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

The doctor rose to the occasion.

He took the little man (he was a French archaeologist called Verrier who dug in the Greek islands, I heard later) aside and explained to him what had occurred.

Verrier was horrified. He himself had been staying at an Italian dig right away from c

ivilization for the last few days and had heard nothing.

He was profuse in condolences and apologies, finally striding over to Dr. Leidner and clasping him warmly by both hands.

“What a tragedy! My God, what a tragedy! I have no words. Mon pauvre collègue.”

And shaking his head in one last ineffectual effort to express his feelings, the little man climbed into his car and left us.

As I say, that momentary introduction of comic relief into tragedy seemed really more gruesome than anything else that had happened.

“The next thing,” said Dr. Reilly firmly, “is breakfast. Yes, I insist. Come, Leidner, you must eat.”

Poor Dr. Leidner was almost a complete wreck. He came with us to the dining room and there a funereal meal was served. I think the hot coffee and fried eggs did us all good, though no one actually felt they wanted to eat. Dr. Leidner drank some coffee and sat twiddling his bread. His face was grey, drawn with pain and bewilderment.

After breakfast, Captain Maitland got down to things.

I explained how I had woken up, heard a queer sound and had gone into Miss Johnson’s room.

“You say there was a glass on the floor?”

“Yes. She must have dropped it after drinking.”

“Was it broken?”

“No, it had fallen on the rug. (I’m afraid the acid’s ruined the rug, by the way.) I picked the glass up and put it back on the table.”

“I’m glad you’ve told us that. There are only two sets of fingerprints on it, and one set is certainly Miss Johnson’s own. The other must be yours.”

He was silent for a moment, then he said: “Please go on.”

I described carefully what I’d done and the methods I had tried, looking rather anxiously at Dr. Reilly for approval. He gave it with a nod.

“You tried everything that could possibly have done any good,” he said. And though I was pretty sure I had done so, it was a relief to have my belief confirmed.

“Did you know exactly what she had taken?” Captain Maitland asked.

“No—but I could see, of course, that it was a corrosive acid.”

Captain Maitland asked gravely: “Is it your opinion, nurse, that Miss Johnson deliberately administered this stuff to herself?”

“Oh, no,” I exclaimed. “I never thought of such a thing!”

I don’t know why I was so sure. Partly, I think, because of M. Poirot’s hints. His “murder is a habit” had impressed itself on my mind. And then one doesn’t readily believe that anyone’s going to commit suicide in such a terribly painful way.

I said as much and Captain Maitland nodded thoughtfully. “I agree that it isn’t what one would choose,” he said. “But if anyone were in great distress of mind and this stuff were easily obtainable it might be taken for that reason.”

“Was she in great distress of mind?” I asked doubtfully.

“Mrs. Mercado says so. She says that Miss Johnson was quite unlike herself at dinner last night—that she hardly replied to anything that was said to her. Mrs. Mercado is quite sure that Miss Johnson was in terrible distress over something and that the idea of making away with herself had already occurred to her.”

“Well, I don’t believe it for a moment,” I said bluntly.

Mrs. Mercado indeed! Nasty slinking little cat!