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Chapter 11
I
Philip Lombard had the habit of waking at daybreak. He did so on this
particular morning. He raised himself on an elbow and listened. The wind
had somewhat abated but was still blowing. He could hear no sound of
rain…
At eight o’clock the wind was blowing more strongly, but Lombard did
not hear it. He was asleep again.
At nine-thirty he was sitting on the edge of his bed looking at his watch.
He put it to his ear. Then his lips drew back from his teeth in that curious
wolf-like smile characteristic of the man.
He said very softly:
‘I think the time has come to do something about this.’
At twenty- five minutes to ten he was tapping on the closed door of
Blore’s room.
The latter opened it cautiously. His hair was tousled and his eyes were
still dim with sleep.
Philip Lombard said affably:
‘Sleeping the clock round? Well, shows you’ve got an easy conscience.’
Blore said shortly:
‘What’s the matter?’
Lombard answered:
‘Anybody called you—or brought you any tea? Do you know what time
it is?’
Blore looked over his shoulder at a small travelling clock by his bedside.
He said:
‘Twenty-five to ten. Wouldn’t have believed I could have slept like that.
Where’s Rogers?’
Philip Lombard said:
‘It’s a case of echo answers where.’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked the other sharply.
Lombard said:
‘I mean that Rogers is missing. He isn’t in his room or anywhere else.
And there’s no kettle on and the kitchen fire isn’t even lit.’
Blore swore under his breath. He said:
‘Where the devil can he be? Out on the island somewhere? Wait till I get
some clothes on. See if the others know anything.’
Philip Lombard nodded. He moved along the line of closed doors.
He found Armstrong up and nearly dressed. Mr Justice Wargrave, like
Blore, had to be roused from sleep. Vera Claythorne was dressed. Emily
Brent’s room was empty.
The little party moved through the house. Rogers’ room, as Philip Lom-
bard had already ascertained, was untenanted. The bed had been slept in,
and his razor and sponge and soap were wet.
Lombard said:
‘He got up all right.’
Vera said in a low voice which she tried to make firm and assured:
‘You don’t think he’s—hiding somewhere—waiting for us?’
Lombard said:
‘My dear girl, I’m prepared to think anything of anyone! My advice is
that we keep together until we find him.’
Armstrong said:
‘He must be out on the island somewhere.’
Blore, who had joined them, dressed, but still unshaved, said:
‘Where’s Miss Brent got to—that’s another mystery?’
But as they arrived in the hall, Emily Brent came in through the front
door. She had on a mackintosh. She said:
‘The sea is as high as ever. I shouldn’t think any boat could put out
today.’
Blore said:
‘Have you been wandering about the island alone, Miss Brent? Don’t you
realize that that’s an exceedingly foolish thing to do?’
Emily Brent said:
‘I assure you, Mr Blore, that I kept an extremely sharp look out.’
Blore grunted. He said:
‘Seen anything of Rogers?’
Miss Brent’s eyebrows rose.
‘Rogers? No, I haven’t seen him this morning. Why?’
Mr Justice Wargrave, shaved, dressed and with his false teeth in posi-
tion, came down the stairs. He moved to the open dining-room door. He
said:
‘Ha, laid the table for breakfast, I see.’
Lombard said:
‘He might have done that last night.’
They all moved inside the room, looking at the neatly set plates and cut-
lery. At the row of cups on the sideboard. At the felt mats placed ready for
the coffee urn.
It was Vera who saw it first. She caught the judge’s arm and the grip of
her athletic fingers made the old gentleman wince.
She cried out:
‘The soldiers! Look!’
There were only six china figures in the middle of the table.
II
They found him shortly afterwards.
He was 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—the metal of it stained a dull brown. It corresponded only too well
with the deep wound in the back of Rogers’ head…
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