Agatha Christie - Murder in Mesopotamia

Miss Johnson explained that tablets had been scarce and that there had been very few inscribed bricks or cylinder seals. Father Lavigny, however, had done his share of work on the dig and was picking up colloquial Arabic very fast.

That led the talk to cylinder seals, and presently Miss Johnson fetched from a cupboard a sheet of impressions made by rolling them out on plasticine.

I realized as we bent over them, admiring the spirited designs, that these must be what she had been working at on that fatal afternoon.

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!

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.