Ten Little Indians E-Book

Agatha Christie

• Herausgeber: Planet editions
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A mysterious house on a deserted island, far from the rest of the world. Ten people who have never met before, united only by the fact that they all have a disturbing past and brought together by an inexplicable series of invitations. A mysterious guest who never shows up. And an absurd children's nursery rhyme that returns obsessively, implacably punctuating a succession of murders. Ten Little Indians (1939) is Agatha Christie's masterpiece and one of the peaks of the suspense novel. "The book, born of a long elaboration phase, filled me with satisfaction. It was clear, straightforward and at the same time disconcerting,' Christie recounted in her autobiography, recalling the laborious genesis of her most widely read and best-loved novel, with multiple adaptations for theatre, film and television.

Leseprobe

Contents

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16

Epilogue

Agatha Christie

Ten Little Indians

1

In a corner of the first-class smoking compartment, Mr Wargrave, a recently retired judge, took a puff of smoke from his cigar and scanned the political news of the Times with interest. Then, he laid the newspaper on his lap and looked out the window. The train was running through Somerset.

He glanced at his watch: still two hours to go.

He thought back to what the newspapers had written about Nigger Island. First, the news of the purchase made by an American millionaire with a passion for yacht cruises, and the description of the modern and luxurious house he had built on that small island off the Devon coast. The unfortunate circumstance that the millionaire's third wife was seasick had led to the sale of the house and the island. Numerous advertisements had appeared prominently in the newspapers. Then came the news that the island and house had been bought by a certain Mr Owen. From that moment, the gossip in the society columns had begun. Nigger Island had been bought by Gabrielle Turi, the famous Hollywood diva, who wanted to spend a few months there incognito... A reporter, who signed himself 'The Worker Bee', had insinuated instead that it was a refuge for some royalty. 'Il Perdigiorno' claimed that the island had been bought for the honeymoon of a young lord who had finally surrendered to Cupid. 'Jonah' claimed to know that the Admiralty had bought it to perform mysterious secret experiments there. In short, Nigger Island had become the topic du jour.

Judge Wargrave took a letter out of his pocket. The handwriting was almost illegible, but some words stood out with unexpected clarity:

Dearest Lawrence...I have not heard from you for many years...you must come to Nigger Island.... a charming place... so much to tell you... old times... communing with nature... basking in the sun... 12:40 from Paddington... we will meet in Oakbridge.

Always his.

Constance Culmington

The signature was adorned with a flutter.

Judge Wargrave tried to remember exactly when he had last seen Lady Constance Culmington. It must have been seven, eight years ago. At that time, the noblewoman had gone to Italy to bask in the sun and live with nature and peasants. Wargrave had then learned that she had continued her journey to Syria with the intention of roasting in the warmer sun and living face to face with nature and the Bedouins.

Constance Culmington, the judge reflected, was just the kind of woman who could buy an island by surrounding herself with mystery. Slightly rocking his head, as if approving of his own logic, Wargrave gradually allowed himself to fall asleep...

Vera Claythorne, in a third-class compartment where five other travellers had taken their seats, leaned her head on the seat back and closed her eyes. It was very hot on the train that day. It would have been nice to arrive at the seaside. She had really had a stroke of luck, finding that seat. When a girl looks for a holiday job, she is almost always destined to supervise a swarm of kids; secretarial jobs are much harder to come by. Even the agency had not given her too much hope.

And then that letter had arrived.

I got your name from the Women's Employment Agency, which particularly recommends you, because it is known to you personally. I will gladly pay you the salary you ask, and expect you, to begin work with me, on 8th August. The train leaves Paddington at 12.40. You will find someone to receive you at Oakbridge station. I enclose £5 for expenses.

A Nancy Owen

Printed on the top edge of the sheet was the address: "Nigger Island, Sticklehaven, Devon".

Nigger Island! That's all the newspapers had been talking about recently. Interesting gossip and innuendo. But they had probably been working on fantasy. In any case, the house had been built by a millionaire, and was said to be as luxurious as one could wish for.

Vera Claythorne, tired after a tiring school year, thought: 'Being a gym teacher in a third-rate school is not really a fortune. If for next year I could find a place in a 'decent' school...". And then, with a cold feeling in her heart, she said to herself, "Still, I should be content with the place I have. After all, people do not look favourably on a person who has been the subject of a judicial investigation... even if the investigating magistrate has acknowledged his innocence."

The magistrate had even complimented him on his presence of mind and courage. The enquiry could not have gone better. And Mrs Hamilton had been most kind to her.... Only Hugo... but she did not want to think of him.

