Ten Little Niggers / Десять негритят

I

Mr. Justice Wargrave sat in the corner of a first-class smoking carriage, puffing at a cigar and reading the Times.

He glanced at his watch – another two hours to go.

He put the newspaper down and, in his mind, went through the information he had read in the papers about Nigger Island. At first, an American millionaire who was fond of yachting had bought it. He had built a luxurious modern house on this little island off the Devon coast. But soon that millionaire had put up the house and island for sale because, unfortunately, his new third wife was a bad sailor. Then, according to the newspapers, a Mr. Owen had bought it. After that the rumours of the gossip writers had started: in reality, Miss Gabrielle Turl, the Hollywood film star, had bought Nigger Island; she wanted to spend some months there free from all publicity; the island was to be an abode for Royalty?! Or – young Lord I… had surrendered to Cupid[1] at last and had bought it for a honeymoon! Somebody knew for a fact that the Admiralty had purchased the island for some very hush-hush experiments!

Mr. Justice Wargrave took out a letter from his  pocket. The handwriting was practically illegible but some words here and there were quite clear. Dearest Lawrence… so many years since I heard anything of you… must come to Nigger Island… the most picturesque place… remember… old days… communion with Nature… bask in sunshine… 12:40 from Paddington… meet you at Oakbridge. The letter was signed by Lady Constance Culmington.

Mr. Justice Wargrave remembered that he had last seen Lady Constance Culmington eight years ago. She had then been going to Italy to bask in the sun and be at one with Nature and the contadini[2]. Later, he had heard, she had gone to Syria where she intended to bask in yet stronger sun and live at one with Nature and the bedouin[3].

Constance Culmington, in his opinion, was exactly the sort of woman who would buy an island and surround herself with mystery! His head nodded in approval of his logic. He slept…

II

Vera Claythorne, in a third-class carriage with five other travellers in it, leaned back and closed her eyes. It was very hot in the train. It would be nice to get to the sea! She thought she was lucky to get a secretarial post during her holiday. When you wanted a holiday post, it nearly always meant looking after a crowd of children – secretarial holiday posts were much more difficult to get. Even the agency hadn’t had much hope.

And then the letter had come. It was:

“Your name has been given to me by the Skilled Women’s Agency together with their recommendation. I agree to pay you the salary you ask and hope you will take up your duties on August 8th. The train is the 12:40 from Paddington and you will be met at Oakbridge station. I enclose five-pound notes for expenses.

Yours truly,

Una Nancy Owen.”

And the stamped address was the Nigger Island, Sticklehaven, Devon…

Nigger Island! The papers have been full of all sorts of hints and interesting rumours about it lately! Probably that was mostly untrue. But the house had certainly been built by a millionaire and was said to be absolutely the last word in luxury.

Vera Claythorne felt very tired after a hard term as a games mistress[4] in a third-class school. She thought to herself – “If only I could get a job at some decent school.”

But then she thought that she was lucky to have even that. With a heavy heart she thought: “People don’t like a Coroner’s[5] Inquest, even if the Coroner did acquit me of all blame!”

The Coroner had even praised her for her courage, she remembered. And Mrs. Hamilton had been kindness itself to her – only Hugo – (but she wouldn’t think of Hugo!)

Suddenly, though it was very hot in the carriage, she shivered and wished she wasn’t going to the sea. A picture rose clearly before her mind. Cyril’s head, bobbing up and down, swimming to the rock. Up and down – up and down. And herself, swimming in easy expert strokes after him – but knowing, only too well, that she wouldn’t be in time.

The sea – warm mornings spent lying out on the sands – Hugo – Hugo who had said he loved her.

She must not think of Hugo.

She opened her eyes and looked at the man opposite her. A tall man with a brown face, light eyes set rather close together and an arrogant almost cruel mouth.

She thought to herself:

“I bet he’s been to some interesting parts of the world and seen some interesting things.”

III

Philip Lombard, sizing up the girl opposite with his quick moving eyes, thought to himself:

“Quite attractive – a bit schoolmistressy perhaps…”

A cool customer[6], he decided – and one who could hold her own – in love or war. He’d rather like to take her on.

