy. Damned odd sort of place.

As the party came out on a terrace above, their mood brightened. In the open doorway of the house a correct butler was awaiting them, and something about his appearance reassured them. And then the house itself was really most attractive, the view from the terrace magnificent…

The butler bowed slightly and said:

“Will you come this way, please?”

In the wide hall drinks stood ready. Rows of bottles. That pleased Anthony Marston. His mood improved a little. He’d just been thinking this was not his kind of company. How could old Badger have let him in for this?¹³ But the drinks were all right. Plenty of ice, too.

What was the butler chap saying?

“Mr. Owen – unfortunately delayed – unable to get here till tomorrow. Instructions – everything they wanted – if they would like to go to their rooms?.. dinner would be at 8 o’clock.”

VI

Mrs. Rogers showed Vera to her room upstairs. It was a delightful bedroom with a big window that opened upon the sea and another looking east. At one side of the room a door stood open into a pale blue-tiled bathroom. Vera was very pleased with it.

Mrs. Rogers was saying:

“I hope you’ve got everything you want, Miss?”

Vera looked round. Her luggage had been brought up and had been unpacked.

She said quickly:

“Yes, everything, I think.”

Mrs. Rogers asked her to ring the bell if she wanted anything. She had a flat monotonous voice. Her queer light eyes moved the whole time from place to place.

Vera thought:

“She looks frightened of her own shadow.”

Yes, she looked like a woman who walked in mortal fear.

Vera shivered a little. What on earth was the woman afraid of?

She said pleasantly:

“I’m Mrs. Owen’s new secretary. I expect you know that.”

Mrs. Rogers said:

“I haven’t seen Mrs. Owen – not yet. We only came here two days ago.”

“Extraordinary people, these Owens,” thought Vera. Aloud she said:

“What staff is there here?”

“Just me and Rogers, Miss.”

Vera frowned. She thought such small staff was not enough for so large a party.

Mrs. Rogers said:

“I’m a good cook and Rogers is handy about the house. If there’s to be large parties often perhaps Mrs. Owen could get extra help in.”

Mrs. Rogers turned and quietly left the room.

Vera went over to the window and sat down on the window seat. She was faintly worried. Everything – somehow – was a little queer. The absence of the Owens, the pale ghostlike Mrs. Rogers. And the guests! Yes, the guests were queer too. A strangely assorted party.

She got up and walked restlessly about the room. She stopped in front of the fireplace. On the mantelpiece there was a huge block of white marble shaped like a bear, a piece of modern sculpture in which was inset a clock. Over it, in a chromium frame, was a poem.

It was the old nursery rhyme that she remembered from her childhood days.

Ten little Nigger boys went out to dine;

One choked his little self and then there were nine.

Nine little Nigger boys sat up very late;

One overslept himself and then there were eight.

Eight little Nigger boys travelling in Devon;

One said he’d stay there and then there were seven.

Seven little Nigger boys chopping up sticks;

One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.

Six little Nigger boys playing with a hive;

A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.

Five little Nigger boys going in for law;

One got in Chancery and then there were four.

Four little Nigger boys going out to sea;

A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.

Three little Nigger boys walking in the Zoo;

A big bear hugged one and then there were two.

Two little Nigger boys sitting in the sun;

One got frizzled up¹⁴ and then there was one.

One little Nigger boy left all alone;

He went and hanged himself and then there were none.

Vera smiled. Of course! This was Nigger Island!

She returned to the window and sat again looking out to sea.

How big the sea was! No land could be seen from here – just blue water around everywhere.

The sea… So peaceful today – sometimes so cruel… The sea that dragged you down to its depths. Drowned. Found drowned. Drowned at sea. Drowned – drowned – drowned.

No, she wouldn’t think of it!

All that was over.

VII

Dr. Armstrong came to Nigger Island just as the sun was setting. On the way across he had chatted to the boatman – a local man. He wanted to find out a little about these people who owned Nigger Island, but the man Narracott knew curiously little, or perhaps did not wish to talk.

So Dr. Armstrong chatted instead of the weather and of fishing.

He was tired after his long motor drive. Yes, he was very tired. The sea and perfect peace – that was what he needed. He would like, really, to take a long holiday. But he couldn’t leave his practice for long: you were soon forgotten nowadays.

He thought:

“But this evening, I’ll imagine to myself that I’m not going back.”

