Ten Little Niggers / Десять негритят. Агата Кристи

Brent thought to herself: “Anyway, I will be getting a free holiday.”

      As her income had lessened so much and so many dividends were not paid, that was indeed quite helpful. If only she could remember a little more about Mrs. – or was it Miss – Oliver?

      V

      General Macarthur was in a train that was just coming into Exeter where he had to change. Damnable, these slow branch-line trains! This place, Nigger Island, was really no distance at all as the crow flies[8].

      He didn’t know this fellow Owen. A friend of Spoof Leggard’s, obviously – and of Johnny Dyer’s.

      The letter said: “one or two of your old cronies are coming – would like to have a chat over old times.”

      Well, he would enjoy a chat about old times. He felt lately that fellows were avoiding him. All because of that damned rumour! Nearly thirty years ago now! Armstrong had talked, he supposed. Damned young pup! What did he know about it? Oh, well, no good wondering about these things! One imagined things sometimes – imagined a fellow was looking at you queerly.

      Well, he would be interested to see this Nigger Island. A lot of gossip in the papers. Looked as though there might be something in the rumour that the Admiralty or the War Office or the Air Force had bought it.

      Young Elmer Robson, the American millionaire, had actually built the place. Every earthly luxury.

      Exeter! And an hour to wait! And he didn’t want to wait. He wanted to get on.

      VI

      Dr. Armstrong was driving his car across Salisbury Plain. He was very tired. Success had its punishment. He remembered the time when he had sat in his consulting room in Harley Street[9], correctly dressed, surrounded with the most up-to-date appliances and the most luxurious furniture and waited – waited through the empty days for his venture to succeed or fail.

      Well, it had succeeded! He’d been lucky! Lucky and competent of course. He was a good man at his job – but that wasn’t enough for success. You had to have luck as well. And he’d had it! An accurate diagnosis, a couple of grateful women patients – women with money and position – and word had got about. And now Dr. Armstrong was definitely a success. His days were full. He had little leisure. Therefore, on this August morning, he was glad that he was leaving London for an island off the Devon coast for some days. It was not exactly a holiday. He had received a letter quite vague in its terms, but there was nothing vague about the accompanying cheque. A huge fee. These Owens must be rolling in money. It seemed a husband was worried about his wife’s health but she did not want to see a doctor. And he did not want to alarm her. Her nerves —

      Nerves! These women and their nerves! Well, it was good for business, anyway. Half the women who consulted him had only suffered from boredom, but they wouldn’t thank you for telling them so! And one could usually find something.

      “A slightly unusual condition of the – some long word – nothing at all serious – but it just needs a simple treatment.”

      Well, a good part of medicine was faith-healing. And he had a good manner – he could inspire hope and faith.

      Fortunately, he’d pulled himself together[10] in time after that business ten – no, fifteen years ago. He’d been going to pieces. The shock had pulled him together. He’d stopped drinking altogether. With a deafening blare of the horn an enormous sports car rushed past him at eighty miles an hour. Dr. Armstrong nearly went into the hedge. One of these young fools who rushed round the country. He hated them. That had been nearly a crash, too. Damned young fool!

      VII

      Tony Marston, rushing down into Mere, thought to himself:

      “The amount of cars crawling about the roads is outrageous. Always something blocking your way. And they will drive in the middle of the road! Pretty hopeless driving in England, anyway… Not like France where you really could let out.”

      Should he stop here for a drink, or drive on? Heaps of time! He’d have a gin and ginger-beer. Awfully hot day!

      In fine weather this island place ought to be quite good fun. Who were these Owens, he wondered? Stinking rich, probably. Badger was rather good at nosing out people like that. Of course, he had to, poor old chap, with no money of his own.

      Hope they’d have enough drinks. Never knew with these fellows who’d made their money and weren’t born to it. Pity that story that Gabrielle Turl had bought Nigger Island wasn’t true.

      Oh, well, he supposed there’d be a few girls there.

      Coming out of the hotel, he stretched himself, yawned, looked up at the blue sky and climbed into his car.

      Several young women looked at him admiringly – his six feet of well-proportioned body, his curly hair, tanned face, and intensely blue eyes.

      He started the car and rushed up the narrow street. Old men and errand-boys jumped for safety. The latter looked after the car admiringly.

      Anthony Marston continued his triumphal progress.

      VIII

      Mr. Blore was in the slow train from Plymouth. There was only one other person in his carriage, an elderly sea-faring gentleman with a bleary eye. At the present moment he was sleeping.

      Mr. Blore was writing in his notebook: “Emily Brent, Vera Claythorne, Dr. Armstrong, Anthony Marston, old Justice Wargrave, Philip Lombard, General Macarthur. Manservant and wife: Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.”

      “That’s the lot,” he muttered to himself and closing the notebook, put it back in his pocket.

      He thought that his forthcoming job ought to be easy enough and hoped that he looked right for the role he was to play.

      He stood up and studied himself in the mirror. The face reflected there was slightly military, with a moustache. There was very little expression in it. The eyes were grey and set rather close together.

      “Might be a major,” said Mr. Blore. “No, I forgot. There’s that old general. He’d unmask me at once.

      “South Africa,” decided Mr. Blore, “that’s my line!”He’d been reading a travel leaflet about South Africa, and thought he could talk about it all right.

      Fortunately there were all sorts and types of colonials. As a well-off man from South Africa, Mr. Blore felt that he could enter into any society unmasked.

      He had been on Nigger Island in his boyhood… Smelly sort of rock covered with gulls – stood about a mile from the coast. It had been named Nigger Island because it resembled a Negro man’s profile.

      The old man in the corner woke up and said:

      “You can’t never tell at sea – never! There’s a storm coming.”

      Mr. Blore objected:

      “No, no, mate, it’s a lovely day.”

      The old man said angrily:

      “There’s a storm ahead. I can smell it.”

      “Maybe you’re right,” said Mr. Blore pacifically.

      The train stopped at a station where the old man was to get out. As he was quite drunk, Mr. Blore helped him to the door.

      The old sailor stood in the doorway. He raised a solemn hand and blinked his bleary eyes.

      “Watch and pray,” he said. “Watch and pray. The day of judgement[11] is very close.”

      Returning to his seat Mr. Blore thought to himself:

      “He’s nearer the day of judgement than I am!”

      But there, as it happens, he was wrong…

      Chapter 2

      I

      A

8

(идиом.) по прямой, напрямик

9

Улица в Лондоне, где находятся приёмные известных частных врачей.

10

взял себя в руки

11

Судный день, день Страшного суда