II

Dr Armstrong came out of the dining-room and once more came out on the terrace.

The judge was sitting in a chair now, gazing placidly out to sea.

Lombard and Blore were over to the left, smoking but not talking.

As before, the doctor hesitated for a moment. His eye rested speculatively on Mr Justice Wargrave. He wanted to consult with someone. He was conscious of the judge’s acute logical brain. But nevertheless, he wavered. Mr Justice Wargrave might have a good brain but he was an elderly man. At this juncture, Armstrong felt what was needed was a man of action.

He made up his mind.

‘Lombard, can I speak to you for a minute?’

Philip started.

‘Of course.’

The two men left the terrace. They strolled down the slope towards the water. When they were out of earshot

Armstrong said:

‘I want a consultation.’

Lombard’s eyebrows went up. He said:

‘My dear fellow, I’ve no medical knowledge.’

‘No, no, I mean as to the general situation.’

‘Oh, that’s different.’

Armstrong said:

‘Frankly, what do you think of the position?’

Lombard reflected a minute. Then he said:

‘It’s rather suggestive, isn’t it?’

‘What are your ideas on the subject of that woman? Do you accept Blore’s theory?’

Philip puffed smoke into the air. He said:

‘It’s perfectly feasible—taken alone.’

‘Exactly.’

The latter went on:

‘That is, accepting the premise that Mr and Mrs Rogers have successfully got away with murder in their time. And I don’t see why they shouldn’t. What do you think they did exactly? Poisoned the old lady?’

Armstrong said slowly:

‘It might be simpler than that. I asked Rogers this morning what this Miss Brady had suffered from. His answer was enlightening. I don’t need to go into medical details, but in a certain form of cardiac trouble, amyl nitrite is used. When an attack comes on an ampoule of amyl nitrite is broken and it is inhaled. If amyl nitrite were withheld—well, the consequences might easily be fatal.’

Philip Lombard said thoughtfully:

‘As simple as that. It must have been—rather tempting.’

The doctor nodded.

‘Yes, no positive action. No arsenic to obtain and administer—nothing definite—just—negation! And Rogers hurried through the night to fetch a doctor and they both felt confident that no one could ever know.’

‘And even if any one knew, nothing could ever be proved against them,’ added Philip Lombard.

He frowned suddenly.

‘Of course—that explains a good deal.’

Armstrong said, puzzled:

‘I beg your pardon.’

Lombard said:

‘I mean—it explains Soldier Island. There are crimes that cannot be brought home to their perpetrators. Instance the Rogers’. Another instance, old Wargrave, who committed his murder strictly within the law.’

Armstrong said sharply: ‘You believe that story?’

Philip Lombard smiled.

‘Oh, yes, I believe it. Wargrave murdered Edward Seton all right, murdered him as surely as if he’d stuck a stiletto through him! But he was clever enough to do it from the judge’s seat in wig and gown. So in the ordinary way you can’t bring his little crime home to him.’

A sudden flash passed like lightning through Armstrong’s mind.

‘Murder in Hospital. Murder on the Operating-table. Safe– yes, safe as houses!

Philip Lombard was saying:

‘Hence—Mr Owen—hence—Soldier Island!’

Armstrong drew a deep breath.

‘Now we’re getting down to it. What’s the real purpose of getting us all here?’

Philip Lombard said: ‘What do you think?’

Armstrong said abruptly:

‘Let’s go back a minute to this woman’s death. What are the possible theories? Rogers killed her because he was afraid she would give the show away. Second possibility: she lost her nerve and took an easy way out herself.’

Philip Lombard said:

‘Suicide, eh?’

‘What do you say to that?’

Lombard said:

‘It could have been—yes—if it hadn’t been for Marston’s death. Two suicides within twelve hours is a little too much to swallow! And if you tell me that Anthony Marston, a young bull with no nerves and precious little brains, got the wind up over having mowed down a couple of kids and deliberately put himself out of the way—well, the idea’s laughable! And anyway, how did he get hold of the stuff? From all I’ve ever heard, potassium cyanide isn’t the kind of stuff you take about with you in your waistcoat pocket. But that’s your line of country.’

Armstrong said:

‘Nobody in their senses carries potassium cyanide. It might be done by someone who was going to take a wasps’ nest.’

‘The ardent gardener or landowner, in fact? Again, not Anthony Marston. It strikes me that that cyanide is going to need a bit of explaining. Either Anthony Marston meant to do away with himself before he came here, and therefore came prepared—or else—’

Armstrong prompted him.

‘Or else?’

Philip Lombard grinned.

‘Why make me say it? When it’s on the tip of your own tongue. Anthony Marston was murdered, of course.’

Ill

Dr Armstrong drew a deep breath.

‘And Mrs Rogers?’