Suddenly, despite the sultry heat of the compartment, she shivered and the idea of the sea no longer seemed so pleasant. An image presented itself clearly to her mind. Cyril's head appearing and disappearing, dragged towards the rocks by the current.... And she had swum with wide strokes to reach him, sure of her swimming ability, but equally sure that she would not arrive in time...

The sea... its deep blue... mornings spent lying on the sand... Hugo... Hugo who said he loved her... But she mustn't think of Hugo...

She opened her eyes and frowned at the man who sat opposite her. Tall, tanned, with rather close-set light eyes and an arrogant, almost cruel mouth. "I bet," she thought, "that he has seen interesting places and things, very interesting..."

Philip Lombard judged the girl standing in front of him with one quick glance of his very mobile eyes. Very pretty... with something of a schoolteacher, perhaps.... A cold one, he told himself, one who certainly knew her stuff, in love and war. He wouldn't have minded challenging her to a skirmish.

He wrinkled his forehead. No, enough of this nonsense. He had to think about business, about his work.

But what, precisely, was his job? The Jew had behaved mysteriously. "Take it or leave it, Captain Lombard."

He had said, overthinking, "A hundred pounds, eh?".

He had said it in an indifferent tone, as if a hundred pounds meant nothing to him, while he barely had any change left for one last decent meal. And he had realised that the Jew had not been fooled. That's the trouble with Jews, you can't fool them about money: they 'know'.

Then, in the same indifferent tone, he asked: "Can't you give me any more explanations?".

Isaac Morris shook his small bald head vigorously.

"No, Captain Lombard, the deal was put to me simply like that. My client knows that your reputation is that of a man who can deal with any emergency, and can deal with it well. I am authorised to deliver one hundred pounds to you if you agree to travel to Sticklehaven, Devon. The nearest station is Oakbridge, where you will find a person who will accompany you to Sticklehaven. A motor launch will then transport you to Nigger Island. There it will be at the disposal of my client'.

"For how long?" interrupted Lombard, brusquely.

"One week at the most."

Twirling his moustache, Captain Lombard had added:

"Are you sure there is nothing.... illegal?" And he had fixed the other with a sharp look.

The shadow of a smile had appeared on Mr Morris' plump lips as he replied: 'If anything illegal is proposed to you, you are perfectly free to back out.

And then that unctuous rogue had smiled openly. As if he knew very well that in Lombard's past, legality had not always been a sine qua non....

Lombard's lips curved into a grimace that was meant to be a smile. Damn, he had narrowly escaped it a few times. But he had always made it. There weren't many things he actually stopped at.... No, not many things he would stop at. And he promised himself to enjoy his stay on Nigger Island.

In a compartment where smoking was forbidden, Miss Emily Brent sat stiffly, in her usual pose. She was sixty-five years old and disapproved of any form of relaxation. Her father, a colonel of the old school, had always been very strict about deportment.

The young generation was shamefully       lax      :       in deportment and 'in everything else'...

Wrapped in an aura of rigidity and inflexible principles, Miss Brent sat in the crowded third-class compartment and triumphed over the uncomfortableness and heat. Everyone was making such a fuss over every trifle nowadays! They demanded anaesthetic injections before having a tooth extracted, they swallowed sleeping pills if they couldn't sleep, they wanted armchairs and pillows, and girls dressed as they happened to, and stood half-naked on beaches in summer. Miss Brent's lips tightened. She would have loved to teach some people a lesson....

He thought back to the summer holiday the year before. This year, however, things would be very different. Nigger Island...

He mentally reread the letter that he now knew by heart.

Dear Miss Brent, I hope you remember me. We stayed together at the Belhaven guesthouse in August, a few years ago, and we really seemed to have many affinities, the two of us.

I am now opening my own guesthouse on an island on the Devon coast. I am convinced the time is right to finally offer a place to stay where one can enjoy good family cooking and meet good old-fashioned people. No nudity, no gramophone playing all night. I would be delighted if you could arrange to spend your summer holiday on Nigger Island, at no charge, of course, as my guest. Would you be agreeable for early August?

Perhaps, if you have nothing against it, on the 8th.

His U.N.O.

What was that about? It was not easy to decipher that signature.

Emily Brent thought irritated that too many people write their names illegibly. She cast her mind back to all the people she had met in Belhaven. She had spent two summers there in a row. She remembered that nice middle-aged woman, the lady... the young lady... what the heck was her name? Her father was a canon. And then that Mrs Olton.... Ormen... No, his name was Oliver! Of course, Oliver.

