Twenty-four

MURDER IS A HABIT

We all went to bed early that night. Miss?Johnson had appeared at dinner and had behaved more orless as usual. She had, however, a sort of dazed look, and once or twice quite failed to take in whatother people said to her.

It wasn’t somehow a very comfortable sort of meal. You’d say, I suppose, that that wasnatural enough in a house where there’d been a funeral that day. But I know what I mean.

Lately our meals had been hushed and subdued¹, but for all that there had been a feeling ofcomradeship. There had been sympathy with Dr.?Leidner in his grief and a fellow feeling of beingall in the same boat amongst the others.

But tonight I was reminded of my first meal there—when Mrs.?Mercado had watched me andthere had been that curious feeling as though something might snap any minute.

I’d felt the same thing—only very much intensified—when we’d sat round the dining roomtable with Poirot at the head of it.

Tonight it was particularly strong. Everyone was on edge — jumpy — on tenterhooks². Ifanyone had dropped something I’m sure somebody would have screamed.

As I say, we all separated early afterwards. I went to bed almost at once. The last thing Iheard as I was dropping off to sleep was Mrs.?Mercado’s voice saying goodnight to Miss?Johnsonjust outside my door.

I dropped off to sleep at once—tired by my exertions³ and even more by my silly experiencein Mrs.?Leidner’s room. I slept heavily and dreamlessly for several hours.

I awoke when I did awake with a start and a feeling of impending⁴ catastrophe⁵. Some soundhad woken me, and as I sat up in bed listening I heard it again.

An awful sort of agonized⁶ choking groan⁷.

I had lit my candle and was out of bed in a twinkling. I snatched up a torch, too, in case thecandle should blow out. I came out of my door and stood listening. I knew the sound wasn’t faraway. It came again—from the room immediately next to mine—Miss?Johnson’s room.

I hurried in. Miss?Johnson was lying in bed, her whole body contorted in agony. As I setdown the candle and bent⁸ over her, her lips moved and she tried to speak—but only an awfulhoarse whisper came. I saw that the corners of her mouth and the skin of her chin were burnt akind of greyish white.

Her eyes went from me to a glass that lay on the floor evidently where it had dropped fromher hand. The light rug was stained a bright red where it had fallen. I picked it up and ran a fingerover the inside, drawing back my hand with a sharp exclamation⁹. Then I examined the inside ofthe poor woman’s mouth.

There wasn’t the least doubt what was the matter. Somehow or other, intentionally¹⁰ orotherwise, she’d swallowed a quantity of corrosive¹¹ acid—oxalic or hydrochloric, I suspected.

I ran out and called to Dr.?Leidner and he woke the others, and we worked over her for all wewere worth, but all the time I had an awful feeling it was no good. We tried a strong solution ofcarbonate of soda—and followed it with olive oil. To ease the pain I gave her a hypodermic ofmorphine sulphate.

David Emmott had gone off to Hassanieh to fetch Dr.?Reilly, but before he came it was over.

I won’t dwell on the details. Poisoning by a strong solution of hydrochloric acid (which iswhat it proved to be) is one of the most painful deaths possible.

It was when I was bending over her to give her the morphia that she made one ghastly effortto speak. It was only a horrible strangled whisper when it came.

“The window . . . ” she said. “Nurse . . . the window . . . ”

But that was all—she couldn’t go on. She collapsed¹² completely.

I shall never forget that night. The arrival of Dr.?Reilly. The arrival of Captain Maitland. Andfinally with the dawn, Hercule Poirot.

He it was who took me gently by the arm and steered¹³ me into the dining room, where hemade me sit down and have a cup of good strong tea.

“There, mon enfant,” he said, “that is better. You are worn out.”

Upon that, I burst into tears.

“It’s too awful,” I sobbed¹⁴. “It’s been like a nightmare. Such awful suffering. And her eyes .?.?.

Oh, M.?Poirot—her eyes .?.?.”

He patted me on the shoulder. A woman couldn’t have been kinder.

“Yes, yes—do not think of it. You did all you could.”

“It was one of the corrosive acids.”

“It was a strong solution of hydrochloric acid.”

“The stuff they use on the pots?”

“Yes. Miss?Johnson probably drank it off before she was fully¹⁵ awake. That is—unless shetook it on purpose.”

“Oh, M.?Poirot, what an awful idea!”

“It is a possibility, after all. What do you think?”

I considered for a moment and then shook my head decisively.

“I don’t believe it. No, I don’t believe it for a moment.” I hesitated and then said, “I think shefound out something yesterday afternoon.”

“What is that you say? She found out something?”

I repeated to him the curious conversation we had had together.

Poirot gave a low soft whistle.

“La pauvre femme!” he said. “She said she wanted to think it over—eh? That is what signedher death warrant. If she had only spoken out—then—at once.”

He said: “Tell me again her exact words.”

I repeated them.

“She saw how someone could have come in from outside without any of you knowing?

Come, ma soeur, let us go up to the roof and you shall show me just where she was standing¹⁶.”

We went up to the roof together and I showed Poirot the exact spot where Miss?Johnson hadstood.

“Like this?” said Poirot. “Now what do I see? I see half the courtyard—and the archway—and the doors of the drawing office and the photographic room and the laboratory. Was thereanyone in the courtyard?”

“Father Lavigny was just going towards the archway and Mr.?Reiter was standing in the doorof the photographic room.”

“And still I do not see in the least how anyone could come in from outside and none of youknow about it .?.?. But she saw. .?.?.”

He gave it up at last, shaking his head.

“Sacré nom d’un chien—va! What did she see?”

The sun was just rising. The whole eastern sky was a riot of rose and orange and pale, pearlygrey.

“What a beautiful sunrise!” said Poirot gently.

The river wound away to our left and the Tell stood up outlined in gold colour. To the southwere the blossoming trees and the peaceful cultivation¹⁷. The waterwheel groaned¹⁸ in the distance—afaint unearthly sound. In the north were the slender minarets¹⁹ and the clustering fairy whiteness ofHassanieh.

It was incredibly beautiful.

And then, close at my elbow, I heard Poirot give a long deep sigh.

“Fool that I have been,” he murmured. “When the truth is so clear—so clear.”

 

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