Ten Little Niggers / Десять негритят. Агата Кристи

– enjoying himself! When he came down the hill in his car this evening he looked – oh, I can’t explain!”

      But they knew what she meant. Anthony Marston, in the prime of his youth, had seemed like a being that was immortal. And now he lay broken on the floor.

      Dr. Armstrong said:

      “Is there any possibility other than suicide?”

      But they could not find any other explanation. They had all seen how Anthony Marston had filled his glass himself.

      And yet – why should Anthony Marston commit suicide?

      Blore said thoughtfully:

      “You know, I wouldn’t have said Mr. Marston was a suicidal type of gentleman.”

      Armstrong agreed.

      II

      Armstrong and Lombard had carried the body of Anthony Marston to his bedroom, had laid him on the bed and covered over with a sheet.

      When they came downstairs, the others were standing in the hall, shivering a little, though the night was not cold.

      It was past twelve o’clock.

      Emily Brent said:

      “We’d better go to bed. It’s late.”

      But still, they stood together as though they needed each other’s company for reassurance.

      Then the judge said:

      “Yes, we must get some sleep.”

      Rogers said:

      “I haven’t cleared yet – in the dining-room.”

      Lombard told him to do it in the morning.

      Armstrong asked Rogers how his wife was. He went to check on her. In a minute or two he returned and said she was sleeping peacefully.

      “Good,” said the doctor. “Don’t disturb her.”

      “No, sir. I’ll just clear in the dining-room and make sure everything’s locked up for the night, and then I’ll go to bed.”

      He went across the hall into the dining-room.

      The others, slowly, unwillingly, went upstairs.

      They exchanged good-nights on the upper landing. Each of them went into his or her own room, and each of them automatically locked the door…

      III

      In his bedroom, Mr. Justice Wargrave prepared himself for bed.

      He was thinking about Edward Seton.

      He remembered Seton very well. His fair hair, his blue eyes, how he had looked you frankly straight in the face. That had made such good impression on the jury.

      Llewellyn, the prosecutor, had spoiled it a bit. He had tried to prove too much.

      Matthews, on the other hand, the defending counsel, had been good. His cross-examinations had been deadly. He had treated his client in the witness box masterfully.

      And Seton had come through the cross-examination well. The jury had been impressed. It had seemed to Matthews, perhaps, as though everything had been over bar the shouting[26].

      The judge remembered how he had felt sitting there – listening, writing down every piece of evidence that told against the prisoner.

      He’d enjoyed that case! Matthews’ final speech had been first-class. Llewellyn, coming after it, had failed to remove the good impression that the defending counsel had made.

      And then had come his own summing-up…

      Carefully, Mr. Justice Wargrave removed his false teeth and dropped them into a glass of water. His lips fell in. It was a cruel mouth now, cruel and predatory.

      The judge smiled to himself.

      He’d cooked Seton’s goose all right![27]

      The judge climbed into bed and turned out the electric light.

      IV

      Rogers, in the dining-room, was staring at the china figures in the centre of the table.

      He muttered to himself:

      “That’s odd! I well remember there were ten of them.”

      V

      In his bed, General Macarthur couldn’t sleep. Arthur Richmond’s face was there in the darkness before his eyes.

      He’d been damned fond of Arthur. He’d been pleased that Leslie liked him too.

      Leslie was so capricious. She found lots of good fellows very dull.

      But Leslie hadn’t found Arthur Richmond dull. They’d got on well together from the beginning. They’d talked of plays and music and pictures together. She’d teased him, made fun of him. And he, Macarthur, had been glad that Leslie took quite a motherly interest in the boy.

      Motherly indeed! Damn fool not to remember that Richmond was twenty-eight to Leslie’s twenty-nine.

      He’d loved Leslie. He could see her now in the darkness of his room. Her heart-shaped face, and her laughing deep grey eyes, and the brown curling mass of her hair. He’d loved Leslie and he’d believed in her absolutely.

      During the war, out there in France, in the middle of all the hell of it, he’d sat thinking of her, taken her picture out of the breast pocket of his tunic.

      And then – he’d found out!

      It had happened like in books – the letter in the wrong envelope. She’d been writing to them both and she’d put her letter to Richmond in the envelope addressed to her husband.

      How it hurt even now, all these years later!

      The letter had made clear that it had been going on some time. Week-ends! Richmond’s last leave…

      Leslie and Arthur!

      God damn the fellow! Damn his smiling face, his cheerful “Yes, sir.” Liar and hypocrite! Stealer of another man’s wife!

      He’d tried to show nothing, to make his manner to Richmond just the same.

      Only young Armitage had looked at him curiously once or twice. Armitage, perhaps, had guessed – when the time came.

      He’d sent Richmond deliberately to death and he wasn’t sorry. It had been easy enough. Mistakes were being made all the time, officers being sent to death needlessly. All was confusion, panic. People might say afterwards, “Old Macarthur lost his nerve a bit, made some colossal mistakes, sacrificed some of his best men.” They couldn’t say more.

      Примечания

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