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Агата Кристи
‘By all means. But in doing so let us be careful to keep together. Remember, if we separate, the murderer gets his chance.’
They searched the house carefully from attic to cellars, but without result. The revolver was still missing.
Chapter 13
I
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-preservation.
And all of them, suddenly, looked less like human beings. They were reverting to more bestial types. Like a wary old tortoise, Mr Justice Wargrave sat hunched up, his body motionless, his eyes keen and alert. Ex-Inspector 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 almost 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
Blore said heavily:
‘In this weather?’
The rain was pouring down again. The wind came in fitful gusts. The depressing 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—
Mr Justice Wargrave said and his small clear voice was heavy with passionate determination:
‘Not if we are careful.
The midday meal had been duly eaten—but there had been no conventional 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.