There was something magical about an island. You lost touch with the world¹⁵ – an island was a world of its own. A world, perhaps, from which you might never return.

He thought:

“I’m leaving my ordinary life behind me.”

He smiled to himself and began to make plans, fantastic plans for the future.

He was still smiling when he walked up the rock cut steps.

In a chair on the terrace an old gentleman was sitting and the sight of him was vaguely familiar to Dr. Armstrong. Where had he seen that frog-like face, that tortoise-like neck, that hunched-up figure – yes, and those pale shrewd little eyes? Of course – old Wargrave. He’d given evidence once before him. Had great power with a jury – it was said he could make their minds up for them any day of the week. He’d got one or two unlikely convictions out of them. A hanging judge, some people said.

Strange to meet him… here – out of the world.

VIII

Mr. Justice Wargrave thought to himself:

“Armstrong? Remember him in the witness box. Very correct and cautious. All doctors are damned fools. Harley Street ones are the worst of them.” And in his mind he returned to a recent interview he had had with a suave personage in that very street.

Aloud he grunted:

“Drinks are in the hall.”

Dr. Armstrong said he wanted first to pay his respects to the host and hostess.

The judge said:

“No host and hostess. Very curious state of affairs. Don’t understand this place.”

Dr. Armstrong stared at him for a minute. When he thought the old gentleman had actually gone to sleep, Wargrave said suddenly:

“D’you know Constance Culmington?”

“Er – no, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“It’s not important,” said the judge. “Very vague woman – and practically unreadable handwriting. I was just wondering if I’d come to the wrong house.”

Dr. Armstrong shook his head and went on up to the house.

In his mind, Mr. Justice Wargrave turned to the two women in the house, the tight-lipped spinster and the girl. He didn’t care for the girl, heartless young hussy. No, three women, if you counted the Rogers woman. Queer creature, she looked frightened to death. Respectable pair and knew their job…

At that moment, Rogers came out on the terrace and the judge asked him:

“Is Lady Constance Culmington expected, do you know?” Rogers stared at him.

“No, sir, not to my knowledge.”

The judge’s eyebrows rose. But he only grunted.

He thought:

“Nigger Island, eh? There’s a nigger in the woodpile¹⁶.”

IX

Anthony Marston was enjoying his bath. Very few thoughts passed through his head. Anthony was a creature of sensation – and of action.

He thought to himself:

“Must go through with it, I suppose,” and thereafter dismissed everything from his mind.

Pleasantly hot water – presently a shave – a cocktail – dinner.

And after —?

X

Mr. Blore was tying his tie. He wasn’t very good at this sort of thing.

It worried him whether he looked all right. He hoped he did.

Nobody had been exactly pleasant to him… Funny the way they all looked at each other – as though they knew.

Well, he didn’t mean to fail in his job.

He glanced up at the framed nursery rhyme over the mantelpiece.

Neat touch, having that there!

XI

General Macarthur was frowning to himself. Damn it all, the whole thing was so strange! Not at all what he had expected…

He would like to make an excuse and get away. Throw up the whole business.

But the motor boat had gone back to the mainland.

He’d have to stay.

That fellow Lombard, he was a queer chap.

He’d bet the man wasn’t honest.

XII

Philip Lombard came out of his room as the gong sounded. He moved noiselessly like a panther. A beast of prey – pleasant to the eye.

He was smiling to himself. He was going to enjoy that week.

XIII

Emily Brent was reading her Bible in her bedroom, dressed in black silk ready for dinner.

“The Lord is known by the judgement which he executed: the wicked is snared in the work of his own hands. The wicked shall be turned into hell.”

She closed the Bible and went down to dinner.

Chapter 3

I

Dinner was nearly at its end.

The food had been good, the wine perfect.

They all had begun to talk to each other with more freedom and intimacy.

Mr. Justice Wargrave was being amusing in a sarcastic manner; Dr. Armstrong and Tony Marston were listening to him. Miss Brent chatted to General Macarthur; they had discovered some mutual friends. Vera Claythorne and Mr. Davis were talking about South Africa. Lombard listened to the conversation. Now and then¹⁷ his eyes went round the table, studying the others.

Anthony Marston suddenly pointed to little china figures in the centre of the round table.

“Niggers,” he said. “Nigger Island. I suppose that’s the idea.”

Vera asked:

“How many are there? Ten?”

“Yes – ten there are.”