He frowned. No, he’d got to keep his mind on the job.

What exactly was that job, he wondered? That little Jew had been damned mysterious. He had only said that a client of his had asked him to hand Lombard one hundred guineas in return for which Lombard would travel by train to Sticklehaven, Devon. The nearest to that place station was Oakbridge. There he would be met and motored to Sticklehaven where a motor launch would take him to Nigger Island.

“There you will hold yourself at the disposal of my client, Captain Lombard. My client assumes that your reputation is that of a good man in a tight place.”[7]

Philip had said thoughtfully:

“A hundred guineas, eh?”

His tone was casual as though a hundred guineas was nothing to him when actually he needed money very badly. But he had seen that the little Jew had not been deceived – that was the damnable part about Jews, you couldn’t deceive them about money – they knew!

Touching his small moustache, Captain Lombard said:

“You understand I can’t undertake anything – illegal?”

Mr. Isaac Morris had answered gravely, with a very light smile on his thick Semitic lips:

“If anything illegal is proposed, you will, of course, be absolutely free to leave.”

Damn the oily little brute, he had smiled! It was as though he knew very well that in Lombard’s past actions legality had not always been an absolutely necessary condition…

Lombard grinned himself.

He imagined that he was going to enjoy himself at Nigger Island.

IV

Miss Emily Brent was travelling in a non-smoking carriage. As usual, she sat very erect. She was sixty-five and she did not approve of lolling. Her father, a Colonel of the old school, had been particular about manners.

The present generation was so slack – in their manners, and in every other way.

Full of righteousness and firm principles, Miss Brent sat in her crowded third-class carriage and triumphed over its discomfort and its heat. Every one fussed over things nowadays! They wanted injections before they had teeth pulled – they took drugs if they couldn’t sleep – they wanted easy chairs and cushions and the girls neglected their figures and lay about half naked on the beaches in summer.

Miss Brent pursed her lips. She would like to make an example of certain people.

She thought about last year’s summer holiday. This year, however, it would be quite different. Nigger Island.

In her mind, she re-read the letter she had recently received.

“Dear Miss Brent,

I hope you remember me. We were together at Bellhaven Guest House in August some years ago, and it seemed we had a good time together.

I am starting a guest house of my own on an island off the coast of Devon. It will be a place where there is good plain food and a nice old-fashioned type of person. None of this nudity and gramophones half the night. I will be very glad if you could spend your summer holiday on Nigger Island – quite free – as my guest. Would early in August suit you? Perhaps the 8th.

Yours sincerely.

U. N. —”

The signature was rather illegible.

Emily Brent tried to remember the people at Bellhaven. There had been a Miss Olton – Ormen – No, surely it was Oliver! Yes – Oliver.

There was something about Nigger Island in the paper – something about a film star – or was it an American millionaire?

Of course, often islands went very cheap – they didn’t suit everybody. They thought the idea was romantic but when they came to live there, they saw the disadvantages and were glad to sell.

Emily Brent thought to herself: “Anyway, I will be getting a free holiday.”

As her income had lessened so much and so many dividends were not paid, that was indeed quite helpful. If only she could remember a little more about Mrs. – or was it Miss – Oliver?

V

General Macarthur was in a train that was just coming into Exeter where he had to change. Damnable, these slow branch-line trains! This place, Nigger Island, was really no distance at all as the crow flies[8].

He didn’t know this fellow Owen. A friend of Spoof Leggard’s, obviously – and of Johnny Dyer’s.

The letter said: “one or two of your old cronies are coming – would like to have a chat over old times.”

Well, he would enjoy a chat about old times. He felt lately that fellows were avoiding him. All because of that damned rumour! Nearly thirty years ago now! Armstrong had talked, he supposed. Damned young pup! What did he know about it? Oh, well, no good wondering about these things! One imagined things sometimes – imagined a fellow was looking at you queerly.

Well, he would be interested to see this Nigger Island. A lot of gossip in the papers. Looked as though there might be something in the rumour that the Admiralty or the War Office or the Air Force had bought it.