Nigger Island! It was in the papers, Nigger Island... something about a movie star... or was it rather an American millionaire? Of course, places like that often end up tiring. Life on such a small island is not for everyone. First, they think it is romantic, but when they go to stay there they realise the disadvantages and are happy if they can sell it.

Emily Brent thought: "Either way, I'll do the holidays for free".

His income had shrunk, and some of the shares he owned did not yield any dividends. Under these conditions, the proposal was by no means to be discarded. If he could have remembered better that lady, or young lady? Oliver.

General Macarthur looked out of the window. The train was arriving at Exeter, where it had to change. Damn, those secondary railways slow as snails! As the crow flies, that place, Nigger Island, would not be far away.

He couldn't quite work out who Mr Owen was. A friend of Spoof Leggard, probably, and of Johnny Dyer.

Some of her old friends will come... they will be happy to reminisce with her about the past.

Of course, he too would have been happy to talk to someone from the old days. Especially since, lately, he had had the impression that many people were avoiding him, in his environment. And all because of that damned story: a story that had been over for almost thirty years! Armitage had certainly talked about it. Damned brat! What did he know about it? Oh, well, no use dwelling on such things. Sometimes, one can have absurd feelings... imagine someone looking at us strangely...

Now, he was curious to see Nigger Island. There had been a lot of gossip about that island. There were rumours that it had been taken over by the Admiralty, or the War Office, or the RAE... and maybe there was some truth to it.

Young Elmer Robson, the American millionaire, had built the villa. Spending thousands of pounds, it was said. All sorts of luxuries...

Exeter. An hour's wait. And he really didn't feel like waiting. He wanted to move on...

Dr Armstrong drove the Morris across the Salisbury Plain. He was exhausted. Even success pays off. There had been a time when, sitting in his Harley Street doctor's office, luxuriously furnished and equipped with the latest equipment, he had waited... waited for fate to bring him failure or success.

Well, success had come. He had been lucky. Lucky and capable in his profession, of course. As a doctor he knew his stuff, no doubt, but usually that is not enough to achieve success. One also has to be lucky. And he had been lucky. A few accurate diagnoses and the gratitude of two or three rich and influential ladies had helped make his name.

"You must have Armstrong examine you, so young, but so good.... Pam had consulted countless doctors for years, to no avail, and he recognised the evil at once!" And it had been an avalanche.

Now, Dr Armstrong had finally arrived. He had endless engagements and could only allow himself short periods of rest. So, that August morning, he had more than willingly left London to spend a few days on an island off the coast of Devon. Not that it was exactly a holiday. The letter he had received was written in rather vague terms, but there was nothing vague about the cheque that accompanied it. A staggering fee.

This Owen was supposed to be swimming in gold. By the looks of it, the husband, worried about his wife's health, wanted the doctor to keep an eye on her without giving it away. She did not want to know, the lady, to be examined. Her nerves...

Nerves! The doctor's eyebrows arched. Women and their nerves! But, after all, the ladies' nerves were good for him. Half of his patients had no other illness than boredom, but they wouldn't have thanked him if he had told them the truth. And it was always easy to invent some little nuisance to satisfy them.

"An abnormal state due to...' and here a long difficult word 'nothing serious, however it will be good to take care of it right away. A very simple cure will suffice.

After all, medicine is greatly aided by faith in healing. He knew this and, using the right manners, was able to inspire hope and confidence immediately.

Luckily he had managed not to fall apart after the affair ten... no, fifteen years earlier. But that had really been trouble.

He could have ruined himself forever. Instead, the blow had given him the strength he needed to react; he had stopped drinking for good. It was close, though...

With a deafening honk, a Dalmain Supert Sport overtook him. Dr Armstrong was almost pushed to the side of the road. One of those crazy drivers. He hated them. Again, it had been a close call. Bloody fool!

Tony Marston, speeding towards Mere, thought: 'It's amazing how many cars there are on the roads nowadays! There are always a few blocking your way. And they insist on keeping to the middle of the road. There's no fun driving here, it's not like in France, where you can really spin...'.

Should he stop for a drink or continue? He had all the time in the world. Just over one hundred and eighty kilometres to go. He would stop for a gin and a beer. It had never been such a hot day! If the weather continued like this, that island would really be a delight. Who were they, the Owens? Rich and snobbish, probably. Badger was a real master at fishing for such people. Of course, he 'had to' do it, poor guy, always short of money as he was....

