Poirot took pity on his flounderings.
‘Perfectly—perfectly. Let us pass to another matter. Was it a happy atmosphere in the house?’
‘Please?’
‘Were you all happy together? Did you laugh and talk?’
‘No—no, not exactly that. There was a little—stiffness.’
He paused, struggling with himself, and then said: ‘You see, I am not very good in company. I am clumsy. I am shy. Dr Leidner always he has been most kind to me. But—it is stupid—I cannot overcome my shyness. I say always the wrong thing. I upset water jugs. I am unlucky.’
He really looked like a large awkward child.
‘We all do these things when we are young,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘The poise, the savoir faire, it comes later.’
Then with a word of farewell we walked on.
He said: ‘That, ma soeur, is either an extremely simple young man or a very remarkable actor.’
I didn’t answer. I was caught up once more by the fantastic notion that one of these people was a dangerous and cold-blooded murderer. Somehow, on this beautiful still sunny morning it seemed impossible.
Chapter 21
Mr Mercado, Richard Carey
‘They work in two separate places, I see,’ said Poirot, halting.
Mr Reiter had been doing his photography on an outlying portion of the main excavation. A little distance away from us a second swarm of men were coming and going with baskets.
‘That’s what they call the deep cut,’ I explained. ‘They don’t find much there, nothing but rubbishy broken pottery, but Dr Leidner always says it’s very interesting, so I suppose it must be.’
‘Let us go there.’
We walked together slowly, for the sun was hot.
Mr Mercado was in command. We saw him below us talking to the foreman, an old man like a tortoise who wore a tweed coat over his long striped cotton gown.
It was a little difficult to get down to them as there was only a narrow path or stair and basket-boys were going up and down it constantly, and they always seemed to be as blind as bats and never to think of getting out of the way.
As I followed Poirot down he said suddenly over his shoulder: ‘Is Mr Mercado right-handed or left-handed?’
Now that was an extraordinary question if you like!
I thought a minute, then: ‘Right-handed,’ I said decisively.
Poirot didn’t condescend to explain. He just went on and I followed him.
Mr Mercado seemed rather pleased to see us.
His long melancholy face lit up.
M. Poirot pretended to an interest in archaeology that I’m sure he couldn’t have really felt, but Mr Mercado responded at once.
He explained that they had already cut down through twelve levels of house occupation.
‘We are now definitely in the fourth millennium,’ he said with enthusiasm.
I always thought a millennium was in the future—the time when everything comes right.
Mr Mercado pointed out belts of ashes (how his hand did shake! I wondered if he might possibly have malaria) and he explained how the pottery changed in character, and about burials—and how they had had one level almost entirely composed of infant burials —poor little things—and about flexed position and orientation, which seemed to mean the way the bones were lying.
And then suddenly, just as he was stooping down to pick up a kind of flint knife that was lying with some pots in a corner, he leapt into the air with a wild yell.
He spun round to find me and Poirot staring at him in astonishment.
He clapped his hand to his left arm.
‘Something stung me—like a red-hot needle.’
Immediately Poirot was galvanized into energy.
‘Quick, mon cher, let us see. Nurse Leatheran!’
I came forward.
He seized Mr Mercado’s arm and deftly rolled back the sleeve of his khaki shirt to the shoulder.
‘There,’ said Mr Mercado pointing.
About three inches below the shoulder there was a minute prick from which the blood was oozing.
‘Curious,’ said Poirot. He peered into the rolled-up sleeve. ‘I can see nothing. It was an ant, perhaps?’
‘Better put on a little iodine,’ I said.
I always carry an iodine pencil with me, and I whipped it out and applied it. But I was a little absentminded as I did so, for my attention had been caught by something quite different. Mr Mercado’s arm, all the way up the forearm to the elbow, was marked all over by tiny punctures. I knew well enough what they were—the marks of a hypodermic needle.