Their eyes met again.
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Slowly, very slowly, Vera Claythorne and Philip Lombard lifted their heads and looked into each other's eyes
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Vera said: "How was it worked -- that trick with the marble bear?"
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Vera said quietly: "I understand…" She stared out to sea.
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No, it was only a minute or so…
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Lombard said, and his voice was a snarl-dangerous-menacing: "This is the end, you understand. We've come to the truth now. And it's the end…"
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Her voice was a whisper -- nothing more.
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Aeons passed… worlds spun and whirled… Time was motionless… It stood still -- it passed through a thousand ages.
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Vera said: "There's no one on the island -- no one at all -- except us two…"
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Lombard laughed. He said: "So that's it, is it, Vera?"
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He shrugged his shoulders. "A conjuring trick, my dear -- a very good one…"
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Vera thought: "Why did I never see his face properly before. A wolf -- that's what it is -- a wolf's face… Those horrible teeth…"
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Two people were standing looking down on a dead man…
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Lombard said: "Precisely. So we know where we are, don't we?"
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They managed it, however, drawing the body clear of high water mark. Lombard said as he straightened up: "Satisfied?"
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She pulled and tugged with all her might.
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Lombard sneered. He said: "What's this? Womanly pity?"
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Lombard panted: "Not such an easy job."
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Vera said: "Why not? Haven't you any pity?"
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Lombard laughed. He said: "If you like." He bent -- tugging at the body. Vera leaned against him, helping him.
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Vera said: "At any rate, let's get him out of reach of the sea."
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Vera looked down again at the body. She said: "We must move him. Carry him up to the house."
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"To join the other victims, I suppose? All neat and tidy. As far as I'm concerned he can stay where he is."
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She looked down at the dead man. She said: "Poor Dr. Armstrong…"
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General Macartbur had stared out to seawhenonly yesterday? Or was it the day before? He too had said, "This is the end…" He had said it with acceptance -- almost with welcome.
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He said: "I've no pity for you. Don't expect it!"
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But to Vera the words -- the thought -- brought rebellion. No, it should not be the end.
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Lombard said: "So that's the reason for your womanly solicitude! You wanted to pick my pocket."
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Vera said: "Quite."
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She nodded. She held it steadily and unwaveringly.
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He said authoritatively: "Give that revolver to me."
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Automatically Vera pressed the trigger
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And then he sprang. Quick as a panther -- as any other feline creature…
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Lombard's leaping body stayed poised in mid-spring, then crashed heavily to the ground.
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Vera laughed.
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He spoke slowly, argumentatively. "Now look here, my dear girl, you just listen --"
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Her tone warned him. He spun round. Even as he clapped his hand to his pocket he knew that he would find it empty. She had moved a yard or two away and was facing him, revolver in hand.
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His quick brain was working. Which way -- which method -- talk her over -- lull her into security -- or a swift dash --
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Death was very near to Philip Lombard now. It had never, he knew, been nearer. Nevertheless he was not beaten yet.
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Lombard said: "Come on, hand it over."
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All his life Lombard had taken the risky way. He took it now.
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She sat there -- exquisitelyhappy -- exquisitelyat peace.
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She was alone on the island…
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No more fear…
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She got to her feet and glanced up at the house.
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She realized now that she was hungry and sleepy. Principally sleepy. She wanted to throw herself on her bed and sleep and sleep and sleep…
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There was no more fear -- nomore steeling of her nerves…
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Philip Lombard was dead -- shot through the heart.
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But what did that matter? She was alive…
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Nothing to be afraid of any longer! No terrors waiting for her! Just -- an ordinary well -- built modern house. And yet, a little earlier in the day, she had not been able to look at it without shivering…
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Oh! blessed, blessed peace.
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Alone with nine dead bodies…
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Relief possessed Vera -- enormous exquisite relief. At last it was over.
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The sun was setting when Vera moved at last. Sheer reaction had kept her immobile. There had been no room in her for anything but the glorious sense of safety.
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Tomorrow, perhaps, they would come and rescue her -- but she didn't really mind. She didn't mind staying here. Not now that she was alone…
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Vera came warily forward, the revolver ready in her hand. But there was no need of caution.
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She began to walk up towards the house.
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She paused by the dining-room door. There were still three little china figures in the middle of the table.
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She smiled to herself.
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sleep… sleep… To sleep safely since she was alone on the island. One little Indian boy left all alone.
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She went in at the front door. The house, too, felt strangely peaceful. Vera thought: "Ordinarily one wouldn't care to sleep where there's a dead body in practically every bedroom!"
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The sun was setting, the sky to the west was streaked with red and orange. It was beautiful and peaceful.
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Well, it was over now. She had conquered -- had triumphed over the most deadly peril. By her own quick-wittedness and adroitness she had turned the tables on her would -- be destroyer.
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Vera thought: "The whole thing might be a dream. How tired she was -- terribly tired. Her limbs ached, her eyelids were drooping. Not to be afraid any more."
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Fear -- what a strange thing fear was…
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She hesitated a moment, then decided against it. She was really too tired.
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Should she go to the kitchen and get herself something to eat?
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Vera laughed. She said: "You're behind the times, my dears."
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The hall was dim in the dying light… To sleep. Sleep…
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The third little figure she picked up and held in her hand. She said: "You can come with me. We've won, my dear! We've won!"
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She picked up two of them and tossed them out through the window. She heard them crash on the stone of the terrace.
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Vera, the little Indian clasped in her hand, began to mount the stairs. Slowly, because her legs were suddenly very tired. "One little Indian boy left all alone. How did it end? Oh, yes! He got married and then there were none."
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Married… Funny, how she suddenly got the feeling again that Hugo was in the house…
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Very strong. Yes, Hugo was upstairs waiting for her.
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Vera said to herself: "Don't be a fool. You're so tired that you're imagining the most fantastic things…"
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At the top of them something fell from her hand, making hardly any noise on the soft pile carpet. She did not notice that she had dropped the revolver. She was only conscious of clasping a little china figure.
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Slowly up the stairs.
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She gave a gasp…
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She opened the door…
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She had come now to the door of her room. Hugo was waiting for her inside she was quite sure of it.
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"You can go to the rock, Cyril…"
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"One little Indian boy left all alone." What was the last line again? Something about being married -- or was it something else?
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She kicked away the chair…
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That was what murder was -- aseasy as that!
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The little china figure fell from her hand. It rolled unheeded and broke against the fender.
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"He went and hanged himself and then there were none."
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What was that -- hanging from the hook in the ceiling? A rope with a noose all ready? And a chair to stand upon -- a chair that could be kicked away…
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Like an automaton Vera moved forward. This was the end -- here where the cold wet hand (Cyril's hand, of course) had touched her throat…
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But afterwards you went on remembering…
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And of course that was the last line of the rhyme.
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That was what Hugo wanted.
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She climbed up on the chair, her eyes staring in front of her like a sleepwalker's… She adjusted the noose round her neck.
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How very quiet the house was. And yet -- it didn't seem like an empty house… Hugo, upstairs, waiting for her…
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Hugo was there to see she did what she had to do.
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