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Chapter 13
I
‘One of us…One of us…One of us…’
Three words, endlessly repeated, dinning themselves hour after hour
into receptive brains.
Five people — five frightened people. Five people who watched each
other, who now hardly troubled to hide their state of nervous tension.
There was little pretence now—no formal veneer of conversation. They
were five enemies linked together by a mutual instinct of self-preserva-
tion.
And all of them, suddenly, looked less like human beings. They were re-
verting to more bestial types. Like a wary old tortoise, Mr Justice War-
grave sat hunched up, his body motionless, his eyes keen and alert. Ex-In-
spector Blore looked coarser and clumsier in build. His walk was that of a
slow padding animal. His eyes were bloodshot. There was a look of
mingled ferocity and stupidity about him. He was like a beast at bay ready
to charge its pursuers. Philip Lombard’s senses seemed heightened, rather
than diminished. His ears reacted to the slightest sound. His step was
lighter and quicker, his body was lithe and graceful. And he smiled often,
his lips curling back from his long white teeth.
Vera Claythorne was very quiet. She sat most of the time huddled in a
chair. Her eyes stared ahead of her into space. She looked dazed. She was
like a bird that has dashed its head against glass and that has been picked
up by a human hand. It crouches there, terrified, unable to move, hoping
to save itself by its immobility.
Armstrong was in a pitiable condition of nerves. He twitched and his
hands shook. He lighted cigarette after cigarette and stubbed them out al-
most immediately. The forced inaction of their position seemed to gall him
more than the others. Every now and then he broke out into a torrent of
nervous speech.
‘We—we shouldn’t just sit here doing nothing! There must be something
—surely, surely there is something that we can do? If we lit a bonfire—?’
Blore said heavily:
‘In this weather?’
The rain was pouring down again. The wind came in fitful gusts. The de-
pressing sound of the pattering rain nearly drove them mad.
By tacit consent, they had adopted a plan of campaign. They all sat in
the big drawing-room. Only one person left the room at a time. The other
four waited till the fifth returned.
Lombard said:
‘It’s only a question of time. The weather will clear. Then we can do
something—signal—light fires—make a raft—something!’
Armstrong said with a sudden cackle of laughter:
‘A question of time—time? We can’t afford time! We shall all be dead…’
Mr Justice Wargrave said and his small clear voice was heavy with pas-
sionate determination:
‘Not if we are careful. We must be very careful…’
The midday meal had been duly eaten—but there had been no conven-
tional formality about it. All five of them had gone to the kitchen. In the
larder they had found a great store of tinned foods. They had opened a tin
of tongue and two tins of fruit. They had eaten standing round the kitchen
table. Then, herding close together, they had returned to the drawing-
room—to sit there—sit, watching each other.
And by now the thoughts that ran through their brains were abnormal,
feverish, diseased…
‘It’s Armstrong…I saw him looking at me sideways just then…his eyes
are mad… quite mad… Perhaps he isn’t a doctor at all… That’s it, of
course!…He’s a lunatic, escaped from some doctor’s house—pretending to
be a doctor…It’s true…shall I tell them?…Shall I scream out?…No, it won’t
do to put him on his guard…Besides he can seem so sane…What time is
it?…Only a quarter past three!…Oh, God, I shall go mad myself…Yes, it’s
Armstrong…He’s watching me now…’
‘They won’t get me! I can take care of myself…I’ve been in tight places
before…Where the hell is that revolver?…Who took it?…Who’s got it?…
Nobody’s got it—we know that. We were all searched…Nobody can have
it…But someone knows where it is…’
‘They’re going mad…They’ll all go mad…Afraid of death…we’re all afraid
of death… I ’m afraid of death… Yes, but that doesn’t stop death com-
ing…“The hearse is at the door, sir.” Where did I read that? The girl…I’ll
watch the girl. Yes, I’ll watch the girl…’
‘Twenty to four…only twenty to four…perhaps the clock has stopped…I
don’t understand—no, I don’t understand…This sort of thing can’t hap-
pen…it is happening…Why don’t we wake up? Wake up—Judgment Day—
no, not that! If only I could think…My head—something’s happening in my
head—it’s going to burst—it’s going to split…This sort of thing can’t hap-
pen…What’s the time? Oh, God, it’s only a quarter to four.’
‘I must keep my head…I must keep my head…If only I keep my head…
It’s all perfectly clear—all worked out. But nobody must suspect. It may do
the trick. It must! Which one? That’s the question—which one? I think—
yes, I rather think—yes—him.’
When the clock struck five they all jumped.
Vera said:
‘Does anyone—want tea?’
There was a moment’s silence. Blore said:
‘I’d like a cup.’
Vera rose. She said:
‘I’ll go and make it. You can all stay here.’
Mr Justice Wargrave said gently:
‘I think, my dear young lady, we would all prefer to come and watch you
make it.’
Vera stared, then gave a short rather hysterical laugh.
She said:
‘Of course! You would!’
Five people went into the kitchen. Tea was made and drunk by Vera and
Blore. The other three had whisky—opening a fresh bottle and using a si-
phon from a nailed up case.
The judge murmured with a reptilian smile:
‘We must be very careful…’
They went back again to the drawing-room. Although it was summer the
room was dark. Lombard switched on the lights but they did not come on.
He said:
‘Of course! The engine’s not been run today since Rogers hasn’t been
there to see to it.’
He hesitated and said:
‘We could go out and get it going, I suppose.’
Mr Justice Wargrave said:
‘There are packets of candles in the larder, I saw them, better use those.’
Lombard went out. The other four sat watching each other.
He came back with a box of candles and a pile of saucers. Five candles
were lit and placed about the room.
The time was a quarter to six.
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