Ten Little Niggers / Десять негритят. Агата Кристи

last and had bought it for a honeymoon! Somebody knew for a fact that the Admiralty had purchased the island for some very hush-hush experiments!

      Mr. Justice Wargrave took out a letter from his  pocket. The handwriting was practically illegible but some words here and there were quite clear. Dearest Lawrence… so many years since I heard anything of you… must come to Nigger Island… the most picturesque place… remember… old days… communion with Nature… bask in sunshine… 12:40 from Paddington… meet you at Oakbridge. The letter was signed by Lady Constance Culmington.

      Mr. Justice Wargrave remembered that he had last seen Lady Constance Culmington eight years ago. She had then been going to Italy to bask in the sun and be at one with Nature and the contadini[2]. Later, he had heard, she had gone to Syria where she intended to bask in yet stronger sun and live at one with Nature and the bedouin[3].

      Constance Culmington, in his opinion, was exactly the sort of woman who would buy an island and surround herself with mystery! His head nodded in approval of his logic. He slept…

      II

      Vera Claythorne, in a third-class carriage with five other travellers in it, leaned back and closed her eyes. It was very hot in the train. It would be nice to get to the sea! She thought she was lucky to get a secretarial post during her holiday. When you wanted a holiday post, it nearly always meant looking after a crowd of children – secretarial holiday posts were much more difficult to get. Even the agency hadn’t had much hope.

      And then the letter had come. It was:

      “Your name has been given to me by the Skilled Women’s Agency together with their recommendation. I agree to pay you the salary you ask and hope you will take up your duties on August 8th. The train is the 12:40 from Paddington and you will be met at Oakbridge station. I enclose five-pound notes for expenses.

      Yours truly,

      Una Nancy Owen.”

      And the stamped address was the Nigger Island, Sticklehaven, Devon…

      Nigger Island! The papers have been full of all sorts of hints and interesting rumours about it lately! Probably that was mostly untrue. But the house had certainly been built by a millionaire and was said to be absolutely the last word in luxury.

      Vera Claythorne felt very tired after a hard term as a games mistress[4] in a third-class school. She thought to herself – “If only I could get a job at some decent school.”

      But then she thought that she was lucky to have even that. With a heavy heart she thought: “People don’t like a Coroner’s[5] Inquest, even if the Coroner did acquit me of all blame!”

      The Coroner had even praised her for her courage, she remembered. And Mrs. Hamilton had been kindness itself to her – only Hugo – (but she wouldn’t think of Hugo!)

      Suddenly, though it was very hot in the carriage, she shivered and wished she wasn’t going to the sea. A picture rose clearly before her mind. Cyril’s head, bobbing up and down, swimming to the rock. Up and down – up and down. And herself, swimming in easy expert strokes after him – but knowing, only too well, that she wouldn’t be in time.

      The sea – warm mornings spent lying out on the sands – Hugo – Hugo who had said he loved her.

      She must not think of Hugo.

      She opened her eyes and looked at the man opposite her. A tall man with a brown face, light eyes set rather close together and an arrogant almost cruel mouth.

      She thought to herself:

      “I bet he’s been to some interesting parts of the world and seen some interesting things.”

      III

      Philip Lombard, sizing up the girl opposite with his quick moving eyes, thought to himself:

      “Quite attractive – a bit schoolmistressy perhaps…”

      A cool customer[6], he decided – and one who could hold her own – in love or war. He’d rather like to take her on.

      He frowned. No, he’d got to keep his mind on the job.

      What exactly was that job, he wondered? That little Jew had been damned mysterious. He had only said that a client of his had asked him to hand Lombard one hundred guineas in return for which Lombard would travel by train to Sticklehaven, Devon. The nearest to that place station was Oakbridge. There he would be met and motored to Sticklehaven where a motor launch would take him to Nigger Island.

      “There you will hold yourself at the disposal of my client, Captain Lombard. My client assumes that your reputation is that of a good man in a tight place.”[7]

      Philip had said thoughtfully:

      “A hundred guineas, eh?”

      His tone was casual as though a hundred guineas was nothing to him when actually he needed money very badly. But he had seen that the little Jew had not been deceived – that was the damnable part about Jews, you couldn’t deceive them about money – they knew!

      Touching his small moustache, Captain Lombard said:

      “You understand I can’t undertake anything – illegal?”

      Mr. Isaac Morris had answered gravely, with a very light smile on his thick Semitic lips:

      “If anything illegal is proposed, you will, of course, be absolutely free to leave.”

      Damn the oily little brute, he had smiled! It was as though he knew very well that in Lombard’s past actions legality had not always been an absolutely necessary condition…

      Lombard grinned himself.

      He imagined that he was going to enjoy himself at Nigger Island.

      IV

      Miss Emily Brent was travelling in a non-smoking carriage. As usual, she sat very erect. She was sixty-five and she did not approve of lolling. Her father, a Colonel of the old school, had been particular about manners.

      The present generation was so slack – in their manners, and in every other way.

      Full of righteousness and firm principles, Miss Brent sat in her crowded third-class carriage and triumphed over its discomfort and its heat. Every one fussed over things nowadays! They wanted injections before they had teeth pulled – they took drugs if they couldn’t sleep – they wanted easy chairs and cushions and the girls neglected their figures and lay about half naked on the beaches in summer.

      Miss Brent pursed her lips. She would like to make an example of certain people.

      She thought about last year’s summer holiday. This year, however, it would be quite different. Nigger Island.

      In her mind, she re-read the letter she had recently received.

      “Dear Miss Brent,

      I hope you remember me. We were together at Bellhaven Guest House in August some years ago, and it seemed we had a good time together.

      I am starting a guest house of my own on an island off the coast of Devon. It will be a place where there is good plain food and a nice old-fashioned type of person. None of this nudity and gramophones half the night. I will be very glad if you could spend your summer holiday on Nigger Island – quite free – as my guest. Would early in August suit you? Perhaps the 8th.

      Yours sincerely.

      U. N. —”

      The signature was rather illegible.

      Emily Brent tried to remember the people at Bellhaven. There had been a Miss Olton – Ormen – No, surely it was Oliver! Yes – Oliver.

      There was something about Nigger Island in the paper – something about a film star – or was it an American millionaire?

      Of course, often islands went very cheap

2

(итал.) крестьяне

3

бедуин

4

преподавательница физкультуры

5

Коронер – следователь, производящий дознание в случаях насильственной или скоропостижной смерти.

6

(идиом.) зд. уверенный в себе, беззастенчивый человек

7

тяжёлое или опасное положение