Twenty-one

MR.?MERCADO, RICHARD CAREY

“They work in two separate places, I see,” said Poirot, halting.

Mr.?Reiter had been doing his photography on an outlying portion of the main excavation¹. Alittle distance away from us a second swarm² of men were coming and going with baskets.

“That’s what they call the deep cut,” I explained. “They don’t find much there, nothing butrubbishy broken pottery³, but Dr. Leidner always says it’s very interesting, so I suppose itmust?be.”

“Let us go there.”

We walked together slowly, for the sun was hot.

Mr.?Mercado was in command. We saw him below us talking to the foreman, an old man likea tortoise who wore a tweed coat over his long striped cotton gown.

It was a little difficult to get down to them as there was only a narrow path or stair andbasketboys were going up and down it constantly, and they always seemed to be as blind as batsand never to think of getting out of the way.

As I followed Poirot down he said suddenly over his shoulder: “Is Mr.?Mercado right-handedor left-handed?”

Now that was an extraordinary question if you like!

I thought a minute, then: “Right-handed,” I said decisively.

Poirot didn’t condescend⁴ to explain. He just went on and I followed him.

Mr.?Mercado seemed rather pleased to see us.

His long melancholy⁵ face lit up.

M.?Poirot pretended to an interest in archaeology⁶ that I’m sure he couldn’t have really felt,but Mr.?Mercado responded at once.

He explained that they had already cut down through twelve levels of house occupation.

“We are now definitely in the fourth millennium⁷,” he said with enthusiasm.

I always thought a millennium was in the future—the time when everything comes right.

Mr.?Mercado pointed⁸ out belts of ashes (how his hand did shake! I wondered if he mightpossibly have malaria) and he explained how the pottery changed in character, and about burials—and how they had had one level almost entirely⁹ composed of infant burials—poor little things—and about flexed¹⁰ position and orientation¹¹, which seemed to mean the way the bones were lying.

And then suddenly, just as he was stooping down to pick up a kind of flint knife that waslying with some pots in a corner, he leapt into the air with a wild yell.

He spun¹² round to find me and Poirot staring at him in astonishment¹³.

He clapped his hand to his left arm.

“Something stung me—like a red-hot needle.”

Immediately Poirot was galvanized into energy.

“Quick, mon cher, let us see. Nurse Leatheran!”

I came forward.

He seized Mr.?Mercado’s arm and deftly¹⁵ rolled back the sleeve of his khaki shirt to theshoulder.

“There,” said Mr.?Mercado pointing.

About three inches below the shoulder there was a minute prick¹⁶ from which the blood wasoozing.

“Curious,” said Poirot. He peered into the rolled-up sleeve. “I can see nothing. It was an ant,perhaps?”

“Better put on a little iodine¹⁷,” I said.

I always carry an iodine pencil with me, and I whipped it out and applied¹⁸ it. But I was a littleabsentminded as I did so, for my attention had been caught by something quite different.

Mr.?Mercado’s arm, all the way up the forearm to the elbow, was marked all over by tinypunctures. I knew well enough what they were—the marks of a hypodermic needle.

Mr.?Mercado rolled down his sleeve again and recommenced his explanations. Mr.?Poirotlistened, but didn’t try to bring the conversation round to the Leidners. In fact, he didn’t askMr.?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. Tomy surprise I saw that it was a long sharp darning needle with a blob of sealing wax making it intoa?pin.

“M.?Poirot,” I cried, “did you do that?”

“I was the stinging insect—yes. And very neatly¹⁹ I did it, too, do you not think so? You didnot see me.”

That was true enough. I never saw him do it. And I’m sure Mr.?Mercado hadn’t suspected. Hemust 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 notknow. 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 concealed²⁰ 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 incharge of a case. At least, it was more like an operation and he was the surgeon. Perhaps I oughtn’tto 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 aprivate house and the needfor an immediate¹⁴ operation arose, and the patient’s husband was cranky about nursing homes. Hejust 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 ofeverything. Of course, I was terribly nervous—I thought of everything conceivable that doctorcould want, but even then I was afraid I might have forgotten something. You never know withdoctors. They ask for absolutely anything sometimes! But everything went splendidly! I had eachthing ready as he asked for it, and he actually told me I’d done first-rate after it was over—andthat’s a thing most doctors wouldn’t bother to do! The G.P. was very nice too. And I ran the wholething 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 alittle man, too. Ugly little manwith a face like a monkey, but a wonderful surgeon. He knewinstinctively just where to go. I’ve seen a lot of surgeons and I know what a lot of difference thereis.

Gradually I’d been growing a kind of confidence in M.?Poirot. I felt that he, too, knew exactlywhat 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 seemedjust as natural for me to run off and look for his handkerchief as it would have been to pick up atowel 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 mound²¹ talking to Mr.?Carey. Mr.?Carey’s boy was standingnear with that great big rod thing with metres marked on it, but just at that moment he saidsomething to the boy and the boy took it away. It seemed he had finished with it for the timebeing.

