Mr Mercado rolled down his sleeve again and recommenced his explanations. Mr Poirot listened, but didn’t try to bring the conversation round to the Leidners. In fact, he didn’t ask Mr Mercado anything at all.
Presently we said goodbye to Mr Mercado and climbed up the path again.
‘It was neat that, did you not think so?’ my companion asked.
‘Neat?’ I asked.
M. Poirot took something from behind the lapel of his coat and surveyed it affectionately. To my surprise I saw that it was a long sharp darning needle with a blob of sealing wax making it into a pin.
‘M. Poirot,’ I cried, ‘did you do that?’
‘I was the stinging insect—yes. And very neatly I did it, too, do you not think so? You did not see me.’
That was true enough. I never saw him do it. And I’m sure Mr Mercado hadn’t suspected. He must have been quick as lightning.
‘But, M. Poirot, why?’ I asked.
He answered me by another question.
‘Did you notice anything, sister?’ he asked.
I nodded my head slowly.
‘Hypodermic marks,’ I said.
‘So now we know something about Mr Mercado,’ said Poirot. ‘I suspected—but I did not know. It is always necessary to know.’
‘And you don’t care how you set about it!’ I thought, but didn’t say.
Poirot suddenly clapped his hand to his pocket.
‘Alas, I have dropped my handkerchief down there. I concealed the pin in it.’
‘I’ll get it for you,’ I said and hurried back.
I’d got the feeling, you see, by this time, that M. Poirot and I were the doctor and nurse in charge of a case. At least, it was more like an operation and he was the surgeon. Perhaps I oughtn’t to say so, but in a queer way I was beginning to enjoy myself.
I remember just after I’d finished my training, I went to a case in a private house and the need for an immediate operation arose, and the patient’s husband was cranky about nursing homes. He just wouldn’t hear of his wife being taken to one. Said it had to be done in the house.
Well, of course it was just splendid for me! Nobody else to have a look in! I was in charge of everything. Of course, I was terribly nervous—I thought of everything conceivable that doctor could want, but even then I was afraid I might have forgotten something. You never know with doctors. They ask for absolutely anything sometimes! But everything went splendidly! I had each thing ready as he asked for it, and he actually told me I’d done first-rate after it was over—and that’s a thing most doctors wouldn’t bother to do! The G.P. was very nice too. And I ran the whole thing myself!
The patient recovered, too, so everybody was happy.
Well, I felt rather the same now. In a way M. Poirot reminded me of that surgeon. He was a little man, too. Ugly little man with a face like a monkey, but a wonderful surgeon. He knew instinctively just where to go. I’ve seen a lot of surgeons and I know what a lot of difference there is.
Gradually I’d been growing a kind of confidence M. Poirot. I felt that he, too, knew exactly what he was doing. And I was getting to feel that it was my job to help him—as you might say—to have the forceps and the swabs and all handy just when he wanted them. That’s why it seemed just as natural for me to run off and look for his handkerchief as it would have been to pick up a towel that a doctor had thrown on the floor.
When I’d found it and got back I couldn’t see him at first. But at last I caught sight of him. He was sitting a little way from the mound talking to Mr Carey. Mr Carey’s boy was standing near with that great big rod thing with metres marked on it, but just at that moment he said something to the boy and the boy took it away. It seemed he had finished with it for the time being.
I’d like to get this next bit quite clear. You see, I wasn’t quite sure what M. Poirot did or didn’t want me to do. He might, I mean, have sent me back for that handkerchief on purpose. To get me out of the way.