And Then There Were None

But what did that matter? She was alive...

She sat there ­ exquisitely happy ­ exquisitely at peace...

No more fear...

IV

The sun was setting when Vera moved at last. Sheer reaction had kept her immobile. There had been no room in her for anything but the glorious sense of safety.

She realized now that she was hungry and sleepy. Principally sleepy. She wanted

to throw herself on her bed and sleep and sleep and sleep...

Tomorrow, perhaps, they would come and rescue her ­ but she didn't really mind.

She didn't mind staying here. Not now that she was alone...

Oh! blessed, blessed peace...

She got to her feet and glanced up at the house.

Nothing to be afraid of any longer! No terrors waiting for her! Just an ordinary well­built modern house. And yet, a little earlier in the day, she had not been able to look at it without shivering...

Fear ­ what a strange thing fear was...

Well, it was over now. She had conquered ­ had triumphed over the most deadly peril. By her own quick­wittedness and adroitness she had turned the tables on her would­be destroyer.

She began to walk up towards the house.

The sun was setting, the sky to the west was streaked with red and orange. It

was beautiful and peaceful...

Vera thought:

"The whole thing might be a dream..."

How tired she was ­ terribly tired. Her limbs ached, her eyelids were drooping.

Not to be afraid any more... To sleep. Sleep... sleep... sleep...

To sleep safely since she was alone on the island. One little Indian boy left all alone.

She smiled to herself.

She went in at the front door. The house, too, felt strangely peaceful.

Vera thought:

"Ordinarily one wouldn't care to sleep where there's a dead body in practically every bedroom!"

Should she go the kitchen and get herself something to eat?

She hesitated a moment, then decided against it. She was really too tired...

She paused by the dining­room door. There were still three little china figures in the middle of the table.

Vera laughed.

She said:

"You're behind the times, my dears."

She picked up two of them and tossed them out through the window. She heard them crash on the stone of the terrace.

The third little figure she picked up and held in her hand. She said:

"You can come with me. We've won, my dear! We've won!"

The hall was dim in the dying light.

Vera, the little Indian clasped in her hand, began to mount the stairs. Slowly, because her legs were suddenly very tired.

"One little Indian boy left all alone." How did it end? Oh, yes! "He got married and then there were none."

Married... Funny, how she suddenly got the feeling again that Hugo was in the

house...

Very strong. Yes, Hugo was upstairs waiting for her.

Vera said to herself:

"Don't be a fool. You're so tired that you're imagining the most fantastic things..."

Slowly up the stairs...

At the top of them something fell from her hand, making hardly any noise on the soft pile carpet. She did not notice that she had dropped the revolver. She was only conscious of clasping a little china figure.

How very quiet the house was. And yet ­ it didn't seem like an empty house...

Hugo, upstairs, waiting for her...

"One little Indian boy left all alone... What was the last line again? Something about being married ­ or was it something else?

She had come now to the door of her room. Hugo was waiting for her inside ­ she was quite sure of it.

She opened the door...

She gave a gasp...

What was that ­ hanging from the hook in the ceiling? A rope with a noose all

ready? And a chair to stand upon ­ a chair that could be kicked away...

That was what Hugo wanted...

And of course that was the last line of the rhyme.

"He went and hanged himself and then there were none...

The little china figure fell from her hand. It rolled unheeded and broke against the fender.

Like an automaton Vera moved forward. This was the end ­ here where the cold

wet hand (Cyril's hand, of course) had touched her throat...

"You can go to the rock, Cyril..."

That was what murder was ­ as easy as that!

But afterwards you went on remembering...

She climbed up on the chair, her eyes staring in front of her like a sleepwalker's...

She adjusted the noose round her neck.

Hugo was there to see she did what she had to do.

She kicked away the chair...

Epilogue

Sir Thomas Legge, Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard, said irritably:

"But the whole thing's incredible!"

Inspector Maine said respectfully:

"I know, sir."

The A.C. went on:

"Ten people dead on an island and not a living soul on it. It doesn't make sense!"

Inspector Maine said stolidly:

"Nevertheless, it happened, sir."

Sir Thomas Legge said:

"Damn it all, Maine, somebody must have killed 'em."

"That's just our problem, sir."

"Nothing helpful in the doctor's report?"

"No, sir. Wargrave and Lombard were shot, the first through the head, the second through the heart. Miss Brent and Marston died of cyanide poisoning, Mrs. Rogers died of an overdose of chloral. Rogers' head was split open. Blore's head was crushed in. Armstrong died of drowning. Macarthur's skull was fractured by a blow on the back of the head and Vera Claythorne was hanged."

The A.C. winced. He said:

"Nasty business ­ all of it."

He considered for a minute or two. He said irritably:

"Do you mean to say that you haven't been able to get anything helpful out of the Sticklehaven people. Dash it, they must know something."

Inspector Maine shrugged his shoulders.

"They're ordinary decent seafaring folk. They know that the island was bought by a man called Owen ­ and that's about all they do know."

"Who provisioned the island and made all the necessary arrangements?"

"Man called Morris. Isaac Morris."

"And what does he say about it all?"

"He can't say anything, sir, he's dead."

The A.C. frowned.

"Do we know anything abut this Morris?"

"Oh, yes, sir, we know about him. He wasn't a very savoury gentleman, Mr. Morris. He was implicated in that share­pushing fraud of Bennito's three years ago ­ we're sure of that though we can't prove it. And he was mixed up in the dope business. And again we can't prove it. He was a very careful man, Morris."

"And he was behind this island business?"

"Yes, sir, he put through the sale ­ though he made it clear that he was buying Indian Island for a third party, unnamed."

"Surely there's something to be found out on the financial angle, there?"

Inspector Maine smiled.

"Not if you knew Morris! He can wangle figures until the best chartered accountant in the country wouldn't know if he was on his head or his heels! We've had a taste of that in the Bennito business. No, he covered his employer's tracks all right. "

The other man sighed. Inspector Maine went on:

"It was Morris who made all the arrangements down at Sticklehaven, Represented himself as acting for 'Mr. Owen.' And it was he who explained to the people down there that there was some experiment on ­ some bet about living on a 'desert island' for a week ­ and that no notice was to be taken of any appeal for help from out there."

Sir Thomas Legge stirred uneasily. He said:

"And you're telling me that those people didn't smell a rat? Not even then?"

Maine shrugged his shoulders. He said:

"You're forgetting, sir, that Indian Island previously belonged to young Elmer Robson, the American. He had the most extraordinary parties down there. I've no doubt the local people's eyes fairly popped out over them. But they got used to it and they'd begun to feel that anything to do with Indian Island would necessarily be incredible. It's natural, that, sir, when you come to think of it."

The Assistant Commissioner admitted gloomily that he supposed it was.

Maine said: