Ten Little Niggers / Десять негритят. Агата Кристи

the taxis asked: “You’re for Nigger Island, maybe?” Four people said “Yes” – and then glanced quickly at each other.

      The driver addressed Mr. Justice Wargrave as the senior member of the party:

      “One of the two taxis here, sir, must wait till the slow train from Exeter arrives – there’s one gentleman coming by that.

      Perhaps one of you wouldn’t mind waiting? You’d be more comfortable that way.”

      Vera Claythorne agreed to wait at once.

      Miss Brent and Mr. Justice Wargrave entered one of the taxis.

      Captain Lombard said:

      “I’ll wait with Miss —”

      “Claythorne,” said Vera.

      “My name is Lombard, Philip Lombard.”

      The porters were piling luggage on the taxi. Inside, Mr. Justice Wargrave asked:

      “Do you know this part of the world well?”

      Miss Brent said:

      “This is my first visit to this part of Devon.”

      The judge said:

      “I haven’t also been to this part of the world.”

      The taxi drove off.

      The driver of the second taxi asked:

      “Like to sit inside while you’re waiting?”

      Vera Claythorn and Philip Lombard decided to stay in the open air.

      Vera said:

      “I hope the weather lasts. Our English summers are so changeable.”

      With a slight lack of originality Lombard asked:

      “Do you know this part of the world well?”

      “No, I’ve never been here before.” She added quickly, deciding to make her position clear at once, “I haven’t even seen my employer yet.”

      “Your employer?”

      “Yes, I’m Mrs. Owen’s secretary.”

      Lombard said:

      “Isn’t that rather unusual?”

      Vera laughed.

      “Oh, no, I don’t think so. Her own secretary was suddenly taken ill. She wanted a substitute, and the agency sent me.”

      “And if you don’t like the post, when you’ve got there?”

      Vera laughed again.

      “Oh, it’s only a holiday post. I’ve got a job at a girls’ school. And I want to see Nigger Island very much. There’s been such a lot about it in the papers. Is it really very enchanting?”

      Lombard said:

      “I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.”

      “Oh, really? The Owens are very fond of it, I suppose. What are they like? Please, tell me.”

      Lombard thought: “Is it supposed that I know them or not?” He said quickly:

      “There’s a wasp crawling up your arm. No – stay quite still.”

      He made a convincing brushing off. “There. It’s gone!”

      “Oh, thank you. There are a lot of wasps about this summer.”

      “Yes, I suppose it’s the heat. Who are we waiting for, do you know?”

      “I have no idea.”

      At that moment they heard the sound of an approaching train.

      II

      A tall soldierly old man appeared at the exit from the platform. His grey hair was cut short and he had a neatly trimmed white moustache.

      Vera came forward in a competent manner. She said:

      “I am Mrs. Owen’s secretary. There is a car here waiting.” She added: “This is Mr. Lombard.”

      The shrewd blue eyes of General Macarthur sized up Lombard.

      “Good-looking fellow. Something just a little wrong about him…”

      They got into the waiting taxi. They drove through the sleepy streets of little Oakbridge. Then they went down country lanes, steep, green and narrow.

      General Macarthur said he lived in East Devon and this part of Devon was new to him.

      Vera liked the scenery and said:

      “It really is lovely here. The hills and the red earth and everything so green.”

      Philip Lombard said critically:

      “It’s a bit confined. I like open country myself. Where you can see what’s coming.”

      General Macarthur said to him:

      “You’ve seen a bit of the world, I imagine?”

      Lombard shrugged his shoulders.

      “I’ve traveled about here and there, sir.”

      He thought to himself: “He’ll ask me now if I was old enough to be in the War. These old boys always do.”

      But General Macarthur said nothing about the War.

      III

      They came to Sticklehaven – a mere group of cottages with a fishing boat or two on the beach.

      In the rays of the setting sun they saw Nigger Island rising out of the sea to the south.

      Vera said, surprised:

      “It’s a long way out.”

      She had pictured it differently, close to shore, crowned with a beautiful white house. But they could see no house, only the rock with its faint resemblance to a giant Negro’s head. There was something sinister about it. She shivered.

      There were three people sitting outside a little inn: the elderly judge, Miss Brent, and a third man – a big bluff man who came forward and introduced himself.

      “Decided to wait for you,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. Name’s Davis. Natal, South Africa’s my natal place, ha-ha!”

      He laughed.

      Mr. Justice Wargrave looked at him with active dislike. He looked as if he wished that he could order to clear the court. Miss Emily Brent was clearly not sure if she liked colonials.

      Mr. Davis turned and held up a finger. In response to Davis’ gesture, a man came up to them and said:

      “Are you ready to start for the island, ladies and gentlemen? The boat’s waiting. There’s two gentlemen coming by car, but Mr. Owen’s order was not to wait for them as they might arrive at any time.”

      The party got up. Their guide led them to his motor boat.

      Just as they all got into the boat and their guide was going to start the motor, they saw a car that was coming into the village down the steep country lane.

      The car was so fantastically powerful and beautiful that it had all the nature of an apparition. In the radiance of the evening light a young man at the wheel looked not a man, but a young god, a hero god out of some Northern Saga.

      He touched the horn and a great roar of sound echoed from the rocks of the bay.

      It was a fantastic moment. It seemed that Anthony Marston was something more than mortal.

      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,