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

“Very good. Well, during that ten minutes, the boy, seizing his chance to be idle, strolled out and joined the others outside the gate for a chat. When Emmott came down he found the boy absent and called him angrily, asking him what he meant leaving his work. As far as I can see, your wife must have been murdered during that ten minutes.”

With a groan Dr. Leidner sat down and hid his face in his hands.

Dr. Reilly took up the tale, his voice quiet and matter-of-

fact.

“T

he time fits in with my evidence,” he said. “She’d been dead about three hours when I examined her. The only question is—who did it?”

There was a silence. Dr. Leidner sat up in his chair and passed a hand over his forehead.

“I admit the force of your reasoning, Reilly,” he said quietly. “It certainly seems as though it were what people call ‘an inside job.’ But I feel convinced that somewhere or other there is a mistake. It’s plausible but there must be a flaw in it. To begin with, you are assuming that an amazing coincidence has occurred.”

“Odd that you should use that word,” said Dr. Reilly.

Without paying any attention Dr. Leidner went on: “My wife receives threatening letters. She has reason to fear a certain person. Then she is—killed. And you ask me to believe that she is killed—not by that person—but by someone entirely different! I say that that is ridiculous.”

“It seems so—yes,” said Reilly meditatively.

He looked at Captain Maitland. “Coincidence—eh? What do you say, Maitland? Are you in favour of the idea? Shall we put it up to Leidner?”

Captain Maitland gave a nod.

“Go ahead,” he said shortly.

“Have you ever heard of a man called Hercule Poirot Leidner?”

Dr. Leidner stared at him, puzzled.

“I think I have heard the name, yes,” he said vaguely. “I once heard a Mr. Van Aldin speak of him in very high terms. He is a private detective, is he not?”

“That’s the man.”

“But surely he lives in London, so how will that help us?”

“He lives in London, true,” said Dr. Reilly, “but this is where the coincidence comes in. He is now, not in London, but in Syria, and he will actually pass through Hassanieh on his way to Baghdad tomorrow!”

“Who told you this?”

“Jean Berat, the French consul. He dined with us last night and was talking about him. It seems he has been disentangling some military scandal in Syria. He’s coming through here to visit Baghdad, and afterwards returning through Syria to London. How’s that for a coincidence?”

Dr. Leidner hesitated a moment and looked apologetically at Captain Maitland.

“What do you think, Captain Maitland?”

“Should welcome cooperation,” said Captain Maitland promptly. “My fellows are good scouts at scouring the countryside and investigating Arab blood feuds, but frankly, Leidner, this business of your wife’s seems to me rather out of my class. The whole thing looks confoundedly fishy. I’m more than willing to have the fellow take a look at the case.”

“You suggest that I should appeal to this man Poirot to help us?” said Dr. Leidner. “And suppose he refuses?”

“He won’t refuse,” said Dr. Reilly.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m a professional man myself. If a really intricate case of, say, cerebrospinal meningitis comes my way and I’m invited to take a hand, I shouldn’t be able to refuse. This isn’t an ordinary crime, Leidner.”

“No,” said Dr. Leidner. His lips twitched with sudden pain. “Will you then, Reilly, approach this Hercule Poirot on my behalf?”