“Such as?”
Captain Maitland stooped to a bundle which I had previously noticed him place by the side of his chair. He swung it on to the table with something of an effort.
“There’s something here that none of you know about,” he said. “We found it under her bed.”
He fumbled with the knot of the covering, then threw it back, revealing a heavy great quern or grinder.
That was nothing in itself—there were a dozen or so already found in the course of the excavations.
What riveted our attention on this particular specimen was a dull, dark stain and a fragment of something that looked like hair.
“That’ll be your job, Reilly,” said Captain Maitland. “But I shouldn’t say that there’s much doubt about this being the instrument with which Mrs. Leidner was killed!”
Twenty-six
NEXT IT WILL BE ME!
It was rather horrible. Dr. Leidner looked as though he were going to faint and I felt a bit sick myself.
Dr. Reilly examined it with professional gusto.
“No fingerprints, I presume?” he threw out.
“No fingerprints.”
Dr. Reilly took out a pair of forceps and investigated delicately.
“H
’m—a fragment of human tissue—and hair—fair blonde hair. That’s the unofficial verdict. Of course, I’ll have to make a proper test, blood group, etc., but there’s not much doubt. Found under Miss Johnson’s bed? Well, well—so that’s the big idea. She did the murder, and then, God rest her, remorse came to her and she finished herself off. It’s a theory—a pretty theory.”
Dr. Leidner could only shake his head helplessly.
“Not Anne—not Anne,” he murmured.
“I don’t know where she hid this to begin with,” said Captain Maitland. “Every room was searched after the first crime.”
Something jumped into my mind and I thought, “In the stationery cupboard,” but I didn’t say anything.
“Wherever it was, she became dissatisfied with its hiding place and took it into her own room, which had been searched with all the rest. Or perhaps she did that after making up her mind to commit suicide.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said aloud.
And I couldn’t somehow believe that kind nice Miss Johnson had battered out Mrs. Leidner’s brains. I just couldn’t see it happening! And yet it did fit in with some things—her fit of weeping that night, for instance. After all, I’d said “remorse” myself—only I’d never thought it was remorse for anything but the smaller, more insignificant crime.
“I don’t know what to believe,” said Captain Maitland. “There’s the French Father’s disappearance to be cleared up too. My men are out hunting around in case he’s been knocked on the head and his body rolled into a convenient irrigation ditch.”
“Oh! I remember now—” I began.
Everyone looked towards me inquiringly.
“It was yesterday afternoon,” I said. “He’d been cross-questioning me about the man with a squint who was looking in at the window that day. He asked me just where he’d stood on the path and then he said he was going out to have a look round. He said in detective stories the criminal always dropped a convenient clue.”
“Damned if any of my criminals ever do,” said Captain Maitland. “So that’s what he was after, was it? By Jove, I wonder if he did find anything. A bit of a coincidence if both he and Miss Johnson discovered a clue to the identity of the murderer at practically the same time.”
He added irritably, “Man with a squint? Man with a squint? There’s more in this tale of that fellow with a squint than meets the eye. I don’t know why the devil my fellows can’t lay hold of him!”
“Probably because he hasn’t got a squint,” said Poirot quietly.