‘There, mon enfant,’ he said, ‘that is better. You are worn out.’

Upon that, I burst into tears.

‘It’s too awful,’ I sobbed. ‘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 fully awake. That is – unless she took 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 she found 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 signed her 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 standing.’

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

‘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 there anyone in the courtyard?’

‘Father Lavigny was just going towards the archway and Mr Reiter was standing in the door of the photographic-room.’

‘And still I do not see in the least how anyone could come in from outside and none of you know about it…But she saw…’

He gave it up at last, shaking his head.

‘Sacre 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, pearly grey.

‘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 south were the blossoming trees and the peaceful cultivation. The water-wheel groaned in the distance – a faint unearthly sound. In the north were the slender minarets and the clustering fairy whiteness of Hassanieh.

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.’

Chapter 25. Suicide or Murder?

I hadn’t time to ask Poirot what he meant, for Captain Maitland was calling up to us and asking us to come down.

We hurried down the stairs.

‘Look here, Poirot,’ he said. ‘Here’s another complication. The monk fellow is missing.’

‘Father Lavigny?’

‘Yes. Nobody noticed it till just now. Then it dawned on somebody that he was the only one of the party not around, and we went to his room. His bed’s not been slept in and there’s no sign of him.’

The whole thing was like a bad dream. First Miss Johnson’s death and then the disappearance of Father Lavigny.

The servants were called and questioned, but they couldn’t throw any light on the mystery. He had last been seen at about eight o’clock the night before. Then he had said he was going out for a stroll before going to bed.

Nobody had seen him come back from that stroll.

The big doors had been closed and barred at nine o’clock as usual. Nobody, however, remembered unbarring them in the morning. The two house-boys each thought the other one must have done the unfastening.

Had Father Lavigny ever returned the night before? Had he, in the course of his earlier walk, discovered anything of a suspicious nature, gone out to investigate it later, and perhaps fallen a third victim?

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 voila, 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 collegue.’

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?’