And Then There Were None

by Agatha Christie

  She crossed over to the window. Not too bad. At a pinch one could escape that way. It would mean a drop—but there was a handy flower-bed.

  She sat down and picking up her diary began to write in it in a clear flowing hand.

  One must pass the time.

  Suddenly she stiffened to attention. She had heard a sound. It was, she thought, a sound like breaking glass. 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 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. 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.’

  Chapter 15

  I

  Three people sat eating breakfast in the kitchen.

  Outside, the sun shone. It was a lovely day. The storm was a thing of the past.

  And with the change in the weather, a change had come in the mood of the prisoners on the island.

  They felt now like people just awakening from a nightmare. There was danger, yes, but it was danger in daylight. That paralysing 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 someone 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! Twenty-four 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 soldier boys left on the dinner-table. 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 anyone 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 soldier boys going out to sea;

  A red her
ring 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 soldier to make you think he was. You may say what you like—Armstrong’s on the island still. His disappearance is just a red herring across the track…’

  Lombard sat down again.

  He said:

  ‘You know, you may be right.’

  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 bumble bee 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…’

  II

  They spent the morning on the cliffs, taking it in turns to flash a mirror at the mainland.

  There were no signs that any one saw them. No answering signals. The day was fine, with a slight haze. Below, the sea heaved in a gigantic swell. There were no boats out.

  They had made another abortive search of the island. There was no trace of the missing physician.

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

  She said, her breath coming with a slight catch in it:

  ‘One feels safer here, out in the open…Don’t let’s go back into the house again.’

  Lombard said:

  ‘Not a bad idea. We’re pretty safe here, no one can get at us without our seeing him a long time beforehand.’

  Vera said:

  ‘We’ll stay here.’

  Blore said:

  ‘Have to pass the night somewhere. We’ll have to go back to the house then.’

  Vera shuddered.

  ‘I can’t bear it. I can’t go through another night!’

  Philip said:

  ‘You’ll be safe enough—locked in your room.’

  Vera murmured: ‘I suppose so.’

  She stretched out her hands, murmuring:

  ‘It’s lovely—to feel the sun again…’

  She thought:

  ‘How odd…I’m almost happy. And yet I suppose I’m actually in danger…Somehow—now—nothing seems to matter…not in daylight…I feel full of power—I feel that I can’t die…’

  Blore was looking at his wristwatch. He said:

  ‘It’s two o’clock. What about lunch?’

  Vera said obstinately:

  ‘I’m not going back to the house. I’m going to stay here—in the open.’

  ‘Oh come now, Miss Claythorne. Got to keep your strength up, you know.’

  Vera said:

  ‘If I even see a tinned tongue, I shall be sick! I don’t want any food. People go days on end with nothing sometimes when they’re on a diet.’

  Blore said:

  ‘Well, I need my meals regular. What about you, Mr Lombard?’

  Philip said:

  ‘You know, I don’t relish the idea of tinned tongue particularly. I’ll stay here with Miss Claythorne.’

  Blore hesitated. Vera said:

  ‘I shall be quite all right. I don’t think he’ll shoot me as soon as your back is turned if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

  Blore said:

  ‘It’s all right if you say so. But we agreed we ought not to separate.’

  Philip said:

  ‘You’re the one who wants to go into the lion’s den. I’ll come with you if you like.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Blore. ‘You’ll stay here.’

  Philip laughed.

  ‘So you’re still afraid of me? Why, I could shoot you both this very minute if I liked.’

  Blore said:

  ‘Yes, but that wouldn’t be according to plan. It’s one at a time, and it’s got to be done in a certain way.’

  ‘Well,’ said Philip, ‘you seem to know all about it.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Blore, ‘it’s a bit jumpy going up to the house alone—’

  Philip said softly:

  ‘And therefore, will I lend you my revolver? Answer, no, I will not! Not quite so simple as that, thank you.’

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

  Lombard said softly:

  ‘Feeding time at the Zoo! The animals are very regular in their habits!’

  Vera said anxiously:

  ‘Isn’t it very risky, what he’s doing?’

