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Chapter 10
I
‘Do you believe it?’ Vera asked.
She and Philip Lombard sat on the window-sill of the living-room. Out-
side the rain poured down and the wind howled in great shuddering gusts
against the window-panes.
Philip Lombard cocked his head slightly on one side before answering.
Then he said:
‘You mean, do I believe that old Wargrave is right when he says it’s one
of us?’
‘Yes.’
Philip Lombard said slowly:
‘It’s difficult to say. Logically, you know, he’s right, and yet—’
Vera took the words out of his mouth.
‘And yet it seems so incredible!’
Philip Lombard made a grimace.
‘The whole thing’s incredible! But after Macarthur’s death there’s no
more doubt as to one thing. There’s no question now of accidents or sui-
cides. It’s definitely murder. Three murders up to date.’
Vera shivered. She said:
‘It’s like some awful dream. I keep feeling that things like this can’t hap-
pen!’
He said with understanding:
‘I know. Presently a tap will come on the door, and early morning tea
will be brought in.’
Vera said:
‘Oh, how I wish that could happen!’
Philip Lombard said gravely:
‘Yes, but it won’t! We’re all in the dream! And we’ve got to be pretty
much upon our guard from now on.’
Vera said, lowering her voice:
‘If—if it is one of them—which do you think it is?’
Philip Lombard grinned suddenly. He said:
‘I take it you are excepting our two selves? Well, that’s all right. I know
very well that I’m not the murderer, and I don’t fancy that there’s any-
thing insane about you, Vera. You strike me as being one of the sanest and
most level-headed girls I’ve come across. I’d stake my reputation on your
sanity.’
With a slightly wry smile, Vera said:
‘Thank you.’
He said: ‘Come now, Miss Vera Claythorne, aren’t you going to return
the compliment?’
Vera hesitated a minute, then she said:
‘You’ve admitted, you know, that you don’t hold human life particularly
sacred, but all the same I can’t see you as—as the man who dictated that
gramophone record.’
Lombard said:
‘Quite right. If I were to commit one or more murders it would be solely
for what I could get out of them. This mass clearance isn’t my line of coun-
try. Good, then we’ll eliminate ourselves and concentrate on our five fel-
low prisoners. Which of them is U. N. Owen. Well, at a guess, and with ab-
solutely nothing to go upon, I’d plump for Wargrave!’
‘Oh!’ Vera sounded surprised. She thought a minute or two and then
said, ‘Why?’
‘Hard to say exactly. But to begin with, he’s an old man and he’s been
presiding over courts of law for years. That is to say, he’s played God
Almighty for a good many months every year. That must go to a man’s
head eventually. He gets to see himself as all powerful, as holding the
power of life and death—and it’s possible that his brain might snap and he
might want to go one step farther and be Executioner and Judge Ex-
traordinary.’
Vera said slowly:
‘Yes, I suppose that’s possible…’
Lombard said:
‘Who do you plump for?’
Without any hesitation Vera answered:
‘Dr Armstrong.’
Lombard gave a low whistle.
‘The doctor, eh? You know, I should have put him last of all.’
Vera shook her head.
‘Oh no! Two of the deaths have been poison. That rather points to a doc-
tor. And then you can’t get over the fact that the only thing we are abso-
lutely certain Mrs Rogers had was the sleeping draught that he gave her.’
Lombard admitted:
‘Yes, that’s true.’
Vera persisted:
‘If a doctor went mad, it would be a long time before any one suspected.
And doctors overwork and have a lot of strain.’
Philip Lombard said:
‘Yes, but I doubt if he could have killed Macarthur. He wouldn’t have
had time during that brief interval when I left him—not, that is, unless he
fairly hared down there and back again, and I doubt if he’s in good
enough training to do that and show no signs of it.’
Vera said:
‘He didn’t do it then. He had an opportunity later.’
‘When?’
‘When he went down to call the General to lunch.’
Philip whistled again very softly. He said:
‘So you think he did it then? Pretty cool thing to do.’
Vera said impatiently:
‘What risk was there? He’s the only person here with medical know-
ledge. He can swear the body’s been dead at least an hour and who’s to
contradict him?’
Philip looked at her thoughtfully.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘that’s a clever idea of yours. I wonder—’
II
‘Who is it, Mr Blore? That’s what I want to know. Who is it?’
Rogers’ face was working. His hands were clenched round the polishing
leather that he held in his hand.
Ex-Inspector Blore said:
‘Eh, my lad, that’s the question!’
‘One of us, ’is lordship said. Which one? That’s what I want to know.
Who’s the fiend in ’uman form?’
‘That,’ said Blore, ‘is what we all would like to know.’
Rogers said shrewdly:
‘But you’ve got an idea, Mr Blore. You’ve got an idea, ’aven’t you?’
‘I may have an idea,’ said Blore slowly. ‘But that’s a long way from being
sure. I may be wrong. All I can say is that if I’m right the person in ques-
tion is a very cool customer—a very cool customer indeed.’
Rogers wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He said hoarsely:
‘It’s like a bad dream, that’s what it is.’
Blore said, looking at him curiously:
‘Got any ideas yourself, Rogers?’
The butler shook his head. He said hoarsely:
‘I don’t know. I don’t know at all. And that’s what’s frightening the life
out of me. To have no idea…’
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