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“I’m afraid I can tell you very little,” said Miss Johnson. Her cultured well-bred voice was soothing after Mrs. Mercado’s shrill treble. She went on: “I was working in the living room—taking impressions of some cylinder seals on plasticine.”
“And you saw or noticed nothing?”
“No.”
Poirot gave her a quick glance. His ear had caught what mine had—a faint note of indecision.
“Are you quite sure, mademoiselle? Is there something that comes back to you vaguely?”
“No—not really—”
“Something you saw, shall we say, out of the corner of your eye hardly knowing you saw it.”
“No, certainly not,” she replied positively.
“Something you heard then. Ah, yes, something you are not quite sure whether you heard or not?”
Miss Johnson gave a short, vexed laugh.
“You press me very closely, M. Poirot. I’m afraid you are encouraging me to tell you what I am, perhaps, only imagining.”
“Then there was something you—shall we say—imagined?”
Miss Johnson said slowly, weighing her words in a detached way: “I have imagined—since—that at some time during the afternoon I heard a very faint cry . . . What I mean is that I daresay I did hear a cry. All the windows in the living room were open and one hears all sorts of sounds from people working in the barley fields. But you see—since—I’ve got the idea into my head that it was—that it was Mrs. Leidner I heard. And that’s made me rather unhappy. Because if I’d jumped up and run along to her room—well, who knows? I might have been in time. . . .”
Dr. Reilly interposed authoritatively.
“Now, don’t start getting that into your head,” he said. “I’ve no doubt but that Mrs. Leidner (forgive me, Leidner) was struck down almost as soon as the man entered the room, and it was that blow that killed her. No second blow was struck. Otherwise she would have had time to call for help and make a real outcry.”
“Still, I might have caught the murderer,” said Miss Johnson.
“What time was this, mademoiselle?” asked Poirot. “In the neighbourhood of half past one?”
“It must have been about that time—yes.” She reflected a minute.
“That would fit in,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “You heard nothing else—the opening or shutting of a door, for instance?”
Miss Johnson shook her head.
“No, I do not remember anything of that kind.”
“You were sitting at a table, I presume. Which way were you facing? The courtyard? The antika room? The verandah? Or the open countryside?”
“I was facing the courtyard.”
“Could you see the boy Abdullah washing pots from where you were?”
“Oh, yes, if I looked up, but of course I was very intent on what I was doing. All my attention was on that.”
“If anyone had passed the courtyard window, though, you would have noticed it?”
“Oh, yes, I am almost sure of that.”
“And nobody did so?”
“No.”
“But if anyone had walked, say, across the middle of the courtyard, would you have noticed that?”
