And Then There Was No One полностью

‘We’re all aware that Slavorigin’s life was under threat from some nitwitted survivalist sects whose members, even if we leave aside their hatred of everything he stood for, must have entertained the odd fantasy about how much comfier Armageddon would be if cushioned by a buried stash of a hundred million dollars. It’s evident that one of these loonies pursued Slavorigin here to Meiringen and shot him through the heart. A bow and arrow, after all, the survivalist’s favourite choice of weapon.’

‘Maybe, maybe. Except that your theory, which is all it is, begs a few questions.’

‘For instance?’

‘Well, one, how would such a loony, as you call him – or her – know that Gustav Slavorigin was due to make an appearance in Meiringen at all?’ I was about to parry that question with its logical answer when she held her splayed right hand up to my face, all but blotting out her own, to advise me of the fact that she had not yet completed what she wished to say. It was a tic I thought I had invented for her, but perhaps I had half-consciously recalled her behaving so at Carmen’s little supper. She continued:

‘Since he was the Festival’s Mystery Guest, after all, there was no indication of his identity in the programme. Then two, is it probable that a rabid rightwing fanatic from some one-horse burg in Texas or Kansas or Oklahoma, armed with a great big bow-and-arrow and probably even sporting a coonskin hat, could pass unremarked by any of us, including Slavorigin’s minders, in a town as small as Meiringen? Three, how did he – or, I repeat, she – succeed in luring Slavorigin unaccompanied into the Museum? And four, and last for now, who’s to say your so-called loony isn’t actually one of the Festival’s official guests?’

That final question threw me, being the only one I hadn’t expected. Yet, even if I was by no means convinced I could knock down all four of her objections one after the other, I decided to take up the challenge.

‘In the first place, Evie, Slavorigin’s presence here was one of those secrets that could never be held secret for long. This Festival of ours, you’d agree, is a pretty amateurish affair – also the very first of its kind – and the last too, I fancy, after such a hoohah – and you don’t suppose, no, let me continue, you’ve had your say, you don’t suppose that, when they all heard to their stupefaction, if I’m not mistaken, that Slavorigin had actually accepted their ludicrously quixotic invitation, all those sweet, bungling young people who hand me your gin-and-tonic and you my whisky-on-the-rocks, you really don’t suppose that, even if sworn to silence on pain of the rack, they would have been capable of keeping so enthralling a piece of news to themselves? A word here, a word there, and it would have been all over the blogosphere.

‘Two, rabid rightwingers they may be, but I really do think that these bounty-hunters – and what a bounty! – would be savvy enough to disguise themselves before setting off on the great crusade. In fact, considering the average American’s ignorance of how we Europeans live, like something out of an episode of The Simpsons, I would guess, the kind of stranger I’d tend to look at twice is one wearing a Tyrolean hat and lederhosen instead of one in a Davy Crockett cap and leather britches.

‘Three, we have absolutely no cause to assume that our murderer needed to “lure” Slavorigin at all. We’ve all had to pay a dutiful visit to the Museum, but he arrived too late to join us. What could be more natural than for him to take a solitary stroll there, a matter of a few hundred yards from the Hilton, and also to be surreptitiously tailed?’ It was now my turn to ward off an impending interruption with a raised hand. ‘Yes, yes, I know what you’re going to say. His bodyguards. Thomson and Thompson, as I call them. Why didn’t they insist on accompanying him? That is queer. Except that Slavorigin is, was, a spoilt brat, accustomed to getting his way in everything, and I wouldn’t put it past him to have wanted to shake off his twin shadows for a blissful half-hour or so on his own. After all, he must have said to himself, what could possibly happen to him in a sleepy hamlet like Meiringen?

‘As for your hunch – which is all it is, if I may take the liberty of quoting you – that one of the Festival’s guests could have been responsible, the problem as I see it is crucially one of motive. The motive of, let’s say, an ideological murderer positively screams out at us whereas, as far as our co-festivaliers are concerned, I have to admit to not having heard so much as a whisper.

‘Finally, let me raise an issue that you appear to have overlooked.’

‘Oh yes?’ she said, ever ready to bristle at the faintest hint of criticism.

‘What’s today’s date?’

‘The twelfth of September.’

‘Right. Which means that yesterday was the eleventh.’

‘I’m quite aware of that, Gilbert. How could I not be after all that’s happened here?’