Young Elmer Robson, the American millionaire, had actually built the place. Every earthly luxury.

Exeter! And an hour to wait! And he didn’t want to wait. He wanted to get on.

VI

Dr. Armstrong was driving his car across Salisbury Plain. He was very tired. Success had its punishment. He remembered the time when he had sat in his consulting room in Harley Street[9], correctly dressed, surrounded with the most up-to-date appliances and the most luxurious furniture and waited – waited through the empty days for his venture to succeed or fail.

Well, it had succeeded! He’d been lucky! Lucky and competent of course. He was a good man at his job – but that wasn’t enough for success. You had to have luck as well. And he’d had it! An accurate diagnosis, a couple of grateful women patients – women with money and position – and word had got about. And now Dr. Armstrong was definitely a success. His days were full. He had little leisure. Therefore, on this August morning, he was glad that he was leaving London for an island off the Devon coast for some days. It was not exactly a holiday. He had received a letter quite vague in its terms, but there was nothing vague about the accompanying cheque. A huge fee. These Owens must be rolling in money. It seemed a husband was worried about his wife’s health but she did not want to see a doctor. And he did not want to alarm her. Her nerves —

Nerves! These women and their nerves! Well, it was good for business, anyway. Half the women who consulted him had only suffered from boredom, but they wouldn’t thank you for telling them so! And one could usually find something.

“A slightly unusual condition of the – some long word – nothing at all serious – but it just needs a simple treatment.”

Well, a good part of medicine was faith-healing. And he had a good manner – he could inspire hope and faith.

Fortunately, he’d pulled himself together[10] in time after that business ten – no, fifteen years ago. He’d been going to pieces. The shock had pulled him together. He’d stopped drinking altogether. With a deafening blare of the horn an enormous sports car rushed past him at eighty miles an hour. Dr. Armstrong nearly went into the hedge. One of these young fools who rushed round the country. He hated them. That had been nearly a crash, too. Damned young fool!

VII

Tony Marston, rushing down into Mere, thought to himself:

“The amount of cars crawling about the roads is outrageous. Always something blocking your way. And they will drive in the middle of the road! Pretty hopeless driving in England, anyway… Not like France where you really could let out.”

Should he stop here for a drink, or drive on? Heaps of time! He’d have a gin and ginger-beer. Awfully hot day!

In fine weather this island place ought to be quite good fun. Who were these Owens, he wondered? Stinking rich, probably. Badger was rather good at nosing out people like that. Of course, he had to, poor old chap, with no money of his own.

Hope they’d have enough drinks. Never knew with these fellows who’d made their money and weren’t born to it. Pity that story that Gabrielle Turl had bought Nigger Island wasn’t true.

Oh, well, he supposed there’d be a few girls there.

Coming out of the hotel, he stretched himself, yawned, looked up at the blue sky and climbed into his car.

Several young women looked at him admiringly – his six feet of well-proportioned body, his curly hair, tanned face, and intensely blue eyes.

He started the car and rushed up the narrow street. Old men and errand-boys jumped for safety. The latter looked after the car admiringly.

Anthony Marston continued his triumphal progress.

VIII

Mr. Blore was in the slow train from Plymouth. There was only one other person in his carriage, an elderly sea-faring gentleman with a bleary eye. At the present moment he was sleeping.

Mr. Blore was writing in his notebook: “Emily Brent, Vera Claythorne, Dr. Armstrong, Anthony Marston, old Justice Wargrave, Philip Lombard, General Macarthur. Manservant and wife: Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.”

“That’s the lot,” he muttered to himself and closing the notebook, put it back in his pocket.

He thought that his forthcoming job ought to be easy enough and hoped that he looked right for the role he was to play.

He stood up and studied himself in the mirror. The face reflected there was slightly military, with a moustache. There was very little expression in it. The eyes were grey and set rather close together.

“Might be a major,” said Mr. Blore. “No, I forgot. There’s that old general. He’d unmask me at once.

“South Africa,” decided Mr. Blore, “that’s my line!”He’d been reading a travel leaflet about South Africa, and thought he could talk about it all right.

