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“And to the best of your belief it was half past one when both you and the boy were absent and the courtyard was empty?”
“It couldn’t have been far off that time. Of course, I can’t say exactly.”
Poirot turned to Dr. Reilly.
“That agrees with your estimate of the time of death, doctor?”
“It does,” said Dr. Reilly.
Mr. Poirot stroked his great curled moustaches.
“I think we can take it,” he said gravely, “that Mrs. Leidner met her death during that ten minutes.”
Fourteen
ONE OF US?
There was a little pause—and in it a wave of horror seemed to float round the room.
I think it was at that moment that I first believed Dr. Reilly’s theory to be right.
I felt that the murderer was in the room. Sitting with us—listening. One of us . . .
Perhaps Mrs. Mercado felt it too. For she suddenly gave a short sharp cry.
“I can’t help it,” she sobbed. “I—it’s so terrible!”
“Courage, Marie,” said her husband.
He looked at us apologetically.
“She is so sensitive. She feels things so much.”
“I—I was so fond of Louise,” sobbed Mrs. Mercado.
I don’t know whether something of what I felt showed in my face, but I suddenly found that Mr. Poirot was looking at me, and that a slight smile hovered on his lips.
I gave him a cold glance, and at once he resumed his inquiry.
“Tell me, madame,” he said, “of the way you spent yesterday afternoon?”
“I was washing my hair,” sobbed Mrs. Mercado. “It seems awful not to have known anything about it. I was quite happy and busy.”
“You were in your room?”
“Yes.”
“And you did not leave it?”
“No. Not till I heard the car. Then I came out and I heard what had happened. Oh, it was awful!”
“Did it surprise you?”
Mrs. Mercado stopped crying. Her eyes opened resentfully.
“What do you mean, M. Poirot? Are you suggesting—?”
“What should I mean, madame? You have just told us how fond you were of Mrs. Leidner. She might, perhaps, have confided in you.”