Lombard said slowly:

‘I could believe in Anthony’s suicide (with difficulty) if it weren’t for Mrs Rogers. I could believe in Mrs Rogers’ suicide (easily) if it weren’t for Anthony Marston. I can believe that Rogers put his wife out of the way—if it were not for the unexpected death of Anthony Marston. But what we need is a theory to explain two deaths following rapidly on each other.’

Armstrong said:

‘I can perhaps give you some help towards that theory.’ And he repeated the facts that Rogers had given him about the disappearance of the two little china figures.

Lombard said:

‘Yes, little china figures… There were certainly ten last night at dinner. And now there are eight, you say?’

Dr Armstrong recited:

 

‘Ten little soldier boys going out to dine;

One went and choked himself and then there were Nine.

 

 

‘Nine little soldier boys sat up very late;

One overslept himself and then there were Eight.’

 

The two men looked at each other. Philip Lombard grinned and flung away his cigarette.

‘Fits too damned well to be a coincidence! Anthony Marston dies of asphyxiation or choking last night after dinner, and Mother Rogers oversleeps herself with a vengeance.’

‘And therefore?’ said Armstrong.

Lombard took him up.

‘And therefore another kind of soldier. The Unknown Soldier! X! Mr Owen! U. N. Owen! One Unknown Lunatic at Large!’

‘Ah!’ Armstrong breathed a sigh of relief. ‘You agree. But you see what it involves? Rogers swore that there was no one but ourselves and he and his wife on the island.’

‘Rogers is wrong! Or possibly Rogers is lying!’

Armstrong shook his head.

‘I don’t think he’s lying. The man’s scared. He’s scared nearly out of his senses.’

Philip Lombard nodded.

He said:

‘No motor-boat this morning. That fits in. Mr Owen’s little arrangements again to the fore. Soldier Island is to be isolated until Mr Owen has finished his job.’

Armstrong had gone pale. He said:

‘You realise—the man must be a raving maniac!’

Philip Lombard said, and there was a new ring in his voice:

‘There’s one thing Mr Owen didn’t realise.’

‘What’s that?’

‘This island’s more or less a bare rock. We shall make short work of searching it. We’ll soon ferret out U. N. Owen, Esquire.’

Dr Armstrong said warningly:

‘He’ll be dangerous.’

Philip Lombard laughed.

‘Dangerous? Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf? l’ ll be dangerous when I get hold of him!’

He paused and said:

‘We’d better rope in Blore to help us. He’ll be a good man in a pinch. Better not tell the women. As for the others, the General’s ga-ga, I think, and old Wargrave’s forte is masterly inactivity. The three of us can attend to this job.’

Chapter 8

I

Blore was easily roped in. He expressed immediate agreement with their arguments.

‘What you’ve said about those china figures, sir, makes all the difference. That’s crazy, that is! There’s only one thing. You don’t think this Owen’s idea might be to do the job by proxy, as it were?’

‘Explain yourself, man.’

‘Well, I mean like this. After the racket last night this young Marston gets the wind up and poisons himself. And Rogers, he gets the wind up too and bumps off his wife! All according to U.N.O’s plan.’

Armstrong shook his head. He stressed the point about the cyanide. Blore agreed.

‘Yes, I’d forgotten that. Not a natural thing to be carrying about with you. But how did it get into his drink, sir?’

Lombard said:

‘I’ve been thinking about that. Marston had several drinks that night. Between the time he had his last one and the time he finished the one before it, there was quite a gap. During that time his glass was lying about on some table or other. I think—though I can’t be sure, it was on the little table near the window. The window was open. Somebody could have slipped a dose of the cyanide into the glass.’

Blore said unbelievingly:

‘Without our all seeing him, sir?’

Lombard said dryly:

‘We were all—rather concerned elsewhere.’

Armstrong said slowly:

‘That’s true. We’d all been attacked. We were walking about, moving about the room. Arguing, indignant, intent on our own business. I think it could have been done…’

Blore shrugged his shoulders.

‘Fact is, it must have been done! Now then, gentlemen, let’s make a start. Nobody’s got a revolver, by any chance? I suppose that’s too much to hope for.’

Lombard said:

‘I’ve got one.’ He patted his pocket.

Blore’s eyes opened very wide. He said in an over-casual tone:

‘Always carry that about with you, sir?’

Lombard said:

‘Usually. I’ve been in some tight places, you know.’

‘Oh,’ said Blore and added: ‘Well, you’ve probably never been in a tighter place than you are today! If there’s a lunatic hiding on this island, he’s probably got a young arsenal on him—to say nothing of a knife or dagger or two.’

Armstrong coughed.

‘You may be wrong there, Blore. Many homicidal lunatics are very quiet unassuming people. Delightful fellows.’

Blore said:

‘I don’t feel this one is going to be of that kind, Dr Armstrong.’