‘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.
‘I’m afraid I can tell you very little,’ said Miss Johnson. Her cultured well-bred voice was soothing after Mrs Mercado’s shrill treble. She went on: ‘I was working in the living-room—taking impressions of some cylinder seals on plasticine.’
‘And you saw or noticed nothing?’
‘No.’
Poirot gave her a quick glance. His ear had caught what mine had—a faint note of indecision.
‘Are you quite sure, mademoiselle? Is there something that comes back to you vaguely?’
‘No—not really—’
‘Something you saw, shall we say, out of the corner of your eye hardly knowing you saw it.’
‘No, certainly not,’ she replied positively.
‘Something you heard then. Ah, yes, something you are not quite sure whether you heard or not?’
Miss Johnson gave a short, vexed laugh.
‘You press me very closely, M. Poirot. I’m afraid you are encouraging me to tell you what I am, perhaps, only imagining.’
‘Then there was something you—shall we say—imagined?’
Miss Johnson said slowly, weighing her words in a detached way: ‘I have imagined—since—that at some time during the afternoon I heard a very faint cry…What I mean is that I daresay I did hear a cry. All the windows in the living-room were open and one hears all sorts of sounds from people working in the barley fields. But you see—since—I’ve got the idea into my head that it was—that it was Mrs Leidner I heard. And that’s made me rather unhappy. Because if I’d jumped up and run along to her room—well, who knows? I might have been in time…’
Dr Reilly interposed authoritatively.
‘Now, don’t start getting that into your head,’ he said. ‘I’ve no doubt but that Mrs Leidner (forgive me, Leidner) was struck down almost as soon as the man entered the room, and it was that blow that killed her. No second blow was struck. Otherwise she would have had time to call for help and make a real outcry.’
‘Still, I might have caught the murderer,’ said Miss Johnson.
‘What time was this, mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot. ‘In the neighbourhood of half-past one?’