Vera exclaimed:

“How interesting! They’re the ten little Nigger boys of the nursery rhyme, I suppose. The rhyme in a frame is over the mantelpiece in my bedroom.”

There was the chorus of voices:

“In my room, too.”

Vera said:

“It’s an amusing idea, isn’t it?”

Mr. Justice Wargrave grunted:

“Remarkably childish,” and helped himself to port.

Emily Brent and Vera Claythorne stood up and went to the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room, the French windows were open onto the terrace and the sound of the sea waves against the rocks came up to them.

Vera said:

“I don’t think this place would be very pleasant in a storm.”

Emily Brent agreed.

“I’ve no doubt the house is closed up in winter,” she said. “No servants would stay here.”

Vera murmured:

“It must be difficult to get servants anyway.”

Emily Brent said:

“Mrs. Oliver has been lucky to get these two. The woman’s a good cook.”

Vera thought:

“Funny how elderly people always get names wrong.”

She said:

“Yes, I think Mrs. Owen has been very lucky indeed.”

Emily Brent took a small piece of embroidery out of her bag and paused.

She said sharply:

“I’ve never met anyone called Owen in my life.”

At that moment the door opened and the men joined them. Rogers followed them into the room with the coffee tray.

The judge came and sat down by Emily Brent. Armstrong came up to Vera. Tony Marston went to the open window. Blore studied a statuette of a female figure. General Macarthur stood with his back to the mantelpiece. Lombard turned over the pages of Punch that lay with other papers on a table by the wall.

Rogers went round with the coffee tray. The coffee was good – really black and very hot.

The whole party had dined well. They were satisfied with themselves and with life. The hands of the clock pointed to twenty minutes past nine. There was a pleasant satisfied silence.

Into that silence, without warning, came The Voice…

“Ladies and gentlemen! Silence, please!”

They looked round – at each other, at the walls. Who was speaking?

The Voice went on – a high clear voice.

You are charged with the following indictments:

Edward George Armstrong, that upon the 14th day of March, 1925 you caused the death of Louisa Mary Clees.

Emily Caroline Brent, that upon the 5th November, 1931, you were responsible for the death of Beatrice Taylor.

William Henry Blore, that on October 10th, 1928, you caused the death of James Stephen Landor.

Vera Elizabeth Claythorne, that on the 11th day of August, 1935, you killed Cyril Ogilvie Hamilton.

Philip Lombard, that in February, 1932, you were guilty of the death of twenty-one men, members of an East African tribe.

John Gordon Macarthur, that on the 4th of January, 1917, you deliberately sent your wife’s lover, Arthur Richmond, to his death.

Anthony James Marston, that last year, upon the 14 th of November, you were guilty of the murder of John and Lucy Combes.

Thomas Rogers and Ethel Rogers, that on the 6th of May,

1929, you caused the death of Jennifer Brady.

Lawrence John Wargrave, that upon the 10th day of June,

1930, you were guilty of the murder of Edward Seton.

Defendants, have you anything to say in your defence?

II

The shocked silence was broken by a loud crash: Rogers had dropped the coffee tray!

And there came a scream and the sound of a falling body from outside the room. Lombard sprang to the door and quickly opened it. Outside, Mrs. Rogers was lying on the floor.

Lombard called Marston and between them they lifted up the woman and carried her into the drawing-room.

Dr. Armstrong helped them to lift her onto the sofa and bent over her. He said quickly:

“It’s nothing. She’s fainted, that’s all. She’ll come round in a minute.”

Lombard told Rogers to bring some brandy. Rogers slipped quickly out of the room. His face was white, his hands were shaking.

Vera cried out:

“Who was that speaking? Where was he?”

General Macarthur looked suddenly ten years older.

“What’s going on here? What kind of a practical joke was that?”

Blore was wiping his face with a handkerchief.

Only Mr. Justice Wargrave and Miss Brent seemed comparatively unemotional. Emily Brent, sitting very erect, held her head high. There were spots of dark colour in both her cheeks. The judge sat in his usual hunched-up pose. Only his eyes were active, moving round and round the room, puzzled, watching with lively intelligence.

Again Lombard took the initiative.

He said:

“That voice? It sounded as though it were in the room.”

Vera cried again:

“Who was it? It wasn’t one of us!”

Lombard looked slowly round the room. Suddenly his eyes stopped on the door near the fireplace. That door led into an adjacent room.

