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

After a few minutes he asked quietly: “Are you getting anywhere, M. Poirot?”

Poirot said gravely: “Will you help me to get somewhere?”

“Why, naturally.”

Watching him closely, Poirot said: “The hub of the case is Mrs. Leidner. I want to know about Mrs. Leidner.”

David Emmott said slowly: “What do you mean by know about her?”

“I do not mean where she came from and what her maiden name was. I do not mean the shape of her face and the colour of her eyes. I mean her—herself.”

“You think that counts in the case?”

“I am quite sure of it.”

Emmott was silent for a moment or two, then he said: “Maybe you’re right.”

“And that is where you can help me. You can tell me what sort of a woman she was.”

“Can I? I’ve often wondered about it myself.”

“Didn’t you make up your mind on the subject?”

“I think I did in the end.”

“Eh bien?”

But Mr. Emmott was silent for some minutes, then he said: “What did nurse think of her? Women are said to sum up other women quickly enough, and a nurse has a wide experience of types.”

Poirot didn’t give me any chance of speaking even if I had wanted to. He said quickly: “What I want to know is what a man thought of her?”

Emmott smiled a little.

“I expect they’d all be much the same.” He paused and said, “She wasn’t young, but I think she was about the most beautiful woman I’ve ever come across.”

“That’s hardly an answer, Mr. Emmott.”

“It’s not so far off one, M. Poirot.”

He was silent a minute or two and then he went on: “There used to be a fairy story I read when I was a kid. A Northern fairy tale about the Snow Queen and Little Kay. I guess Mrs. Leidner was rather like that—always taking Little Kay for a ride.”

“Ah yes, a tale of Hans Andersen, is it not? And there was a girl in it. Little Gerda, was that her name?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember much of it.”

“Can’t you go a little further, Mr. Emmott?”

David Emmott shook his head.

“I don’t even know if I’ve summed her up correctly. She wasn’t easy to read. She’d do a devilish thing one day, and a really fine one the next. But I think you’re about right when you say that she’s the hub of the case. That’s what she always wanted to be—at the centre of things. And she liked to get at other people—I mean, she wasn’t just satisfied with being passed the toast and the peanut butter, she wanted you to turn your mind and soul inside out for her to look at it.”

“And if one did not give her that satisfaction?” asked Poirot.

“Then she could turn ugly!”

I saw his lips close resolutely and his jaw set.

“I suppose, Mr. Emmott, you would not care to express a plain unofficial opinion as to who murdered her?”