Fortunately there were all sorts and types of colonials. As a well-off man from South Africa, Mr. Blore felt that he could enter into any society unmasked.

He had been on Nigger Island in his boyhood… Smelly sort of rock covered with gulls – stood about a mile from the coast. It had been named Nigger Island because it resembled a Negro man’s profile.

The old man in the corner woke up and said:

“You can’t never tell at sea – never! There’s a storm coming.”

Mr. Blore objected:

“No, no, mate, it’s a lovely day.”

The old man said angrily:

“There’s a storm ahead. I can smell it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Mr. Blore pacifically.

The train stopped at a station where the old man was to get out. As he was quite drunk, Mr. Blore helped him to the door.

The old sailor stood in the doorway. He raised a solemn hand and blinked his bleary eyes.

“Watch and pray,” he said. “Watch and pray. The day of judgement[11] is very close.”

Returning to his seat Mr. Blore thought to himself:

“He’s nearer the day of judgement than I am!”

But there, as it happens, he was wrong…

I

A little group of people stood outside Oakbridge station. Porters with suitcases stood behind them. One of them called, “Jim!”

The driver of one of the taxis asked: “You’re for Nigger Island, maybe?” Four people said “Yes” – and then glanced quickly at each other.

The driver addressed Mr. Justice Wargrave as the senior member of the party:

“One of the two taxis here, sir, must wait till the slow train from Exeter arrives – there’s one gentleman coming by that.

Perhaps one of you wouldn’t mind waiting? You’d be more comfortable that way.”

Vera Claythorne agreed to wait at once.

Miss Brent and Mr. Justice Wargrave entered one of the taxis.

Captain Lombard said:

“I’ll wait with Miss —”

“Claythorne,” said Vera.

“My name is Lombard, Philip Lombard.”

The porters were piling luggage on the taxi. Inside, Mr. Justice Wargrave asked:

“Do you know this part of the world well?”

Miss Brent said:

“This is my first visit to this part of Devon.”

The judge said:

“I haven’t also been to this part of the world.”

The taxi drove off.

The driver of the second taxi asked:

“Like to sit inside while you’re waiting?”

Vera Claythorn and Philip Lombard decided to stay in the open air.

Vera said:

“I hope the weather lasts. Our English summers are so changeable.”

With a slight lack of originality Lombard asked:

“Do you know this part of the world well?”

“No, I’ve never been here before.” She added quickly, deciding to make her position clear at once, “I haven’t even seen my employer yet.”

“Your employer?”

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Owen’s secretary.”

Lombard said:

“Isn’t that rather unusual?”

Vera laughed.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. Her own secretary was suddenly taken ill. She wanted a substitute, and the agency sent me.”

“And if you don’t like the post, when you’ve got there?”

Vera laughed again.

“Oh, it’s only a holiday post. I’ve got a job at a girls’ school. And I want to see Nigger Island very much. There’s been such a lot about it in the papers. Is it really very enchanting?”

Lombard said:

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.”

“Oh, really? The Owens are very fond of it, I suppose. What are they like? Please, tell me.”

Lombard thought: “Is it supposed that I know them or not?” He said quickly:

“There’s a wasp crawling up your arm. No – stay quite still.”

He made a convincing brushing off. “There. It’s gone!”

“Oh, thank you. There are a lot of wasps about this summer.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s the heat. Who are we waiting for, do you know?”

“I have no idea.”

At that moment they heard the sound of an approaching train.

II

A tall soldierly old man appeared at the exit from the platform. His grey hair was cut short and he had a neatly trimmed white moustache.

Vera came forward in a competent manner. She said:

“I am Mrs. Owen’s secretary. There is a car here waiting.” She added: “This is Mr. Lombard.”

The shrewd blue eyes of General Macarthur sized up Lombard.

“Good-looking fellow. Something just a little wrong about him…”

They got into the waiting taxi. They drove through the sleepy streets of little Oakbridge. Then they went down country lanes, steep, green and narrow.

General Macarthur said he lived in East Devon and this part of Devon was new to him.

Vera liked the scenery and said:

“It really is lovely here. The hills and the red earth and everything so green.”

