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

“Oh, I see . . . No—no, dear Louise never told me anything—anything definite, that is. Of course, I could see she was terribly worried and nervous. And there were those strange occurrences—hands tapping on the windows and all that.”

“Fancies, I remember you said,” I put in, unable to keep silent.

I was glad to see that she looked momentarily disconcerted.

Once again I was conscious of Mr. Poirot’s amused eye glancing in my direction.

He summed up in a businesslike way.

“It comes to this, madame, you were washing your hair—you heard nothing and you saw nothing. Is there anything at all you can think of that would be a help to us in any way?”

Mrs. Mercado took no time to think.

“No, indeed there isn’t. It’s the deepest mystery! But I should say there is no doubt—no doubt at all that the murderer came from outside. Why, it stands to reason.”

Poirot turned to her husband.

“And you, monsieur, what have you to say?”

Mr. Mercado started nervously. He pulled at his beard in an aimless fashion.

“Must have been. Must have been,” he said. “Yet how could anyone wish to harm her? She was so gentle—so kind—” He shook his head. “Whoever killed her must have been a fiend—yes, a fiend!”

“And you yourself, monsieur, how did you pass yesterday afternoon?”

“I?” he stared vaguely.

“You were in the laboratory, Joseph,” his wife prompted him.

“Ah, yes, so I was—so I was. My usual tasks.”

“At what time did you go there?”

Again he looked helplessly and inquiringly at Mrs. Mercado.

“At ten minutes to one, Joseph.”

“Ah, yes, at ten minutes to one.”

“Did you come out in the courtyard at all?”

“No—I don’t think so.” He considered. “No, I am sure I didn’t.”

“When did you hear of the tragedy?”

“My wife came and told me. It was terrible—shocking. I could hardly believe it. Even now, I can hardly believe it is true.”

Suddenly he began to tremble.

“It is horrible—horrible. . . .”

Mrs. Mercado came quickly to his side.

“Yes, yes, Joseph, we feel that. But we mustn’t give way. It makes it so much more difficult for poor Dr. Leidner.”

I saw a spasm of pain pass across Dr. Leidner’s face, and I guessed that this emotional atmosphere was not easy for him. He gave a half glance at Poirot as though in appeal. Poirot responded quickly.

“Miss Johnson?” he said.