As we talked I noticed that Poirot was rolling and kneading a little ball of plasticine between his fingers.
“You use a lot of plasticine, mademoiselle?” he asked.
“A fair amount. We seem to have got through a lot already this year—though I can’t imagine how. But half our supply seems to have gone.”
“Where is it kept, mademoiselle?”
“Here—in this cupboard.”
As she replaced the sheet of impressions she showed him the shelf with rolls of plasticine, Durofix, photographic paste and other stationery supplies.
Poirot stooped down.
“And this—what is this, mademoiselle?”
He had slipped his hand right to the back and had brought out a curious crumpled object.
As he straightened it out we could see that it was a kind of mask, with eyes and mouth crudely painted on it in Indian ink and the whole thing roughly smeared with plasticine.
“How perfectly extraordinary!” cried Miss Johnson. “I’ve never seen it before. How did it get there? And what is it?”
“As to how it got there, well, one hiding-place is as good as another, and I presume that this cupboard would not have been turned out till the end of the season. As to what it is—that, too, I think, is not difficult to say. We have here the face that Mrs. Leidner described. The ghostly face seen in the semi-dusk outside her window—without body attached.”
Mrs. Mercado gave a little shriek.
Miss Johnson was white to the lips. She murmured: “Then it was not fancy. It was a trick—a wicked trick! But who played it?”
“Yes,” cried Mrs. Mercado. “Who could have done such a wicked, wicked thing?”
Poirot did not attempt a reply. His face was very grim as he went into the next room, returned with an empty cardboard box in his hand and put the crumpled mask into it.
“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.”
“A monk being an archaeologist seems odd to me,” I said.
“Ah, yes, you are a Protestant. Me, I am a good Catholic. I know something of priests and monks.”
He frowned, seemed to hesitate, then said: “Remember, he is quite clever enough to turn you inside out if he likes.”
If he was warning me against gossiping I felt that I didn’t need any warning!
It annoyed me, and though I didn’t like to ask him any of the things I really wanted to know, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t at any rate say one thing.
“You’ll excuse me, M. Poirot,” I said. “But it’s ‘stubbed your toe,’ not stepped or stebbed.”
“Ah! Thank you, ma soeur.”
“Don’t mention it. But it’s just as well to get a phrase right.”
“I will remember,” he said—quite meekly for him.
And he got in the car and was driven away, and I went slowly back across the courtyard wondering about a lot of things.
About the hypodermic marks on Mr. Mercado’s arm, and what drug it was he took. And about that horrid yellow smeared mask. And how odd it was that Poirot and Miss Johnson hadn’t heard my cry in the living room that morning, whereas we had all heard Poirot perfectly well in the dining room at lunch-time—and yet Father Lavigny’s room and Mrs. Leidner’s were just the same distance from the living room and the dining room respectively.
And then I felt rather pleased that I’d taught Doctor Poirot one English phrase correctly!
Even if he was a great detective he’d realize he didn’t know everything!
Twenty-three
I GO PSYCHIC
The funeral was, I thought, a very affecting affair. As well as ourselves, all the English people in Hassanieh attended it. Even Sheila Reilly was there, looking quiet and subdued in a dark coat and skirt. I hoped that she was feeling a little remorseful for all the unkind things she had said.
When we got back to the house I followed Dr. Leidner into the office and broached the subject of my departure. He was very nice about it, thanked me for what I had done (Done! I had been worse than useless) and insisted on my accepting an extra week’s salary.
I protested because really I felt I’d done nothing to earn it.
“Indeed, Dr. Leidner, I’d rather not have any salary at all. If you’ll just refund me my travelling expenses, that’s all I want.”
But he wouldn’t hear of that.
“You see,�
�� I said, “I don’t feel I deserve it, Dr. Leidner. I mean, I’ve—well, I’ve failed. She—my coming didn’t save her.”
“Now don’t get that idea into your head, nurse,” he said earnestly. “After all, I didn’t engage you as a female detective. I never dreamt my wife’s life was in danger. I was convinced it was all nerves and that she’d worked herself up into a rather curious mental state. You did all anyone could do. She liked and trusted you. And I think in her last days she felt happier and safer because of your being here. There’s nothing for you to reproach yourself with.”
