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VI
Vera, left to await results, got up and dressed.
She glanced over once or twice at the door. It was a good solid door. It
was both bolted and locked and had an oak chair wedged under the
handle.
It could not be broken open by force. Certainly not by Dr Armstrong. He
was not a physically powerful man.
If she were Armstrong intent on murder, it was cunning that she would
employ, not force.
She amused herself by reflecting on the means he might employ.
He might, as Philip had suggested, announce that one of the other two
men was dead. Or he might possibly pretend to be mortally wounded him-
self, might drag himself groaning to her door.
There were other possibilities. He might inform her that the house was
on fire. More, he might actually set the house on fire…Yes, that would be a
possibility. Lure the other two men out of the house, then, having previ-
ously laid a trail of petrol, he might set light to it. And she, like an idiot,
would remain barricaded in her room until it was too late.
She crossed over to the window. Not too bad. At a pinch one could es-
cape that way. It would mean a drop—but there was a handy flower-bed.
She sat down and picking up her diary began to write in it in a clear
flowing hand.
One must pass the time.
Suddenly she stiffened to attention. She had heard a sound. It was, she
thought, a sound like breaking glass. And it came from somewhere down-
stairs.
She listened hard, but the sound was not repeated.
She heard, or thought she heard, stealthy sounds of footsteps, the creak
of stairs, the rustle of garments—but there was nothing definite and she
concluded, as Blore had done earlier, that such sounds had their origin in
her own imagination.
But presently she heard sounds of a more concrete nature. People mov-
ing about downstairs — the murmur of voices. Then the very decided
sound of someone mounting the stairs—doors opening and shutting—feet
going up to the attics overhead. More noises from there.
Finally the steps came along the passage. Lombard’s voice said:
‘Vera. You all right?’
‘Yes. What happened?’
Blore’s voice said:
‘Will you let us in?’
Vera went to the door. She removed the chair, unlocked the door and
slid back the bolt. She opened the door. The two men were breathing hard,
their feet and the bottom of their trousers were soaking wet.
She said again:
‘What’s happened?’
Lombard said:
‘Armstrong’s disappeared…’
VII
Vera cried:
‘What?’
Lombard said:
‘Vanished clean off the island.’
Blore concurred:
‘Vanished—that’s the word! Like some damned conjuring trick.’
Vera said impatiently:
‘Nonsense! He’s hiding somewhere!’
Blore said:
‘No, he isn’t! I tell you, there’s nowhere to hide on this island. It’s as bare
as your hand! There’s moonlight outside. As clear as day it is. And he’s not
to be found.’
Vera said:
‘He doubled back to the house.’
Blore said:
‘We thought of that. We’ve searched the house, too. You must have
heard us. He’s not here, I tell you. He’s gone—clean vanished, vamoosed…’
Vera said incredulously:
‘I don’t believe it.’
Lombard said:
‘It’s true, my dear.’
He paused and then said:
‘There’s one other little fact. A pane in the dining-room window has
been smashed—and there are only three little soldier boys on the table.’
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