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

It must, I suppose, have been about a minute and a half later that he came out again. I happened to be looking at the door when he did so. It was like a nightmare. He had gone in a brisk, cheerful man. He came out like a drunken one—reeling a little on his feet, and with a queer dazed expression on his face.

“Nurse—” he called in a queer, hoarse voice. “Nurse—”

I saw at once something was wrong and I ran across to him. He looked awful—his face was all grey and twitching, and I saw he might collapse any minute.

“My wife . . .” he said. “My wife . . . Oh, my God. . . .”

I pushed past him into the room. Then I caught my breath.

Mrs. Leidner was lying in a dreadful huddled heap by the bed.

I bent over her. She was quite dead—must have been dead an hour at least. The cause of death was perfectly plain—a terrific blow on the front of the head just over the right temple. She must have got up from the bed and been struck down where she stood.

I didn’t handle her more than I could help.

I glanced round the room to see if there was anything that might give a clue, but nothing seemed out of place or disturbed. The windows were closed and fastened, and there was no place where the murderer could have hidden. Obviously he had been and gone long ago.

I went out, closing the door behind me.

Dr. Leidner had collapsed completely now. David Emmott was with him and turned a white, inquiring face to me.

In a few low words I told him what had happened.

As I had always suspected, he was a first-class person to rely on in trouble. He was perfectly calm and self-possessed. Those blue eyes of his opened very wide, but otherwise he gave no sign at all.

He considered for a moment and then said: “I suppose we must notify the police as soon as possible. Bill ought to be back any minute. What shall we do with Leidner?”

“Help me to get him into his room.”

He nodded.

“Better lock this door first, I suppose,” he said.

He turned the key in the lock of Mrs. Leidner’s door, then drew it out and handed it to me.

“I guess you’d better keep this, nurse. Now then.”

Together we lifted Dr. Leidner and carried him into his own room and laid him on his bed. Mr. Emmott went off in search of brandy. He returned, accompanied by Miss Johnson.

Her face was drawn and anxious, but she was calm and capable, and I felt satisfied to leave Dr. Leidner in her charge.

I hurried out into the courtyard. The station wagon was just coming in through the archway. I think it gave us all a shock to see Bill’s pink, cheerful face as he jumped out with his familiar “Hallo, ’llo, ’llo! Here’s the oof!” He went on gaily, “No highway robberies—”

He came to a halt suddenly. “I say, is anything up? What’s the matter with you all? You look as though the cat had killed your canary.”

Mr. Emmott said shortly: “Mrs. Leidner’s dead—killed.”

“What?” Bill’s jolly face changed ludicrously. He stared, his eyes goggling. “Mother Leidner dead! You’re pulling my leg.”

“Dead?” It was a sharp cry. I turned to see Mrs. Mercado behind me. “Did you say Mrs. Leidner had been killed?”

“Yes,” I said. “Murdered.”

“No!” she gasped. “Oh, no! I won’t believe it. Perhaps she’s committed suicide.”

“Suicides don’t hit themselves on the head,” I said dryly. “It’s murder all right, Mrs. Mercado.”

She sat down suddenly on an upturned packing-case.