His voice quivered a little and I knew what he was thinking. He was the one to blame for not having taken Mrs. Leidner’s fears seriously.
“Dr. Leidner,” I said curiously. “Have you ever come to any conclusion about those anonymous letters?”
He said with a sigh: “I don’t know what to believe. Has M. Poirot come to any definite conclusion?”
“He hadn’t yesterday,” I said, steering rather neatly, I thought, between truth and fiction. After all, he hadn’t until I told him about Miss Johnson.
It was on my mind that I’d like to give Dr. Leidner a hint and see if he reacted. In the pleasure of seeing him and Miss Johnson together the day before, and his affection and reliance on her, I’d forgotten all about the letters. Even now I felt it was perhaps rather mean of me to bring it up. Even if she had written them, she had had a bad time after Mrs. Leidner’s death. Yet I did want to see whether that particular possibility had ever entered Dr. Leidner’s head.
“Anonymous letters are usually the work of a woman,” I said. I wanted to see how he’d take it.
“I suppose they are,” he said with a sigh. “But you seem to forget, nurse, that these may be genuine. They may actually be written by Frederick Bosner.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten,” I said. “But I can’t believe somehow that that’s the real explanation.”
“I do,” he said. “It’s all nonsense, his being one of the expedition staff. That is just an ingenious theory of M. Poirot’s. I believe that the truth is much simpler. The man is a madman, of course. He’s been hanging round the place—perhaps in disguise of some kind. And somehow or other he got in on that fatal afternoon. The servants may be lying—they may have been bribed.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” I said doubtfully.
Dr. Leidner went on with a trace of irritability.
“It is all very well for M. Poirot to suspect the members of my expedition. I am perfectly certain none of them have anything to do with it! I have worked with them. I know them!”
He stopped suddenly, then he said: “Is that your experience, nurse? That anonymous letters are usually written by women?”
“It isn’t always the case,” I said. “But there’s a certain type of feminine spitefulness that finds relief that way.”
“I suppose you are thinking of Mrs. Mercado?” he said.
Then he shook his head.
“Even if she were malicious enough to wish to hurt Louise she would hardly have the necessary knowledge,” he said.
I remembered the earlier letters in the attaché case.
If Mrs. Leidner had left that unlocked and Mrs. Mercado had been alone in the house one day pottering about, she might easily have found them and read them. Men never seem to think of the simplest possibilities!
“And apart from her there is only Miss Johnson,” I said, watching him.
“That would be quite ridiculous!”
The little smile with which he said it was quite conclusive. The idea of Miss Johnson being the author of the letters had never entered his head! I hesitated just for a minute—but I didn’t say anything. One doesn’t like giving away a fellow woman, and besides, I had been a witness of Miss Johnson’s genuine and moving remorse. What was done was done. Why expose Dr. Leidner to a fresh disillusion on top of all his other troubles?
It was arranged that I should leave on the following day, and I had arranged through Dr. Reilly to stay for a day or two with the matron of the hospital whilst I made arrangements for returning to England either via Baghdad or direct via Nissibin by car and train.
Dr. Leidner was kind enough to say that he would like me to choose a memento from amongst his wife’s things.
“Oh, no, really, Dr. Leidner,” I said. “I couldn’t. It’s much too kind of you.”
He insisted.
“But I should like you to have something. And Louise, I am sure, would have wished it.”
Then he went on to suggest that I should have her tortoiseshell toilet set!
“Oh, no, Dr. Leidner! Why, that’s a most expensive set. I couldn’t, really.”
“She had no sisters, you know—no one who wants these things. There is no one else to have them.”
I could quite imagine that he wouldn’t want them to fall into Mrs. Mercado’s greedy little hands. And I didn’t think he’d want to offer them to Miss Johnson.
He went on kindly: “You just think it over. By the way, here is the key of Louise’s jewel case. Perhaps you will find something there you would rather have. And I should be very grateful if you would pack up—all her clothes. I daresay Reilly can find a use for them amongst some of the poor Christian families in Hassanieh.”
I was very glad to be able to do that for him, and I expressed my willingness.
I set about it at once.
Mrs. Leidner had only had a very simple wardrobe with her and it was soon sorted and packed up into a couple of suitcases. All her papers had been in the small attaché case. The jewel case contained a few simple trinkets—a pearl ring, a diamond brooch, a small string of pearls, and one or two plain gold bar brooches of the safety pin type, and a string of large amber beads.