He entered that room and, at once, his satisfied exclamation was heard: “Ah, here we are.”

The others followed him. Only Miss Brent remained alone sitting erect in her chair.

Inside the adjacent room a table stood close to the wall of the drawing-room. On the table was an old-fashioned gramophone with a large trumpet. The mouth of the trumpet was against the wall. Lombard pushed the trumpet aside and they saw some small holes in the wall.

Lombard replaced the needle on the record and at once they heard again: “You are charged with the following indictments —”

Vera cried:

“Turn it off! Turn it off! It’s horrible!”

Lombard obeyed.

Dr. Armstrong said, with a sigh of relief:

“An outrageous and heartless practical joke, I suppose.”

Mr. Justice Wargrave murmured:

“So you think it’s a joke, do you?”

The doctor stared at him.

“What else could it be?”

The judge gently stroked his upper lip and said he wasn’tyet prepared to give an opinion.

Anthony Marston said:

“Look here, you’ve forgotten one thing: who the devil turned the gramophone on?”

Wargrave murmured:

“Yes, I think we must investigate that.”

He led the way back into the drawing-room. The others followed.

Rogers had just returned with a glass of brandy. Miss Brent was bending over Mrs. Rogers.

Rogers slipped between the two women.

“Allow me, Madam, I’ll speak to her. Ethel, it’s all right.

All right, do you hear? Pull yourself together.”

Mrs. Rogers’ frightened eyes went round and round the ring of faces. Rogers repeated:

“Pull yourself together, Ethel.”

Dr. Armstrong spoke to her gently.

“You’ll be all right now, Mrs. Rogers.”

She said:

“Did I faint, sir?”

“Yes.”

“It was The Voice – that awful voice – like a judgement —”

Her face turned green again.

Dr. Armstrong said sharply:

“Where’s that brandy?”

Rogers had put it down on a little table. Someone handed it to the doctor and offered it to Mrs. Rogers.

She drank it, choking a little and gasping. The spirit did her good. The colour returned to her face. She said:

“I’m all right now. It just – upset me.”

Rogers said quickly:

“Of course it did. It upset me too. Made me drop that tray.

Wicked lies, it was! I’d like to know —”

A dry little cough stopped him. He stared at Mr. Justice Wargrave and the latter coughed again. Then he asked:

“Who put that record on the gramophone? Was it you, Rogers?”

Rogers cried:

“Before God, sir, I didn’t know what it was. If I had, I’d never have done it.”

The judge said drily:

“That is probably true. But I think you’d better explain, Rogers.”

The butler wiped his face with a handkerchief. He said earnestly:

“I was just obeying Mr. Owen’s orders, sir, that’s all.”

Mr. Justice Wargrave asked the butler to tell them exactly what those orders had been.

Rogers said:

“I was to take the record from the drawer and put it on the gramophone. My wife was to start the gramophone when I’d gone into the drawing-room with the coffee tray. The record had a name on it – I thought it was just a piece of music.”

Wargrave looked at Lombard.

“Was there a title on it?”

Lombard nodded. He grinned suddenly, showing his white pointed teeth.

He said:

“Quite right, sir. The title was Swan Song…”

III

General Macarthur suddenly exclaimed:

“The whole thing is absurd – just absurd! Throwing accusations about like this! Something must be done about it. This fellow Owen whoever he is —”

Emily Brent interrupted. She said sharply:

“Yes, who is he?”

The judge spoke authoritatively:

“We will go into it very carefully. Rogers, I think you should get your wife to bed first of all. Then come back here.”

Rogers and Dr. Armstrong helped Mrs. Rogers to get out of the room. When they had gone, Tony Marston said he would like to have a drink. Lombard expressed the same wish. Marston went out of the room and returned a second or two later with a tray full of various drinks.

Everyone felt the need of a stimulant. Only Emily Brent asked for a glass of water.

Dr. Armstrong re-entered the room. He said he had given Mrs. Rogers a sedative. He saw the drinks and joined the others. A moment or two later Rogers re-entered the room.

And Mr. Justice Wargrave started the investigation.

The judge said:

“Now then, Rogers, what do you know about this Mr. Owen who owns this place?”

Rogers shook his head.

“I can’t say, sir. You see, I’ve never seen him.”

General Macarthur said:

“You’ve never seen him? What d’you mean?”

