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

The room looked bare and forlorn emptied of all its accoutrements, when I’d finished. There was nothing more for me to do—and yet somehow or other I shrank from leaving the room. It seemed as though there was something still to do there—something I ought to see—or something I ought to have known. I’m not superstitious, but the idea did pop into my head that perhaps Mrs. Leidner’s spirit was hanging about the room and trying to get in touch with me.

I remember once at the hospital some of us girls got a planchette and really it wrote some very remarkable things.

Perhaps, although I’d never thought of such a thing, I might be mediumistic.

As I say, one gets all worked up to imagine all sorts of foolishness sometimes.

I prowled round the room uneasily, touching this and that. But, of course, there wasn’t anything in the room but bare furniture. There was nothing slipped behind drawers or tucked away. I couldn’t hope for anything of that kind.

In the end (it sounds rather batty, but as I say, one gets worked up) I did rather a queer thing.

I went and lay down in the bed and closed my eyes.

I deliberately tried to forget who and what I was. I tried to think myself back to that fatal afternoon. I was Mrs. Leidner lying here resting, peaceful and unsuspicious.

It’s extraordinary how you can work yourself up.

I’m a perfectly normal matter-of-fact individual—not the least bit spooky, but I tell you that after I’d lain there about five minutes I began to feel spooky.

I didn’t try to resist. I deliberately encouraged the feeling.

I said to myself: “I’m Mrs. Leidner. I’m Mrs. Leidner. I’m ly

ing here—half asleep. Presently—very soon now—the door’s going to open.”

I kept on saying that—as though I were hypnotizing myself.

“It’s just about half past one . . . it’s just about the time . . . The door is going to open . . . the door is going to open . . . I shall see who comes in. . . .”

I kept my eyes glued on that door. Presently it was going to open. I should see it open. And I should see the person who opened it.

I must have been a little overwrought that afternoon to imagine I could solve the mystery that way.

But I did believe it. A sort of chill passed down my back and settled in my legs. They felt numb—paralysed.

“You’re going into a trance,” I said. “And in that trance you’ll see . . .”

And once again I repeated monotonously again and again:

“The door is going to open—the door is going to open. . . .”

The cold numbed feeling grew more intense.

And then, slowly, I saw the door just beginning to open.

It was horrible.

I’ve never known anything so horrible before or since.

I was paralysed—chilled through and through. I couldn’t move. For the life of me I couldn’t have moved.

And I was terrified. Sick and blind and dumb with terror.

That slowly opening door.

So noiseless.

In a minute I should see. . . .