And Then There Was No One полностью

The Daily Sentinel? What new nonsense was this? Couldn’t she any longer distinguish the fictional Evadne Mount from the real live Evie? Or was she so flustered by Schumacher’s affable drilling of her she absent-mindedly named one of the spurious, jokily named newspapers I had invented for my whodunits? Pish posh! She hadn’t been flustered at all. She had been as cool as the proverbial cucumber – gaarh, now I’m doing it! I was determined to have the matter out with her later, privately.

There was one last, token question which we all had put to us before we were permitted to go about our respective affairs, but only those affairs, mark you, that could be conducted within the strict confines of Meiringen itself. Not, as Schumacher once more took pains to reassure us, that any of us was considered a suspect, but he expected from one hour to the next the arrival from Brussels of a senior official from Interpol – Interpol versus the Internet? I know which I would bet my money on – as also two British intelligence agents, and, begging our pardons, he could not be expected to dismiss us until the three of them had seen for themselves what was and what wasn’t what. I was rather amused to hear that a Belgian detective would soon be on the murderer’s trail. It struck me that, with Evie already in situ, his presence would belatedly represent the fulfilment of that ancient dream of all Christie fans, a whodunit in which Marple and Poirot, as rival sleuths, endeavour simultaneously to solve the same crime.†

And the token question? Slavorigin had definitely been shot, not stabbed, and we all knew where the arrow had come from, but the bow? A bow is not an easy thing to conceal. It’s a big object, usually, bigger than you would expect, and whether it’s fashioned of wood or plastic it mustn’t be bent too far lest it split or, scarcely less serious, cause the arrow to be so erratically propelled as to be, even at a short distance, deflected from its target. These facts were communicated to us by Schumacher himself, something of an expert, it seemed. He went on:

‘Now the Reichenbach Falls, which you all know, they are the obvious – no, they are the only safe place to cast away the bow after it has been employed. But Monsieur Autre has just told us that he spent this morning mooshing about’ – a touch of Clouseau here – ‘at the Falls and so it is difficult for me to comprehend how our killer can then discard his arm, his weapon, in security. You understand me, yes?’ (We all nodded.) ‘So I must ask you this last question. Have any of you espied such a bow in Meiringen?’ (Lots of head-shakes.) ‘Then, ladies and gentlemen, you are free to go on your ways. But, I repeat, for now you must remain here inside our town. If not for a long time, I hope.’

Outside, on the steps of the Kunsthalle, I asked Hugh, for want of something better to do that afternoon, if he played chess. He didn’t. He counter-proposed a game of poker, suggesting that we make up a foursome with Autry and Sanary, but, like Bartleby, I preferred not to. I still meant anyway to have my say with Evie, whom I was determined not to let out of my sight. She was conversing with Meredith, and I heard the latter address her as ‘Y’all’ and she wasn’t even from the South! What an astounding woman Evie was.

It was near the bronze Sherlock Holmes, as she was trudging back to the hotel on her own, that I eventually caught up with her.

‘Evie,’ I said, panting slightly, ‘there you are.’

‘Ah, Gilbert. So tell me, what do you make of all this?’

‘Frankly, I still can’t believe it’s happened. What about you?’

‘Likewise. In fact, I was just returning to my room to think it through. Perhaps we could meet up later in the bar. At cocktail hour.’

‘Of course, of course. It’s just …’

‘What?’

‘Just that I wanted to ask you a question.’

‘Fire away.’

‘In the Kunsthalle,’ I said, trying to sound offhand, ‘when you were interviewed by Schumacher …’

‘Yes?’

‘You told him you’d spent most of the morning looking for a newspaper.’

‘That’s right. I did.’

‘Um, what was its name again?’

‘Its name?’

‘The newspaper’s name.’

‘The Daily Sentinel. Why?’

‘The Daily Sentinel. I see. And you finally did find it at the railway station?’

‘Yes, I did. What is this all about, Gilbert?’

‘Evie,’ I said as composedly as I could, ‘I’ve never heard of a newspaper called the Daily Sentinel. A real newspaper, that is.’

She contemplated me for a moment or two.

‘What daily newspaper do you read?’

‘Why,’ I replied, caught off-guard, ‘the Guardian.’

‘Well, there you are. I never heard of that either.’

‘You’ve never heard of the Guardian?!’

‘The Guardian? Guardian of what, I wonder.’

‘It’s a world-famous newspaper!’

‘If you say so, Gilbert, if you say so,’ she answered with an exasperating smirk.

‘Tell me,’ I ventured, now less and less willing to humour her, ‘I suppose you also take a regular Sunday paper?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Which one?’