Murder in Mesopotamia: A Hercule Poirot Mystery Read online

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?”

  “I will.”

  Dr. Leidner made a gesture of thanks.

  “Even now,” he said slowly, “I can’t realize it—that Louise is really dead.”

  I could bear it no longer.

  “Oh! Doctor Leidner,” I burst out, “I—I can’t tell you how badly I feel about this. I’ve failed so badly in my duty. It was my job to watch over Mrs. Leidner—to keep her from harm.”

  Dr. Leidner shook his head gravely.

  “No, no, nurse, you’ve nothing to reproach yourself with,” he said slowly. “It’s I, God forgive me, who am to blame . . . I didn’t believe—all along I didn’t believe . . . I didn’t dream for one moment that there was any real danger. . . .”

  He got up. His face twitched.

  “I let her go to her death . . . Yes, I let her go to her death—not believing—”

  He staggered out of the room.

  Dr. Reilly looked at me.

  “I feel pretty culpable too,” he said. “I thought the good lady was playing on his nerves.”

  “I didn’t take it really seriously either,” I confessed.

  “We were all three wrong,” said Dr. Reilly gravely.

  “So it seems,” said Captain Maitland.

  Thirteen

  HERCULE POIROT ARRIVES

  I don’t think I shall ever forget my first sight of Hercule Poirot. Of course, I got used to him later on, but to begin with it was a shock, and I think everyone else must have felt the same!

  I don’t know what I’d imagined—something rather like Sherlock Holmes—long and lean with a keen, clever face. Of course, I knew he was a foreigner, but I hadn’t expected him to be quite as foreign as he was, if you know what I mean.

  When you saw him you just wanted to laugh! He was like something on the stage or at the pictures. To begin with, he wasn’t above five-foot five, I should think—an odd, plump little man, quite old, with an enormous moustache, and a head like an egg. He looked like a hairdresser in a comic play!

  And this was the man who was going to find out who killed Mrs. Leidner!

  I suppose something of my disgust must have shown in my face, for almost straightaway he said to me with a queer kind of twinkle:

  “You disapprove of me, ma soeur? Remember, the pudding proves itself only when you eat it.”

  The proof of the pudding’s in the eating, I suppose he meant.

  Well, that’s a true enough saying, but I couldn’t say I felt much confidence myself!

  Dr. Reilly brought him out in his car soon after lunch on Sunday, and his first procedure was to ask us all to assemble together.

  We did so in the dining room, all sitting round the table. Mr. Poirot sat at the head of it with Dr. Leidner one side and Dr. Reilly the other.

  When we were all assembled, Dr. Leidner cleared his throat and spoke in his gentle, hesitating voice.

  “I dare say you have all heard of M. Hercule Poirot. He was passing through Hassanieh today, and has very kindly agreed to break his journey to help us. The Iraqi police and Captain Maitland are, I am sure, doing their very best, but—but there are circumstances in the case”—he floundered and shot an appealing glance at Dr. Reilly—“there may, it seems, be difficulties. . . .”

  “It is not all the square and overboard—no?” said the little man at the top of the table. Why, he couldn’t even speak English properly!

  “Oho, he must be caught!” cried Mrs. Mercado. “It would be unbearable if he got away!”

  I noticed the little foreigner’s eyes rest on her appraisingly.

  “He? Who is he, madame?” he asked.

  “Why, the murderer, of course.”

  “Ah! the murderer,” said Hercule Poirot.

  He spoke as though the murderer was of no consequence at all!

  We all stared at him. He looked from one face to another.

  “It is likely, I think,” he said, “that you have none of you been brought in contact with a case of murder before?”

  There was a general murmur of assent.

  Hercule Poirot smiled.

  “It is clear, therefore, that you do not understand the A B C of the position. There are unpleasantnesses! Yes, there are a lot of unpleasantnesses. To begin with, there is suspicion.”

  “Suspicion?”

  It was Miss Johnson who spoke. Mr. Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. I had an idea that he regarded her with approval. He looked as though he were thinking: “Here is a sensible, intelligent person!”

  “Yes, mademoiselle,” he said. “Suspicion! Let us not make the bones about it. You are all under suspicion here in this house. The cook, the house-boy, the scullion, the potboy—yes, and all the members of the expedition too.”

  Mrs. Mercado started up, her face working.

  “How dare you? How dare you say such a thing? This is odious—unbearable! Dr. Leidner—you can’t sit here and let this man—let this man—”

  Dr. Leidner said wearily: “Please try and be calm, Marie.”

  Mr. Mercado stood up too. His hands were shaking and his eyes were bloodshot.

  “I agree. It is an outrage—an insult—”

  “No, no,” said Mr. Poirot. “I do not insult you. I merely ask you all to face facts. In a house where murder has been committed, every inmate comes in for a certain share of suspicion. I ask you what evidence is there that the murderer came from outside at all?”

