‘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!