I’d like to get this next bit quite clear. You see, I wasn’t quite sure what M.?Poirot did ordidn’t want me to do. He might, I mean, have sent me back for that handkerchief on purpose. Toget me out of the way.

It was just like an operation over again. You’ve got to be careful to hand the doctor just whathe wants and not what he doesn’t want. I mean, suppose you gave him the artery²² forceps at thewrong moment, and were late with them at the right moment! Thank goodness I know my work inthe theatre well enough. I’m not likely to make mistakes there. But in this business I was really therawest of raw little probationers. And so I had to be particularly careful not to make any sillymistakes.

Of course, I didn’t for one moment imagine that M.?Poirot didn’t want me to hear what heand Mr.?Carey were saying. But he might have thought he’d get Mr.?Carey to talk better if I wasn’tthere.

Now I don’t want anybody to get it into their heads that I’m the kind of woman who goesabout eavesdropping²³ on private conversations. I wouldn’t do such a thing. Not for a moment. Nothowever much I wanted to.

And what I mean is if it had been a private conversation I wouldn’t for a moment have donewhat, as a matter of fact, I actually did do.

As I looked at it I was in a privileged position. After all, you hear many a thing when apatient’s coming round after an anaesthetic. The patient wouldn’t want you to hear it—and usuallyhas no idea you have heard it—but the fact remains²⁴ you do hear it. I just took it that Mr.?Careywas the patient. He’d be none the worse for what he didn’t know about. And if you think that Iwas just curious, well, I’ll admit that I was curious. I didn’t want to miss anything I could help.

All this is just leading up to the fact that I turned aside and went by a roundabout way upbehind the big dump until I was a foot from where they were, but concealed from them by thecorner of the dump. And if anyone says it was dishonourable I just beg to disagree. Nothing oughtto be hidden from the nurse in charge of the case, though, of course, it’s for the doctor to say whatshall be done.

I don’t know, of course, what M.?Poirot’s line of approach had been, but by the time I’d gotthere he was aiming straight for the bull’s eye, so to speak.

“Nobody appreciates Dr. Leidner’s devotion to his wife more than I do,” he was saying. “Butit is often the case that one learns more about a person from their enemies than from their friends.”

“You suggest that their faults are more important than their virtues²⁵?” said Mr.?Carey. Histone was dry and ironic²⁶.

“Undoubtedly²⁷—when it comes to murder. It seems odd that as far as I know nobody has yetbeen murdered for having too perfect a character! And yet perfection is undoubtedly an irritatingthing.”

“I’m afraid I’m hardly the right person to help you,” said Mr.?Carey. “To be perfectly²⁸ honest,Mrs.?Leidner and I didn’t hit it off particularly well. I don’t mean that we were in any sense of theword enemies, but we were not exactly friends. Mrs.?Leidner was, perhaps, a shade jealous of myold friendship with her husband. I, for my part, although I admired her very much and thought shewas an extremely attractive woman, was just a shade resentful of her influence over Leidner. As aresult we were quite polite to each other, but not intimate.”

“Admirably explained,” said Poirot.

I could just see their heads, and I saw Mr.?Carey’s turn sharply as though something inM.?Poirot’s detached tone struck him disagreeably.

M.?Poirot went on: “Was not Dr.?Leidner distressed²⁹ that you and his wife did not get ontogether better?”

Carey hesitated a minute before saying: “Really—I’m not sure. He never said anything. Ialways hoped he didn’t notice it. He was very wrapped up in his work, you know.”

“So the truth, according to you, is that you did not really like Mrs.?Leidner?”

Carey shrugged³⁰ his shoulders.

“I should probably have liked her very much if she hadn’t been Leidner’s wife.”

He laughed as though amused by his own statement.

Poirot was arranging a little heap of broken potsherds. He said in a dreamy, faraway voice: “Italked to Miss?Johnson this morning. She admitted that she was prejudiced against Mrs.?Leidnerand did not like her very much, although she hastened to add that Mrs.?Leidner had always beencharming 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 lengthhow devoted³¹ 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 didnot believe! Then I come to you and that which you tell me—well, again—I do not believe. .?.?.”

Carey stiffened³². 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 andyou can take it or leave it as far as I am concerned.”

Poirot did not grow angry. Instead he sounded particularly meek³³ and depressed³⁴.

“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—andperhaps—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 lookedsimply splendid! So lean and so brown—and that wonderful jaw³⁵, hard and square. I don’t wonderwomen fell for that man.

“What stories?” he asked savagely³⁶.

Poirot looked sideways at him.

“Perhaps you can guess. The usual sort of story—about you and Mrs.?Leidner.”

“What foul³⁷ minds people have!”

“N’est-ce pas? They are like dogs. However deep you bury an unpleasantness a dog willalways 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! Ihated her like hell!”

 

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