  Mrs. Mercado cried: “But of course he did! It stands to reason! Why—” She stopped and said more slowly, “Anything else would be incredible!”

  “You are doubtless correct, madame,” said Poirot with a bow. “I explain to you only how the matter must be approached. First I assure myself of the fact that everyone in this room is innocent. After that I seek the murderer elsewhere.”

  “Is it not possible that that may be a little late in the day?” asked Father Lavigny suavely.

  “The tortoise, mon père, overtook the hare.”

  Father Lavigny shrugged his shoulders.

  “We are in your hands,” he said resignedly. “Convince yourself as soon as may be of our innocence in this terrible business.”

  “As rapidly as possible. It was my duty to make the position clear to you, so that you may not resent the impertinence of any questions I may have to ask. Perhaps, mon pe“re, the Church will set an example?”

  “Ask any questions you please of me,” said Father Lavigny gravely.

  “This is your first season out here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you arrived—when?”

  “Three weeks ago almost to a day. That is, on the 27th of February.”

  “Coming from?”

  “The Order of the Pères Blancs at Carthage.”

  “Thank you, mon père. Were you at any time acquainted with Mrs. Leidner before coming here?”

  “No, I had never seen the lady until I met her here.”

  “Will you tell me what you were doing at the time of the tragedy?”<
br />
  “I was working on some cuneiform tablets in my own room.”

  I noticed that Poirot had at his elbow a rough plan of the building.

  “That is the room at the southwest corner corresponding to that of Mrs. Leidner on the opposite side?”

  “Yes.”

  “At what time did you go to your room?”

  “Immediately after lunch. I should say at about twenty minutes to one.”

  “And you remained there until—when?”

  “Just before three o’clock. I had heard the station wagon come back—and then I heard it drive off again. I wondered why, and came out to see.”

  “During the time that you were there did you leave the room at all?”

  “No, not once.”

  “And you heard or saw nothing that might have any bearing on the tragedy?”

  “No.”

  “You have no window giving on the courtyard in your room?”

  “No, both the windows give on the countryside.”

  “Could you hear at all what was happening in the courtyard?”

  “Not very much. I heard Mr. Emmott passing my room and going up to the roof. He did so once or twice.”

  “Can you remember at what time?”

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t. I was engrossed in my work, you see.”

  There was a pause and then Poirot said:

  “Can you say or suggest anything at all that might throw light on this business? Did you, for instance, notice anything in the days preceding the murder?”

  Father Lavigny looked slightly uncomfortable.

  He shot a half-questioning look at Dr. Leidner.

  “That is rather a difficult question, monsieur,” he said gravely. “If you ask me I must reply frankly that in my opinion Mrs. Leidner was clearly in dread of someone or something. She was definitely nervous about strangers. I imagine she had a reason for this nervousness of hers—but I know nothing. She did not confide in me.”

  Poirot cleared his throat and consulted some notes that he held in his hand. “Two nights ago I understand there was a scare of burglary.”

  Father Lavigny replied in the affirmative and retailed his story of the light seen in the antika room and the subsequent futile search.

  “You believe, do you not, that some unauthorized person was on the premises at that time?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” said Father Lavigny frankly. “Nothing was taken or disturbed in any way. It might have been one of the houseboys—”

  “Or a member of the expedition?”

  “Or a member of the expedition. But in that case there would be no reason for the person not admitting the fact.”

  “But it might equally have been a stranger from outside?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Supposing a stranger had been on the premises, could he have concealed himself successfully during the following day and until the afternoon of the day following that?”

  He asked the question half of Father Lavigny and half of Dr. Leidner. Both men considered the question carefully.

  “I hardly think it would be possible,” said Dr. Leidner at last with some reluctance. “I don’t see where he could possibly conceal himself, do you, Father Lavigny?”

  “No—no—I don’t.”

  Both men seemed reluctant to put the suggestion aside.

  Poirot turned to Miss Johnson.

  “And you, mademoiselle? Do you consider such a hypothesis feasible?”

  After a moment’s thought Miss Johnson shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t. Where could anyone hide? The bedrooms are all in use and, in any case, are sparsely furnished. The darkroom, the drawing office and the laboratory were all in use the next day—so were all these rooms. There are no cupboards or corners. Perhaps, if the servants were in collusion—”

  “That is possible, but unlikely,” said Poirot.

  He turned once more to Father Lavigny.

  “There is another point. The other day Nurse Leatheran here noticed you talking to a man outside. She had previously noticed that same man trying to peer in at one of the windows on the outside. It rather looks as though the man were hanging round the place deliberately.”

  “That is possible, of course,” said Father Lavigny thoughtfully.

  “Did you speak to this man first, or did he speak to you?”

  Father Lavigny considered for a moment or two.

