Murder in Mesopotamia: A Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot 14)

One

FRONTISPIECE

In the hall of the Tigris Palace Hotel in Baghdad a hospital nurse was finishing a letter. Her fountain pen drove briskly over the paper.

. . . Well, dear, I think that’s really all my news. I must say it’s been nice to see a bit of the world—though England for me every time, thank you. The dirt and the mess in Baghdad you wouldn’t believe—and not romantic at all like you’d think from the Arabian Nights! Of course, it’s pretty just on the river, but the town itself is just awful—and no proper shops at all. Major Kelsey took me through the bazaars, and of course there’s no denying they’re quaint—but just a lot of rubbish and hammering away at copper pans till they make your headache—and not what I’d like to use myself unless I was sure about the cleaning. You’ve got to be so careful of verdigris with copper pans.

I’ll write and let you know if anything comes of the job that Dr. Reilly spoke about. He said this American gentleman was in Baghdad now and might come and see me this afternoon. It’s for his wife—she has “fancies,” so Dr. Reilly said. He didn’t say any more than that, and of course, dear, one knows what that usually means (but I hope not actually D.T.s!). Of course, Dr. Reilly didn’t say anything—but he had a look—if you know what I mean. This Dr. Leidner is an archaeologist and is digging up a mound out in the desert somewhere for some American museum.

Well, dear, I will close now. I thought what you told me about little Stubbins was simply killing! Whatever did Matron say?

No more now.

Yours ever,

Amy Leatheran

Enclosing the letter in an envelope, she addressed it to Sister Curshaw, St. Christopher’s Hospital, London.

As she put the cap on her fountain pen, one of the native boys approached her.

“A gentleman come to see you. Dr. Leidner.”

Nurse Leatheran turned. She saw a man of middle height with slightly stooping shoulders, a brown beard and gentle, tired eyes.

Dr. Leidner saw a woman of thirty-five, of erect, confident bearing. He saw a good-humoured face with slightly prominent blue eyes and glossy brown hair. She looked, he thought, just what a hospital nurse for a nervous case ought to look. Cheerful, robust, shrewd and matter-of-fact.

Nurse Leatheran, he thought, would do.

Two

INTRODUCING AMY LEATHERAN

I don’t pretend to be an author or to know anything about writing. I’m doing this simply because Dr. Reilly asked me to, and somehow when Dr. Reilly asks you to do a thing you don’t like to refuse.

“Oh, but, doctor,” I said, “I’m not literary—not literary at all.”

“Nonsense!” he said. “Treat it as case notes, if you like.”

Well, of course, you can look at it that way.

Dr. Reilly went on. He said that an unvarnished plain account of the Tell Yarimjah business was badly needed.

“If one of the interested parties writes it, it won’t carry conviction. They’ll say it’s biased one way or another.”

And of course that was true, too. I was in it all and yet an outsider, so to speak.

“Why don’t you write it yourself, doctor?” I asked.

“I wasn’t on the spot—you were. Besides,” he added with a sigh, “my daughter won’t let me.”

The way he knuckles under to that chit of a girl of his is downright disgraceful. I had half a mind to say so, when I saw that his eyes were twinkling. That was the worst of Dr. Reilly. You never knew whether he was joking or not. He always said things in the same slow melancholy way—but half the time there was a twinkle underneath it.

“Well,” I said doubtfully, “I suppose I could.”

“Of course you could.”

“Only I don’t quite know how to set about it.”

“There’s a good precedent for that. Begin at the beginning, go on to the end and then leave off.”

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nbsp; “I don’t even know quite where and what the beginning was,” I said doubtfully.

“Believe me, nurse, the difficulty of beginning will be nothing to the difficulty of knowing how to stop. At least that’s the way it is with me when I have to make a speech. Someone’s got to catch hold of my coattails and pull me down by main force.”

“Oh, you’re joking, doctor.”

“It’s profoundly serious I am. Now what about it?”

Another thing was worrying me. After hesitating a moment or two I said: “You know, doctor, I’m afraid I might tend to be—well, a little personal sometimes.”

“God bless my soul, woman, the more personal you are the better! This is a story of human beings—not dummies! Be personal—be prejudiced—be catty—be anything you please! Write the thing your own way. We can always prune out the bits that are libellous afterwards! You go ahead. You’re a sensible woman, and you’ll give a sensible commonsense account of the business.”

So that was that, and I promised to do my best.

And here I am beginning, but as I said to the doctor, it’s difficult to know just where to start.