Philip Lombard said critically:

“It’s a bit confined. I like open country myself. Where you can see what’s coming.”

General Macarthur said to him:

“You’ve seen a bit of the world, I imagine?”

Lombard shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve traveled about here and there, sir.”

He thought to himself: “He’ll ask me now if I was old enough to be in the War. These old boys always do.”

But General Macarthur said nothing about the War.

III

They came to Sticklehaven – a mere group of cottages with a fishing boat or two on the beach.

In the rays of the setting sun they saw Nigger Island rising out of the sea to the south.

Vera said, surprised:

“It’s a long way out.”

She had pictured it differently, close to shore, crowned with a beautiful white house. But they could see no house, only the rock with its faint resemblance to a giant Negro’s head. There was something sinister about it. She shivered.

There were three people sitting outside a little inn: the elderly judge, Miss Brent, and a third man – a big bluff man who came forward and introduced himself.

“Decided to wait for you,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. Name’s Davis. Natal, South Africa’s my natal place, ha-ha!”

He laughed.

Mr. Justice Wargrave looked at him with active dislike. He looked as if he wished that he could order to clear the court. Miss Emily Brent was clearly not sure if she liked colonials.

Mr. Davis turned and held up a finger. In response to Davis’ gesture, a man came up to them and said:

“Are you ready to start for the island, ladies and gentlemen? The boat’s waiting. There’s two gentlemen coming by car, but Mr. Owen’s order was not to wait for them as they might arrive at any time.”

The party got up. Their guide led them to his motor boat.

Just as they all got into the boat and their guide was going to start the motor, they saw a car that was coming into the village down the steep country lane.

The car was so fantastically powerful and beautiful that it had all the nature of an apparition. In the radiance of the evening light a young man at the wheel looked not a man, but a young god, a hero god out of some Northern Saga.

He touched the horn and a great roar of sound echoed from the rocks of the bay.

It was a fantastic moment. It seemed that Anthony Marston was something more than mortal.

IV

Fred Narracott, looking at his passengers, thought to himself that this was a queer company. He’d expected that Mr. Owen’s guests would be all very rich and important-looking.

Quite different from Mr. Elmer Robson’s parties. Fred Narracott grinned faintly as he remembered the millionaire’s guests. That had been a party if you like – and the drink they’d got through!

This Mr. Owen must be a very different sort of gentleman. It was strange, thought Fred, that Mr. Owen had never been down here yet. Everything had been ordered and paid for by that Mr. Morris. The papers said there was some mystery about Owen. Mr. Narracott agreed with them.

Perhaps it was indeed Miss Gabrielle Turl who had bought the island. But he rejected that theory as he looked at his passengers. They could hardly have anything to do with a film star.

He sized them up objectively.

One spinster – the sour kind – he knew them well enough. She was a dragon, he could bet. Old military gentleman. Nice-looking young lady – but the ordinary kind, not glamourous – no Hollywood touch about her. That bluff cheery gent – he wasn’t a real gentleman. Retired tradesman, that’s what he is, thought Fred Narracott. The other gentleman, the thin hungry looking gentleman with the quick eyes, he was a queer one.

No, there was only one satisfactory passenger in the boat. The last gentleman, the one who had arrived in the car (and what a car!).

He was the right kind. Born to money, he was. If the party had been all like him… he’d understand it…

Queer business – the whole thing was queer – very queer.

V

The boat went round the rock. The south side of the island was quite different. It sloped gently down to the sea. Now at last they saw the house – low and square and modern-looking with rounded windows letting in all the light.

An exciting house – a house that lived up to expectation![12]

Fred Narracott stopped the engine, they nosed their way gently into a little natural inlet between rocks.

Philip Lombard said sharply:

“Must be difficult to land here in bad weather.”

Fred Narracott said cheerfully:

“Can’t land on Nigger Island when there’s a southeasterly. Sometimes it’s cut off for a week or more.”

Fred Narracott jumped out and he and Lombard helped the others to get out. Narracott tied the boat to a ring in the rock. Then they went up the steps cut in the rock.