The judge said:
"We are now assured of one thing. There are no lethal weapons or drugs in the possession of any of us five. That is one point to the good. We will now place the drugs in a safe place. There is, I think, a silver chest, is there not, in the pantry?"
Blore said:
"That's all very well, but who's to have the key? You, I suppose."
Mr. Justice Wargrave made no reply.
He went down to the pantry and the others followed him. There was a small case there designed for the purpose of holding silver and plate. By the judge's directions, the various drugs were placed in this and it was locked. Then, still on Wargrave's instructions, the chest was lifted into the plate cupboard and this in turn was locked. The judge then gave the key of the chest to Philip Lombard and the key of the cupboard to Blore.
He said:
"You two are the strongest physically. It would be difficult for either of you to get the key from the other. It would be impossible for any of us three to do so. To break open the cupboard - or the plate chest - would be a noisy and cumbrous proceeding and one which could hardly be carried out without attention being attracted to what was going on."
He paused, then went on:
"We are still faced by one very grave problem. What has become of Mr. Lombard's revolver?"
Blore said:
"Seems to me its owner is the most likely person to know that."
A white dint showed in Philip Lombard's nostrils. He said:
"You damned pig-headed fool! I tell you it's been stolen from me!"
Wargrave asked:
"When did you see it last?"
"Last night. It was in the drawer when I went to bed - ready in case anything happened."
The judge nodded.
He said:
"It must have been taken this morning during the confusion of searching for Rogers or after his dead body was discovered."
Vera said:
"It must be hidden somewhere about the house. We must look for it."
Mr. Justice Wargrave's finger was stroking his chin. He said:
"I doubt if our search will result in anything. Our murderer has had plenty of time to devise a hiding-place. I do not fancy we shall find that revolver easily."
Blore said forcefully:
"I don't know where the revolver is, but I'll bet I know where something else is - that hypodermic syringe. Follow me."
He opened the front door and led the way round the house.
A little distance away from the dining-room window he found the syringe. Beside it was a smashed china figure - a sixth broken Indian boy.
Blore said in a satisfied voice:
"Only place it could be. After he'd killed her, he opened the window and threw out the syringe and picked up the china figure from the table and followed on with that."
There were no prints on the syringe. It had been carefully wiped.
Vera said in a determined voice:
"Now let us look for the revolver."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"By all means. But in doing so let us be careful to keep together. Remember, if we separate, the murderer gets his chance."
They searched the house carefully from attic to cellars, but without result. The revolver was still missing.
Chapter 13
"One of us... One of us... One of us..."
Three words, endlessly repeated, dinning themselves hour after hour into receptive brains.
Five people - five frightened people. Five people who watched each other, who now hardly troubled to hide their state of nervous tension.
There was little pretence now - no formal veneer of conversation. They were five enemies linked together by a mutual instinct of self-preservation.
And all of them, suddenly, looked less like human beings. They were reverted to more bestial types. Like a wary old tortoise, Mr. Justice Wargrave sat hunched up, his body motionless, his eyes keen and alert. Ex-Inspector Blore looked coarser and clumsier in build. His walk was that of a slow padding animal. His eyes were bloodshot. There was a look of mingled ferocity and stupidity about him. He was like a beast at bay ready to charge its pursuers. Philip Lombard's senses seemed heightened, rather than diminished. His ears reacted to the slightest sound. His step was lighter and quicker, his body was lithe and graceful. And he smiled often, his lips curling back from his long white teeth.
Vera Claythorne was very quiet. She sat most of the time huddled in a chair. Her eyes stared ahead of her into space. She looked dazed. She was like a bird that has dashed its head against glass and that has been picked up by a human hand. It crouches there, terrified, unable to move, hoping to save itself by its immobility.
Armstrong was in a pitiable condition of nerves. He twitched and his hands shook. He lighted cigarette after cigarette and stubbed them out almost immediately. The forced inaction of their position seemed to gall him more than the others. Every now and then he broke out into a torrent of nervous speech.
"We - we shouldn't just sit here doing nothing! There must be something - surely, surely, there is something that we can do? If we lit a bonfire -"
Blore said heavily:
"In this weather?"
The rain was pouring down again. The wind came in fitful gusts. The depressing sound of the pattering rain nearly drove them mad.
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