He laughed as though amused by his own statement.
Poirot was arranging a little heap of broken potsherds. He said in a dreamy, far-away voice: ‘I talked to Miss Johnson this morning. She admitted that she was prejudiced against Mrs Leidner and did not like her very much, although she hastened to add that Mrs Leidner had always been charming to her.’
‘All quite true, I should say,’ said Carey.
‘So I believed. Then I had a conversation with Mrs Mercado. She told me at great length how devoted she had been to Mrs Leidner and how much she had admired her.’
Carey made no answer to this, and after waiting a minute or two Poirot went on: ‘That—I did not believe! Then I come to you and that which you tell me—well, again—I do not believe…’
Carey stiffened. I could hear the anger—repressed anger—in his voice.
‘I really cannot help your beliefs—or your disbeliefs, M. Poirot. You’ve heard the truth and you can take it or leave it as far as I am concerned.’
Poirot did not grow angry. Instead he sounded particularly meek and depressed.
‘Is it my fault what I do—or do not believe? I have a sensitive ear, you know. And then—there are always plenty of stories going about—rumours floating in the air. One listens—and perhaps—one learns something! Yes, there are stories…’
Carey sprang to his feet. I could see clearly a little pulse that beat in his temple. He looked simply splendid! So lean and so brown—and that wonderful jaw, hard and square. I don’t wonder women fell for that man.
‘What stories?’ he asked savagely.
Poirot looked sideways at him.
‘Perhaps you can guess. The usual sort of story—about you and Mrs Leidner.’
‘What foul minds people have!’
‘N’est-ce pas? They are like dogs. However deep you bury an unpleasantness a dog will always root it up again.’
‘And you believe these stories?’
‘I am willing to be convinced—of the truth,’ said Poirot gravely.
‘I doubt if you’d know the truth if you heard it,’ Carey laughed rudely.
‘Try me and see,’ said Poirot, watching him.
‘I will then! You shall have the truth! I hated Louise Leidner—there’s the truth for you! I hated her like hell!’
Chapter 22
David Emmott, Father Lavigny and a Discovery
Turning abruptly away, Carey strode off with long, angry strides.
Poirot sat looking after him and presently he murmured: ‘Yes—I see…’
Without turning his head he said in a slightly louder voice: ‘Do not come round the corner for a minute, nurse. In case he turns his head. Now it is all right. You have my handkerchief? Many thanks. You are most amiable.’
He didn’t say anything at all about my having been listening—and how he knew I was listening I can’t think. He’d never once looked in that direction. I was rather relieved he didn’t say anything. I mean, I felt all right with myself about it, but it might have been a little awkward explaining to him. So it was a good thing he didn’t seem to want explanations.
‘Do you think he did hate her, M. Poirot?’ I asked.
Nodding his head slowly with a curious expression on his face, Poirot answered.
‘Yes—I think he did.’
Then he got up briskly and began to walk to where the men were working on the top of the mound. I followed him. We couldn’t see anyone but Arabs at first, but we finally found Mr Emmott lying face downwards blowing dust off a skeleton that had just been uncovered.
He gave his pleasant, grave smile when he saw us.
‘Have you come to see round?’ he asked. ‘I’ll be free in a minute.’
He sat up, took his knife and began daintily cutting the earth away from round the bones, stopping every now and then to use either a bellows or his own breath. A very insanitary proceeding the latter, I thought.
‘You’ll get all sorts of nasty germs in your mouth, Mr Emmott,’ I protested.
‘Nasty germs are my daily diet, nurse,’ he said gravely. ‘Germs can’t do anything to an archaeologist—they just get naturally discouraged trying.’
He scraped a little more away round the thigh bone. Then he spoke to the foreman at his side, directing him exactly what he wanted done.