  ‘In the sense you mean—no, I don’t think it is! Armstrong’s not armed, you know, and anyway Blore is twice a match for him in physique and he’s very much on his guard. And anyway it’s a sheer impossibility that Armstrong can be in the house. I know he’s not there.’

  ‘But—what other solution is there?’

  Philip said softly:

  ‘There’s Blore.’

  ‘Oh—do you really think—?’

  ‘Listen, my girl. You heard Blore’s story. You’ve got to admit that if it’s true, I can’t possibly have had anything to do with Armstrong’s disappearance. His story clears me. But it doesn’t clear him. We’ve only his word for it that he heard footsteps and saw a man going downstairs and out at the front door. The whole thing may be a lie. He may have got rid of Armstrong a couple of hours before that.’

  ‘How?’

  Lombard shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘That we don’t know. But if you ask me, we’ve only one danger to fear—and that danger is Blore! What do we know about the man? Less than nothing! All this ex-policeman story may be bunkum! He may be anybody—a mad millionaire—a crazy businessman—an escaped inmate of Broadmoor. One thing’s certain. He could have done every one of these crimes.’

  Vera had gone rather white. She said in a slightly breathless voice:

  ‘And supposing he gets—us?’

  Lombard said softly, patting the revolver in his pocket:

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

  Then he looked at her curiously.

  ‘Touching faith in me, haven’t you, Vera? Quite sure I wouldn’t shoot you?’

  Vera said:

  ‘One has got to trust someone…As a matter of fact I think you’re wrong about Blore. I still think it’s Armstrong.’

  She turned to him suddenly:

  ‘Don’t you feel—all the time—that there’s someone. Someone watching and waiting?’

  Lombard said slowly:

  ‘That’s just nerves.’

  Vera said eagerly:

  ‘Then you have felt it?’

  She shivered. She bent a little closer.

  ‘Tell me—you don’t think—’ she broke off, went on: ‘I read a story once—about two judges that came to a small American town—from the Supreme Court. They administered justice—Absolute Justice. Because—they didn’t come from this world at all…’

  Lombard raised his eyebrows.

  He said:

  ‘Heavenly visitants, eh? No, I don’t believe in the supernatural. This business is human enough.’


  Vera said in a low voice:

  ‘Sometimes—I’m not sure…’

  Lombard looked at her. He said:

  ‘That’s conscience…’ After a moment’s silence he said very quietly: ‘So you did drown that kid after all?’

  Vera said vehemently:

  ‘I didn’t! I didn’t! You’ve no right to say that!’

  He laughed easily.

  ‘Oh yes, you did, my good girl! I don’t know why. Can’t imagine. There was a man in it probably. Was that it?’

  A sudden feeling of lassitude, of intense weariness, spread over Vera’s limbs. She said in a dull voice:

  ‘Yes—there was a man in it…’

  Lombard said softly:

  ‘Thanks. That’s what I wanted to know…’

  Vera sat up suddenly. She exclaimed:

  ‘What was that? It wasn’t an earthquake?’

  Lombard said:

  ‘No, no. Queer, though—a thud shook the ground. And I thought—did you hear a sort of cry? I did.’

  They stared up at the house.

  Lombard said:

  ‘It came from there. We’d better go up and see.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not going.’

  ‘Please yourself. I am.’

  Vera said desperately:

  ‘All right. I’ll come with you.’

  They walked up the slope to the house. The terrace was peaceful and innocuous-looking in the sunshine. They hesitated there a minute, then instead of entering by the front door, they made a cautious circuit of the house.

  They found Blore. He was spreadeagled on the stone terrace on the east side, his head crushed and mangled by a great block of white marble.

  Philip looked up. He said:

  ‘Whose is that window just above?’

  Vera said in a low shuddering voice:

  ‘It’s mine—and that’s the clock from my mantelpiece…I remember now. It was—shaped like a bear.’

  She repeated and her voice shook and quavered:

  ‘It was shaped like a bear…’

  III

  Philip grasped her shoulder.

  He said, and his voice was urgent and grim:

  ‘This settles it. Armstrong is in hiding somewhere in that house. I’m going to get him.’