It was to be hoped that they were not stingy with liquor. You never know with those who made money but were born miserable. Too bad it wasn't Gabrielle Turi who bought the island. He would have loved to be in the famous film diva's milieu. But, in any case, he would certainly have found some girls among the guests...

As he left the restaurant, he stretched, yawned, looked up at the bright blue sky and took his seat at the wheel of the Dalmain. Several girls stared at him in fascination: he was tall, well-proportioned, with curly hair, a tanned face and blue eyes.

He set off with great clamour and ventured down the narrow street. Old and young people jumped to safety. But the young people stayed and watched the car with admiration.

Anthony Marston continued his triumphant march.

Mr Blore was travelling in an express from Plymouth. There was only one other person in his compartment, an elderly gentleman, cypress-eyed, who looked like a typical seaman. At the time, he was asleep. Mr Blore, on the other hand, was writing in a small notebook.

"Here they all are," he said to himself. "Emily Brent, Vera Claythorne, Dr Armstrong, Anthony Marston, old Judge Wargrave, Philip Lombard, General Macarthur and then Butler Rogers and his wife."

He closed his notebook and put it back in his pocket. He looked out of the corner of his eye at the dozing man. "He's had one too many drinks," he diagnosed, competently.

He began to carefully review the situation. "The work should not be difficult. I don't see how I could make mistakes. I hope I look the way I need to look." He stood up and anxiously scrutinised himself in the mirror behind the seat. The reflected face had something military about it with that moustache. It was not very expressive. The eyes were grey and rather close-set. "I could present myself as a retired major," Mr Blore said to himself. "But no, I forgot that old general is there. He would expose me at once. South Africa, that's what it takes. Nobody among all those people ever had anything to do with South Africa. I just read some tourist brochures and I know enough about it to be able to talk about it."

Fortunately, there were settlers of all sorts. Mr Blore felt he could present himself to anyone with impunity as a wealthy settler from South Africa.

Nigger Island. Thinking back to his childhood, he remembered Nigger Island. Rocks smelling of seaweed and populated by seagulls, about a mile from the coast. She had earned that name for the shape that resembled a man's head: a negroid profile.

What a strange idea, building a house! A horrible place, in bad weather. But millionaires are so extravagant.

The old man in the corner woke up. 'You can never tell at sea, you can never tell,' he murmured.

Mr Blore confirmed, to appease him: 'It's true, it's true. You can never tell."

The old man made two sobs and added, moaning: 'There will be a gale soon.

"But no, it's a beautiful day!"

The old man insisted, choleric: 'Storm threatens, I can smell it.

"You may be right," admitted Mr Blore, peacefully. The train stopped and the old man struggled to get up. "I have to get off here." He couldn't open the door. Mr Blore helped him.

The old man lingered a moment before descending. He solemnly raised a hand and blinked with his eyes. "Stay alert and pray," he said.

"Stay alert and pray. The day of judgement is near."

He let himself slide onto the platform, but was unable to hold himself up and fell. From that position, he looked at Mr Blore, and insisted with dignity:

"I say to you, young man. The day of judgement is very near."

As he sat back down, Mr. Blore thought: "He is closer to the day of judgement than I am, that's for sure!".

And yet, as events proved, he was wrong...

2

In front of Oakbridge station, four people stood in momentary uncertainty. Behind them stood porters with suitcases. One of them called out, "Jim!"

The driver of one of the taxis stepped forward. "Going to Nigger Island, perhaps?" he asked in a drawling Devon accent.

The four assented, and then quickly exchanged a sidelong glance.

The driver turned to Judge Wargrave, as the company's most senior. "There are two badgers here, sir, but one has to wait for the express from Exeter.... it's a matter of five minutes... because another gentleman has to arrive. If one of you would like to wait, you'd all be more comfortable."

Vera Claythorne, aware of her position as secretary, immediately replied: 'I will wait. If you guys want to go...". She looked at the other three, with a slight air of command that came from her teaching profession and her habit of exercising authority.

He would have used the same tone to tell the girls which tennis court they had to play on.

Miss Brent replied, stiffly, "Thank you". She bowed her head and got into the car, while the taxi driver held open the door. Judge Wargrave followed her.

'I will wait with the young lady,' declared Captain Lombard.

"Claythorne," said Vera.

"Lombard. Philip Lombard."

The porters piled the suitcases into the taxi. Judge Wargrave remarked, with typical magistrate's caution: "We're going to have a great time.

Miss Brent nodded, "I think so too."

