Captain Maitland swung round as Dr Reilly came up with Mr Mercado behind him.
‘Hallo, Reilly. Got anything?’
‘Yes. The stuff came from the laboratory here. I’ve just been checking up the quantities with Mercado. It’s H.C.L. from the lab.’
‘The laboratory—eh? Was it locked up?’
Mr Mercado shook his head. His hands were shaking and his face was twitching. He looked a wreck of a man.
‘It’s never been the custom,’ he stammered. ‘You see—just now—we’re using it all the time. I—nobody ever dreamt—’
‘Is the place locked up at night?’
‘Yes—all the rooms are locked. The keys are hung up just inside the living-room.’
‘So if anyone had a key to that they could get the lot.’
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s a perfectly ordinary key, I suppose?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Nothing to show whether she took it herself from the laboratory?’ asked Captain Maitland.
‘She didn’t,’ I said loudly and positively.
I felt a warning touch on my arm. Poirot was standing close behind me.
And then something rather ghastly happened.
Not ghastly in itself—in fact it was just the incongruousness that made it seem worse than anything else.
A car drove into the courtyard and a little man jumped out. He was wearing a sun helmet and a short thick trench coat.
He came straight to Dr Leidner, who was standing by Dr Reilly, and shook him warmly by the hand.
‘Vous voilà, mon cher,’ he cried. ‘Delighted to see you. I passed this way on Saturday afternoon—en route to the Italians at Fugima. I went to the dig but there wasn’t a single European about and alas! I cannot speak Arabic. I had not time to come to the house. This morning I leave Fugima at five—two hours here with you—and then I catch the convoy on. Eh bien, and how is the season going?’
It was ghastly.
The cheery voice, the matter-of-fact manner, all the pleasant sanity of an everyday world now left far behind. He just bustled in, knowing nothing and noticing nothing—full of cheerful bonhomie.
No wonder Dr Leidner gave an inarticulate gasp and looked in mute appeal at Dr Reilly.
The doctor rose to the occasion.
He took the little man (he was a French archaeologist called Verrier who dug in the Greek islands, I heard later) aside and explained to him what had occurred.
Verrier was horrified. He himself had been staying at an Italian dig right away from civilization for the last few days and had heard nothing.
He was profuse in condolences and apologies, finally striding over to Dr Leidner and clasping him warmly by both hands.
‘What a tragedy! My God, what a tragedy! I have no words. Mon pauvre collègue.’
And shaking his head in one last ineffectual effort to express his feelings, the little man climbed into his car and left us.
As I say, that momentary introduction of comic relief into tragedy seemed really more gruesome than anything else that had happened.
‘The next thing,’ said Dr Reilly firmly, ‘is breakfast. Yes, I insist. Come, Leidner, you must eat.’
Poor Dr Leidner was almost a complete wreck. He came with us to the dining-room and there a funereal meal was served. I think the hot coffee and fried eggs did us all good, though no one actually felt they wanted to eat. Dr Leidner drank some coffee and sat twiddling his bread. His face was grey, drawn with pain and bewilderment.
After breakfast, Captain Maitland got down to things.
I explained how I had woken up, heard a queer sound and had gone into Miss Johnson’s room.
‘You say there was a glass on the floor?’
‘Yes. She must have dropped it after drinking.’
‘Was it broken?’
‘No, it had fallen on the rug. (I’m afraid the acid’s ruined the rug, by the way.) I picked the glass up and put it back on the table.’
‘I’m glad you’ve told us that. There are only two sets of fingerprints on it, and one set is certainly Miss Johnson’s own. The other must be yours.’
He was silent for a moment, then he said: ‘Please go on.’
I described carefully what I’d done and the methods I had tried, looking rather anxiously at Dr Reilly for approval. He gave it with a nod.