Naturally I wasn’t going to take the pearls or the diamonds, but I hesitated a bit between the amber beads and the toilet set. In the end, however, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t take the latter. It was a kindly thought on Dr. Leidner’s part, and I was sure there wasn’t any patronage about it. I’d take it in the spirit it had been offered, without any false pride. After all, I had been fond of her.
Well, that was all done and finished with. The suitcases packed, the jewel case locked up again and put separate to give to Dr. Leidner with the photograph of Mrs. Leidner’s father and one or two other personal little odds and ends.
The room looked bare and forlorn emptied of all its accoutrements, when I’d finished. There was nothing more for me to do—and yet somehow or other I shrank from leaving the room. It seemed as though there was something still to do there—something I ought to see—or something I ought to have known. I’m not superstitious, but the idea did pop into my head that perhaps Mrs. Leidner’s spirit was hanging about the room and trying to get in touch with me.
I remember once at the hospital some of us girls got a planchette and really it wrote some very remarkable things.
Perhaps, although I’d never thought of such a thing, I might be mediumistic.
As I say, one gets all worked up to imagine all sorts of foolishness sometimes.
I prowled round the room uneasily, touching this and that. But, of course, there wasn’t anything in the room but bare furniture. There was nothing slipped behind drawers or tucked away. I couldn’t hope for anything of that kind.
In the end (it sounds rather batty, but as I say, one gets worked up) I did rather a queer thing.
I went and lay down in the bed and closed my eyes.
I deliberately tried to forget who and what I was. I tried to think myself back to that fatal afternoon. I was Mrs. Leidner lying here resting, peaceful and unsuspicious.
It’s extraordinary how you can work yourself up.
I’m a perfectly normal matter-of-fact individual—not the least bit spooky, but I tell you that after I’d lain there about five minutes I began to feel spooky.
I didn’t try to resist. I deliberately encouraged the feeling.
I said to myself: “I’m Mrs. Leidner. I’m Mrs. Leidner. I’m ly
ing here—half asleep. Presently—very soon now—the door’s going to open.”
I kept on saying that—as though I were hypnotizing myself.
“It’s just about half past one . . . it’s just about the time . . . The door is going to open . . . the door is going to open . . . I shall see who comes in. . . .”
I kept my eyes glued on that door. Presently it was going to open. I should see it open. And I should see the person who opened it.
I must have been a little overwrought that afternoon to imagine I could solve the mystery that way.
But I did believe it. A sort of chill passed down my back and settled in my legs. They felt numb—paralysed.
“You’re going into a trance,” I said. “And in that trance you’ll see . . .”
And once again I repeated monotonously again and again:
“The door is going to open—the door is going to open. . . .”
The cold numbed feeling grew more intense.
And then, slowly, I saw the door just beginning to open.
It was horrible.
I’ve never known anything so horrible before or since.
I was paralysed—chilled through and through. I couldn’t move. For the life of me I couldn’t have moved.
And I was terrified. Sick and blind and dumb with terror.
That slowly opening door.
So noiseless.
In a minute I should see. . . .
Slowly—slowly—wider and wider.
Bill Coleman came quietly in.
He must have had the shock of his life!
I bounded off the bed with a scream of terror and hurled myself across the room.
He stood stock-still, his blunt pink face pinker and his mouth opened wide with surprise.
“Hallo-allo-allo,” he said. “What’s up, nurse?”
I came back to reality with a crash.
“Goodness, Mr. Coleman,” I said. “How you startled me!”
“Sorry,” he said with a momentary grin.
I saw then that he was holding a little bunch of scarlet ranunculus in his hand. They were pretty little flowers and they grew wild on the sides of the Tell. Mrs. Leidner had been fond of them.
He blushed and got rather red as he said: “One can’t get any flowers or things in Hassanieh. Seemed rather rotten not to have any flowers for the grave. I thought I’d just nip in here and put a little posy in that little pot thing she always had flowers in on her table. Sort of show she wasn’t forgotten—eh? A bit asinine, I know, but—well—I mean to say.”
Murder in Mesopotamia: A Hercule Poirot Mystery Page 16