“My wife and I, sir, were employed by letter, through an agency. The Regina Agency in Plymouth.”

Wargrave said:

“Have you got that letter?”

“No, sir. I didn’t keep it.”

“Go on with your story. You were employed, as you say, by letter.”

“Yes, sir. We were to arrive on a certain day. Everything was in order here. Plenty of food and everything very nice.”

“What next?”

“We got orders – by letter again – to prepare the rooms for a house-party and then yesterday I got another letter from Mr. Owen. It said he and Mrs. Owen were delayed and it gave the instructions about dinner and coffee and putting on the gramophone record.”

The judge asked sharply:

“Have you got that letter?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve got it here.”

He took it out from his pocket.

“H’m,” the judge said. “Headed Ritz Hotel and typewritten.”

Blore said:

“Let me have a look.”

He examined the letter and murmured:

“Quite new – no defects. A standard paper – the most widely used make. You won’t get anything out of that. Might be fingerprints, but I doubt it.”

Wargrave stared at him with sudden attention.

Anthony Marston looked at the letter over Blore’s shoulder. He said:

“Got some fancy Christian names, hasn’t he? Ulick Norman Owen. Quite a mouthful.”

“The old judge said:

“Thank you, Mr. Marston. You have drawn my attention to a curious point.”

He looked round at the others and said:

“We are all guests of the owner of this house. I think it would help if each one of us explained exactly how that happened.”

After a moment’s pause Emily Brent spoke. She explained that she had received a letter with an illegible signature.

“I thought it was either Ogden or Oliver. I am acquainted with a Mrs. Oliver and also with a Miss Ogden. But I am quite sure that I have never met anyone of the name of Owen.”

She showed the letter to the judge. He read it and said:

“I begin to understand.”

Then Vera Claythorne explained how she had been employed through the agency.

Anthony Marston said he had got a telegram from a friend.

“Surprised me at the time because I had an idea the old boy had gone to Norway. Told me to drive up here.”

Wargrave nodded and turned to Dr. Armstrong. The doctor explained that he had been called in professionally.

“And you have not met the family before?”

“No. A colleague of mine was mentioned in the letter.”

The judge said:

“To give credibility… Yes, and that colleague, I suppose, was temporarily out of touch with you?”

“Well – er – yes.”

The judge turned to General Macarthur.

Pulling at his moustache, the General murmured:

“Got a letter – from this fellow Owen – mentioned some old pals of mine who were to be here. Haven’t kept the letter, I’m afraid.”

Wargrave said:

“Mr. Lombard?”

Lombard thought quickly whether to say the truth, or not.

He made up his mind.¹⁸

“Same sort of thing,” he said. “Invitation, mention of mutual friends. I haven’t kept the letter.”

Mr. Justice Wargrave turned his attention to Mr. Blore.

He said: “Amongst the names on the record was that of William Henry Blore. The name of Davis was not mentioned. What have you to say about that, Mr. Davis?”

Blore said:

“Well, I suppose I’d better admit that my name isn’t Davis.”

“You are William Henry Blore?”

“That’s right.”

“I will add something,” said Lombard. “You say you have come from Natal, South Africa. I know South Africa and Natal and I can swear that you’ve never set foot in South Africa in your life.”

Angry suspicious eyes turned to Blore. Anthony Marston clenched his fists.

“Any explanation, you swine?” he said.

Blore said:

“You gentlemen have got me wrong,” he said. “I’m an ex-C. I. D.¹⁹ man. I run a detective agency in Plymouth. I was put on this job.”

Mr. Justice Wargrave asked: “By whom?”

“This man Owen. I was to join the house-party as a guest.

I was given all your names. I was to watch you all.”

“What reasons?”

Blore said bitterly:

“Mrs. Owen’s jewels. Mrs. Owen! I don’t think there’s any such person.”

Again the judge stroked his upper lip, this time approvingly.

“I think you are right,” he said. “Ulick Norman Owen! In Miss Brent’s letter the Christian names are clear – Una Nancy – you notice, the same initials. Ulick Norman Owen – Una Nancy Owen – each time, that is to say, U. N. Owen. Or by a slight stretch of fancy, UNKNOWN!”

Vera cried:

“But this is mad!”

The judge nodded.

He said:

“Oh, yes. I’ve no doubt that we have been invited here by a madman – probably a dangerous homicidal lunatic.”