‘We were all three wrong,’ said Dr Reilly gravely.
‘So it seems,’ said Captain Maitland.
Chapter 13
Hercule Poirot Arrives
I don’t think I shall ever forget my first sight of Hercule Poirot. Of course, I got used to him later on, but to begin with it was a shock, and I think everyone else must have felt the same!
I don’t know what I’d imagined—something rather like Sherlock Holmes—long and lean with a keen, clever face. Of course, I knew he was a foreigner, but I hadn’t expected him to be quite as foreign as he was, if you know what I mean.
When you saw him you just wanted to laugh! He was like something on the stage or at the pictures. To begin with, he wasn’t above five-foot five, I should think—an odd, plump little man, quite old, with an enormous moustache, and a head like an egg. He looked like a hairdresser in a comic play!
And this was the man who was going to find out who killed Mrs Leidner!
I suppose something of my disgust must have shown in my face, for almost straightaway he said to me with a queer kind of twinkle:
‘You disapprove of me, ma soeur? Remember, the pudding proves itself only when you eat it.’
The proof of the pudding’s in the eating, I suppose he meant.
Well, that’s a true enough saying, but I couldn’t say I felt much confidence myself!
Dr Reilly brought him out in his car soon after lunch on Sunday, and his first procedure was to ask us all to assemble together.
We did so in the dining-room, all sitting round the table. Mr Poirot sat at the head of it with Dr Leidner one side and Dr Reilly the other.
When we were all assembled, Dr Leidner cleared his throat and spoke in his gentle, hesitating voice.
‘I dare say you have all heard of M. Hercule Poirot. He was passing through Hassanieh today, and has very kindly agreed to break his journey to help us. The Iraqi police and Captain Maitland are, I am sure, doing their very best, but—but there are circumstances in the case’—he floundered and shot an appealing glance at Dr Reilly—‘there may, it seems, be difficulties…’
‘It is not all the square and overboard—no?’ said the little man at the top of the table. Why, he couldn’t even speak English properly!
‘Oho, he must be caught!’ cried Mrs Mercado. ‘It would be unbearable if he got away!’
I noticed the little foreigner’s eyes rest on her appraisingly.
‘He? Who is he, madame?’ he asked.
‘Why, the murderer, of course.’
‘Ah! the murderer,’ said Hercule Poirot.
He spoke as though the murderer was of no consequence at all!
We all stared at him. He looked from one face to another.
‘It is likely, I think,’ he said, ‘that you have none of you been brought in contact with a case of murder before?’
There was a general murmur of assent.
Hercule Poirot smiled.
‘It is clear, therefore, that you do not understand the A B C of the position. There are unpleasantnesses! Yes, there are a lot of unpleasantnesses. To begin with, there is suspicion.’
‘Suspicion?’
It was Miss Johnson who spoke. Mr Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. I had an idea that he regarded her with approval. He looked as though he were thinking: ‘Here is a sensible, intelligent person!’
‘Yes, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Suspicion! Let us not make the bones about it. You are all under suspicion here in this house. The cook, the house-boy, the scullion, the pot-boy—yes, and all the members of the expedition too.’
Mrs Mercado started up, her face working.
‘How dare you? How dare you say such a thing? This is odious—unbearable! Dr Leidner—you can’t sit here and let this man—let this man—’
Dr Leidner said wearily: ‘Please try and be calm, Marie.’
Mr Mercado stood up too. His hands were shaking and his eyes were bloodshot.
‘I agree. It is an outrage—an insult—’
‘No, no,’ said Mr Poirot. ‘I do not insult you. I merely ask you all to face facts. In a house where murder has been committed, every inmate comes in for a certain share of suspicion. I ask you what evidence is there that the murderer came from outside at all?’