One of us…One of us…One of us…Three words,
endlessly repeated, dinning themselves hour after hour into receptive brains.
There were five frightened people who watched each other, who hardly troubled
to hide their state of nervous tension. They were five enemies linked together
by a mutual instinct of self-preservation. And all of them, suddenly, looked
less like human beings. The rain was pouring down again and the wind came in fitful
gusts. The depressing sound of the pattering rain nearly drove them mad.
Mr. Justice Wargrave was sitting in his
high backed chair at the end of the room. Two candles burnt on either side of
him. But what shocked and startled the onlookers was the fact that he sat there
robed in scarlet with a judge’s wig upon his head. He was shot.
Five
little soldier boys going in for low; one got in Chancery and then there were
Four.
Five people found Rogers in the little wash
house across the yard. He had been chopping sticks in preparation for lighting
the kitchen fire. The small chopper was still in his hand. A bigger chopper, a
heavy affair, was leaning against the door, and the metal of it stained a dull
brown. The murderer must have crept up behind him, swung the chopper once and
brought it down on his head as he was bending over.
The idiotic rhyme said that “seven little soldier boys chopping up
sticks.”
And the next verse was “six little soldier boys playing with a hive.”
After breakfast, Mr. Justice Wargrave
suggested that they met to discuss the situation, and every one made a sound
suggestive of agreement. They decided to gather in half an hour’s time in the
drawing room.
Emily Brent was left alone sitting in the
dining room. There was no one else in the house. There was a buzzing in her
ears, or was it a real buzzing in the room? It was like a bee, a bumble bee.
Presently she saw the bee. It was crawling up the window pane. Vera Claythorne
had talked about bees this morning. And then she felt the pain. The bee sting
on the side of her neck…
In the drawing room they were waiting for
Emily Brent. Then, they went to dining room and found her sitting in the chair
in which they had left her. From behind they saw nothing amiss, except that she
did not seem to hear their entrance into the room. And then they saw her face,
suffused with blood, with blue lips and starting eyes. She was dead.
So far there were three murders. There was
no question now of accidents or suicides, it was definitely murder. Seven
people who couldn’t leave the Soldier Island had a suspicion that one of them
was a murderer who was a dangerous and probably insane criminal. There was no
evidence before them as to who that person was, so they talked about own alibi
one by one. However, no one of them could be completely exonerated from
suspicion.
When people gathered together for breakfast,
there were only six china figures in the middle of the table. And Rogers was
missing. He wasn’t in his room or anywhere else. The little party moved through
the house, Rogers’ room, the bed had been slept in, and his razor, sponge and
soap were wet. So he got up all right, but nobody had seen him that morning.
There must have been someone hiding on the
island, they thought. The house was easily searched. They went through the few
outbuildings first and then turned their attention to the building itself. But
there were no hidden spaces left unaccounted for. Everything was plain and
straightforward, a modern structure devoid of concealments. There was no one on
the island but their eight selves.
Downstairs the gong pealed a solemn call to
lunch. They gathered in the dining room and found that General Macarthur wasn’t
there. He was sitting right down by the sea. Dr. Armstrong said quickly that he
would go down and inform him luncheon was ready, and he found that General
Macarthur was dead. Macarthur was hit with a life preserver or such thing on
the back of the head.
It was truth that there was no one on the
island, except seven people. It was perfectly clear. Mr. Owen, U. N. Owen, was
one of them. And they didn’t know which of them. Of the ten people who came to
the island three were definitely cleared. Anthony Marston, Mrs. Rogers and
General Macarthur had gone beyond suspicion. There were seven of them left. Of
those seven, one was a little soldier boy. They were all in grave danger.
Anthony Marston and Mrs. Rogers were dead.
About the death of the woman, there were two possible theories. One was Rogers
killed her because he was afraid she would give the show away. Mr. and Mrs. Rogers
have done a murder and got away. But if the whole thing’s going to be raked up,
what’s going to happen? She hasn’t got the nerve to stand up and brazen it out.
She’s a living danger to her husband. Second possibility was she lost her nerve
and took an easy way out herself. However, two suicides within twelve hours
were a little too much to swallow. Anthony Marston was murdered, of course.
Little china figures in the middle of the
table… there were certainly ten last night at dinner, and there were eight next
day.
“Ten
little soldier boys going out to dine;
One
went and choked himself and then there were Nine.”
“Nine
little soldier boys sat up very late;
One
overslept himself and then there were Eight."
This nursery rhyme Fitted too damned well
to be a coincidence. Anthony Marston died of asphyxiation or choking last night
after dinner, and Mother Rogers overslept herself with a vengeance.
Philip Lombard said “And therefore another
kind of soldier. The Unknown Soldier! Mr. Owen! U.N. Owen! No motor-boat this
morning. That fits in. Mr. Owen’s little arrangements are again to the fore.
Soldier Island was to be isolated until Mr. Owen has finished his job. All
things are according to U.N.O.’s plan.”
They’re not going to leave the island, none
of them would ever leave.