  “I believe—yes, I am sure, that he spoke to me.”

  “What did he say?”

  Father Lavigny made an effort of memory.

  “He said, I think, something to the effect was this the American expedition house? And then something else about the Americans employing a lot of men on the work. I did not really understand him very well, but I endeavoured to keep up a conversation so as to improve my Arabic. I thought, perhaps, that being a townee he would understand me better than the men on the dig do.”

  “Did you converse about anything else?”

  “As far as I remember, I said Hassanieh was a big town—and we then agreed that Baghdad was bigger—and I think he asked whether I was an Armenian or a Syrian Catholic—something of that kind.”

  Poirot nodded.

  “Can you describe him?”

  Again Father Lavigny frowned in thought.

  “He was rather a short man,” he said at last, “and squarely built. He had a very noticeable squint and was of fair complexion.”

  Mr. Poirot turned to me.

  “Does that agree with the way you would describe him?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” I said hesitatingly. “I should have said he was tall rather than short, and very dark-complexioned. He seemed to me of a rather slender build. I didn’t notice any squint.”

  Mr. Poirot gave a despairing shrug of the shoulders.

  “It is always so! If you were of the police how well you would know it! The description of the same man by two different people—never does it agree. Every detail is contradicted.”

  “I’m fairly sure about the squint,” said Father Lavigny. “Nurse Leatheran may be right about the other points. By the way, when I said fair, I only meant fair for an Iraqi. I expect nurse would call that dark.”

  “Very dark,” I said obstinately. “A dirty dark-yellow colour.”

  I saw Dr. Reilly bite his lips and smile.

  Poirot threw up his hands.

  “Passons!” he said. “This stranger hanging about, he may be important—he may not. At any rate he must be found. Let us continue our inquiry.”

  He hesitated for a minute, studying the faces turned towards him round the table, then, with a quick nod, he singled out Mr. Reiter.

  “Come, my friend,” he said. “Let us have your account of yesterday afternoon.”

  Mr. Reiter’s pink, plump face flushed scarlet.

  “Me?” he said.

  “Yes, you. To begin with, your name and your age?”

  “Carl Reiter, twenty-eight.”

  “American—yes?”

  “Yes, I come from Chicago.”

  “This is your first season?”

  “Yes. I’m in charge of the photography.”

  “Ah, yes. And yesterday afternoon, how did you employ yourself?”

  “Well—I was in the darkroom most of the time.”

  “Most of the time—eh?”

  “Yes. I developed some plates first. Afterwards I was fixing up some objects to photograph.”

  “Outside?”

  “Oh no, in the photographic room.”

  “The darkroom opens out of the photographic room?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so you never came outside the photographic room?”

  “No.”

  “Did you notice anything that went on in the courtyard?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “I wasn’t noticing anything,” he explained. “I was busy. I heard the car come back, and as soon as I could leave what I was doing I came out to s
ee if there was any mail. It was then that I—heard.”

  “And you began to work in the photographic room—when?”

  “At ten minutes to one.”

  “Were you acquainted with Mrs. Leidner before you joined this expedition?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “No, sir. I never saw her till I actually got here.”

  “Can you think of anything—any incident—however small—that might help us?”

  Carl Reiter shook his head.

  He said helplessly: “I guess I don’t know anything at all, sir.”

  “Mr. Emmott?”

  David Emmott spoke clearly and concisely in his pleasant soft American voice.

  “I was working with the pottery from a quarter to one till a quarter to three—overseeing the boy Abdullah, sorting it, and occasionally going up to the roof to help Dr. Leidner.”

  “How often did you go up to the roof?”

  “Four times, I think.”

  “For how long?”

  “Usually a couple of minutes—not more. But on one occasion after I’d been working a little over half an hour I stayed as long as ten minutes—discussing what to keep and what to fling away.”

  “And I understand that when you came down you found the boy had left his place?”

  “Yes. I called him angrily and he reappeared from outside the archway. He had gone out to gossip with the others.”

  “That settles the only time he left his work?”

  “Well, I sent him up once or twice to the roof with pottery.”

  Poirot said gravely: “It is hardly necessary to ask you, Mr. Emmott, whether you saw anyone enter or leave Mrs. Leidner’s room during that time?”

  Mr. Emmott replied promptly.

  “I saw no one at all. Nobody even came out into the courtyard during the two hours I was working.”

  “And to the best of your belief it was half past one when both you and the boy were absent and the courtyard was empty?”

  “It couldn’t have been far off that time. Of course, I can’t say exactly.”

  Poirot turned to Dr. Reilly.

  “That agrees with your estimate of the time of death, doctor?”

  “It does,” said Dr. Reilly.

  Mr. Poirot stroked his great curled moustaches.

  “I think we can take it,” he said gravely, “that Mrs. Leidner met her death during that ten minutes.”