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“Ah, yes, indeed, me, I know that well.”
He looked round the room.
“And when you came in here after the murder, was everything as you had seen it before?”
I looked round also.
“Yes, I think so. I don’t remember anything being different.”
“There was no sign of the weapon with which she was struck?”
“No.”
Poirot looked at Dr. Reilly.
“What was it in your opinion?”
The doctor replied promptly:
“Something pretty powerful, of a fair size and without any sharp corners or edges. The rounded base of a statue, say—something like that. Mind you, I’m not suggesting that that was it. But that type of thing. The blow was delivered with great force.”
“Struck by a strong arm? A man’s arm?”
“Yes—unless—”
“Unless—what?”
Dr. Reilly said slowly: “It is just possible that Mrs. Leidner might have been on her knees—in which case, the blow being delivered from above with a heavy implement, the force needed would not have been so great.”
“On her knees,” mused Poirot. “It is an idea—that.”
“It’s only an idea, mind,” the doctor hastened to point out. “There’s absolutely nothing to indicate it.”
“But it’s possible.”
“Yes. And after all, in view of the circumstances, it’s not fantastic. Her fear might have led her to kneel in supplication rather than to scream when her instinct would tell her it was too late—that nobody could get there in time.”
“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “It is an idea. . . .”
It was a very poor one, I thought. I couldn’t for one moment imagine Mrs. Leidner on her knees to anyone.
Poirot made his way slowly round the room. He opened the windows, tested the bars, passed his head through and satisfied himself that by no means could his shoulders be made to follow his head.
“The windows were shut when you found her,” he said. “Were they also shut when you left her at a quarter to one?”
“Yes, they were always shut in the afternoon. There is no gauze over these windows as there is in the living room and dining room. They are kept shut to keep out the flies.”
“And in any case no one could get in that way,” mused Poirot. “And the walls are of the most solid—mud-brick—and there are no trapdoors and no skylights. No, there is only one way into this room—through the door. And there is only one way to the door through the courtyard. And there is only one entrance to the courtyard—through the archway. And outside the archway there were five people and they all tell the same story, and I do not think, me, that they are lying . . . No, they are not lying. They are not bribed to silence. The murderer was here. . . .”
I didn’t say anything. Hadn’t I felt the same thing just now when we were all cooped up round the table?
Slowly Poirot prowled round the room. He took up a photograph from the chest of drawers. It was of an elderly man with a white goatee beard. He looked inquiringly at me.
“Mrs. Leidner’s father,” I said. “She told me so.”
He put it down again and glanced over the articles on the dressing-table—all of plain tortoiseshell—simple but good. He looked up at a row of books on a shelf, repeating the titles aloud.
“Who were the Greeks? Introduction to Relativity. Life of Lady Hester Stanhope. Crewe Traine. Back to Methuselah. Linda Condon. Yes, they tell us something, perhaps. She was not a fool, your Mrs. Leidner. She had a mind.”
