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

“The police must see this,” he explained.

“It’s horrible,” said Miss Johnson in a low voice. “Horrible!”

“Do you think everything’s hidden here somewhere?” cried Mrs. Mercado shrilly. “Do you think perhaps the weapon—the club she was killed with—all covered with blood still, perhaps . . . Oh! I’m frightened—I’m frightened. . . .”

Miss Johnson gripped her by the shoulder.

“Be quiet,” she said fiercely. “Here’s Dr. Leidner. We mustn’t upset him.”

Indeed, at that very moment the car had driven into the courtyard. Dr. Leidner got out of it and came straight across and in at the living-room door. His face was set in lines of fatigue and he looked twice the age he had three days ago.

He said in a quiet voice: “The funeral will be at eleven o’clock tomorrow. Major Deane will read the service.”

Mrs. Mercado faltered something, then slipped out of the room.

Dr. Leidner said to Miss Johnson: “You’ll come, Anne?”

And she answered: “Of course, my dear, we’ll all come. Naturally.”

She didn’t say anything else, but her face must have expressed what her tongue was powerless to do, for his face lightened up with affection and a momentary ease.

“Dear Anne,” he said. “You are such a wonderful comfort and help to me. My dear old friend.”

He laid his hand on her arm and I saw the red colour creep up in her face as she muttered, gruff as ever: “That’s all right.”

But I just caught a glimpse of her expression and knew that, for one short moment, Anne Johnson was a perfectly happy woman.

And another idea flashed across my mind. Perhaps soon, in the natural course of things, turning to his old friend for sympathy, a new and happy state of things might come about.

Not that I’m really a matchmaker, and of course it was indecent to think of such a thing before the funeral even. But after all, it would be a happy solution. He was very fond of her, and there was no doubt she was absolutely devoted to him and would be perfectly happy devoting the rest of her life to him. That is, if she could bear to hear Louise’s perfections sung all the time. But women can put up with a lot when they’ve got what they want.

Dr. Leidner then greeted Poirot, asking him if he had made any progress.

Miss Johnson was standing behind Dr. Leidner and she looked hard at the box in Poirot’s hand and shook her head, and I realized that she was pleading with Poirot not to tell him about the mask. She felt, I was sure, that he had enough to bear for one day.

Poirot fell in with her wish.

“These things march slowly, monsieur,” he said.

Then, after a few desultory words, he took his leave.

I accompanied him out to his car.

There were half a dozen things I wanted to ask him, but somehow, when he turned and looked at me, I didn’t ask anything after all. I’d as soon have asked a surgeon if he thought he’d made a good job of an operation. I just stood meekly waiting for instructions.

Rather to my surprise he said: “Take care of yourself, my child.”

And then he added: “I wonder if it is well for you to remain here?”

“I must speak to Dr. Leidner about leaving,” I said. “But I thought I’d wait until after the funeral.”

He nodded in approval.

“In the meantime,” he said, “do not try to find out too much. You understand, I do not want you to be clever!” And he added with a smile, “It is for you to hold the swabs and for me to do the operation.”

Wasn’t it funny, his actually saying that?

Then he said quite irrelevantly: “An interesting man, that Father Lavigny.”