"A very distinguished old gentleman," he thought. "Quite different from the usual men one meets in seaside inns. Evidently, Mrs, or Miss, Oliver has respectable connections..."

"Do you know these places?" the judge asked her.

"I've been to Cornwall and Torquay, but this is the first time I've been to this corner of Devon".

"I don't know him either," said the judge.

The car started up. The driver of the other taxi asked:

"Don't you want to sit in the car while you wait?"

"Thank you, no," Vera replied firmly.

Captain Lombard smiled. "This sunny wall is really attractive.

Unless you prefer to return to the station."

"Not this one. I couldn't wait to get off that fiery train."

"Yes, travelling by train is oppressive in this season."

"Let's hope the weather stays that way," Vera said in a conventional tone. "Our English summers are treacherous."

With little originality, Lombard asked: "Do you know these places?".

"No, I have never been there." She added, determined to make her position clear at once: "I don't even know the lady who hired me as her secretary."

"Secretary?"

"Yes, I am Mrs Owe's secretary."

"Oh, I see." Almost imperceptibly Lombard's tone changed.

He became more confident, more casual. "Isn't that rather strange?"

Vera laughed. "Oh, no, I don't think so. Her secretary suddenly fell ill, the lady telegraphed an agency to find someone to replace her and they sent me."

"Ah, yeah. What if she doesn't like the place?"

Vera laughed again. 'It is only a temporary job, for the holidays. I am a teacher in a girls' school. Besides, the idea of seeing Nigger Island is very appealing to me. There has been so much talk about it in the newspapers.... Is it really that fascinating?"

"I don't know. I have never seen her,' Lombard replied.

"Really? The Owens are excited about it, I guess. What are they like?" Lombard thought, "A rather awkward situation, this. Should I meet them or not?" Suddenly he said, "Careful, there's a wasp on your arm. No, keep still. He made a gesture, as if to chase away an insect.

"There, she's gone!"

"Oh, thank you. There are plenty of wasps this summer'.

"Yeah, it must be because of the heat. And who are we waiting for, do you know?"

"I have no idea."

The sharp, prolonged whistle of an oncoming train was heard.

"This must be the accelerated from Exeter," said Lombard.

A tall, martial-looking old man appeared at the station exit. He had greying hair cut very short and a neatly trimmed moustache. The porter, who was staggering slightly under the weight of a leather suitcase, pointed out Vera and Lombard to him.

Vera stepped forward, nonchalant. "I am Mrs Owen's secretary," she said. "There's a taxi waiting here. May I introduce Mr Lombard," she added.

The washed-out blue eyes, sharp despite their age, scrutinised Lombard. For a moment there appeared a judgement, which went unnoticed. "An attractive guy. But there's something wrong with him..."

The three took their seats in the taxi. They passed through the sleepy streets of little Oakbridge and continued for about two kilometres along the Plymouth carriage road. Then they entered a tangle of steep, narrow lanes that cut through the countryside.

"I don't know this part of Devon," said General Macarthur. "My home is in East Devon, just on the edge of Dorset."

"It's really beautiful here," observed the girl. "The hills, the red earth... it's all so green and soft."

"A bit closed, though," Philip Lombard retorted. "I like the open countryside, where the eye can roam freely."

"You must have seen most of the world, right?" observed General Macarthur.

Lombard shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "I've been all over the place." And he thought: "Now he will ask me if, when the war broke out, I was of soldier's age. These old gentlemen always ask that."

But General Macarthur made no mention of the war.

They climbed a hill and zigzagged down to Sticklehaven: a simple cluster of cottages with a few fishing boats on the beach. For the first time, they saw Nigger Island, which emerged from the sea to the south and was lit by the setting sun.

Vera observed, surprised: 'But it is a long way from the mainland. She had imagined it differently: an island close to the mainland, crowned by a beautiful white house. But she could not see the house: only the rocks that made up a pattern vaguely resembling a giant negro head. There was something sinister about that island, which made her shiver slightly.

Outside a small pub under the sign of the Seven Stars, sat three people. Next to the somewhat hunched figure of the old judge and the stiffly upright figure of Miss Brent, there was a tall, stout man, the type of the gradissimo, who came forward and introduced himself.

"We thought we would wait for you to make one trip," he said.

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Davis. I was born in Natal, South Africa." He laughed cheerfully.

Judge Wargrave looked at him with ill-concealed dislike. He seemed about to order the courtroom cleared. Miss Brent clearly doubted that she liked the residents of the colonies.