Десять негритят / And Then There Were None

«That leaves us with Blore and if you tell me that after shooting Lombard and inducing Vera Claythorne to hang herself he then went out and pulled down a whacking great block of marble on himself by tying a string to it or something like that – well, I simply don’t believe you. Men don’t commit suicide that way – and what’s more Blore wasn’t that kind of man. We knew Blore – and he was not the man that you’d ever accuse of a desire for abstract justice.»

The Assistant Commissioner said: I agree.

Inspector Maine said: «And therefore, sir, there must have been some one else on the island. Some one who tidied up when the whole business was over. But where was he all the time – and where did he go to? The Sticklehaven people are absolutely certain that no one could have left the island before the rescue boat got there. But in that case —» He stopped.

The Assistant Commissioner said: «In that case —»

He sighed. He shook his head. He leaned forward.

«But in that case,» he said, «who killed them?»

A MANUSCRIPT DOCUMENT SENT TO SCOTLAND YARD BY THE MASTER OF THE EMMA JANE, FISHING TRAWLER

From my earliest youth I realized that my nature was a mass of contradictions. I have to begin with, an incurably romantic imagination. The practice of throwing a bottle into the sea with an important document inside was one that never failed to thrill me when reading adventure stories as a child. It thrills me still – and for that reason I have adopted this course – writing my confession, enclosing it in a bottle, sealing the latter, and casting it into the waves. There is, I suppose, a hundred to one chance that my confession may be found – and then (or do I flatter myself!) a hitherto unsolved murder mystery will be explained.

I was born with other traits besides my romantic fancy. I have a definite sadistic delight in seeing or causing death. I remember experiments with wasps – with various garden pests… From an early age I knew very strongly the lust to kill.

But side by side with this went a contradictory trait – a strong sense of justice. It is abhorrent to me that an innocent person or creature should suffer or die by any act of mine. I have always felt strongly that right should prevail.

It may be understood – I think a psychologist would understand – that with my mental makeup being what it was, I adopted the law as a profession. The legal profession satisfied nearly all my instincts.

Crime and its punishment has always fascinated me. I enjoy reading every kind of detective story and thriller. I have devised for my own private amusement the most ingenious ways of carrying out a murder.

When in due course I came to preside over a court of law, that other secret instinct of mine was encouraged to develop. To see a wretched criminal squirming in the dock, suffering the tortures of the damned, as his doom came slowly and slowly nearer, was to me an exquisite pleasure. Mind you, I took no pleasure in seeing an innocent man there. On at least two occasions I stopped cases where to my mind the accused was palpably innocent, directing the jury that there was no case. Thanks, however, to the fairness and efficiency of our police force, the majority of the accused persons who have come before me to be tried for murder, have been guilty.

I will say here that such was the case with the man Edward Seton. His appearance and manner were misleading and he created a good impression on the jury. But not only the evidence, which was clear, though unspectacular, but my own knowledge of criminals told me without any doubt that the man had actually committed the crime with which he was charged, the brutal murder of an elderly woman who trusted him.

I have a reputation as a hanging judge, but that is unfair. I have always been strictly just and scrupulous in my summing up of a case.

All I have done is to protect the jury against the emotional effect of emotional appeals by some of our more emotional counsel. I have drawn their attention to the actual evidence.

For some years past I have been aware of a change within myself, a lessening of control – a desire to act instead of to judge.

I have wanted – let me admit it frankly – to commit a murder myself. I recognized this as the desire of the artist to express himself! I was, or could be, an artist in crime! My imagination, sternly checked by the exigencies of my profession, waxed secretly to colossal force.

I must – I must – I must – commit a murder! And what is more, it must be no ordinary murder! It must be a fantastical crime – something stupendous – out of the common! In that one respect, I have still, I think, an adolescent’s imagination.

I wanted something theatrical, impossible!

I wanted to kill… Yes, I wanted to kill…

But – incongruous as it may seem to some – 1 was restrained and hampered by my innate sense of justice. The innocent must not suffer.