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“I think—probably not—unless, as I said before, I had happened to look up and out of the window.”
“You did not notice the boy Abdullah leave his work and go out to join the other servants?”
“No.”
“Ten minutes,” mused Poirot. “That fatal ten minutes.”
There was a momentary silence.
Miss Johnson lifted her head suddenly and said: “You know, M. Poirot, I think I have unintentionally m
isled you. On thinking it over, I do not believe that I could possibly have heard any cry uttered in Mrs. Leidner’s room from where I was. The antika room lay between me and her—and I understand her windows were found closed.”
“In any case, do not distress yourself, mademoiselle,” said Poirot kindly. “It is not really of much importance.”
“No, of course not. I understand that. But you see, it is of importance to me, because I feel I might have done something.”
“Don’t distress yourself, dear Anne,” said Dr. Leidner with affection. “You must be sensible. What you heard was probably one Arab bawling to another some distance away in the fields.”
Miss Johnson flushed a little at the kindliness of his tone. I even saw tears spring to her eyes. She turned her head away and spoke even more gruffly than usual.
“Probably was. Usual thing after a tragedy—start imagining things that aren’t so at all.”
Poirot was once more consulting his notebook.
“I do not suppose there is much more to be said. Mr. Carey?”
Richard Carey spoke slowly—in a wooden mechanical manner.
“I’m afraid I can add nothing helpful. I was on duty at the dig. The news was brought to me there.”
“And you know or can think of nothing helpful that occurred in the days immediately preceding the murder?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Mr. Coleman?”
“I was right out of the whole thing,” said Mr. Coleman with—was it just a shade of regret—in his tone. “I went into Hassanieh yesterday morning to get the money for the men’s wages. When I came back Emmott told me what had happened and I went back in the bus to get the police and Dr. Reilly.”
“And beforehand?”
“Well, sir, things were a bit jumpy—but you know that already. There was the antika room scare and one or two before that—hands and faces at the window—you remember, sir,” he appealed to Dr. Leidner, who bent his head in assent. “I think, you know, that you’ll find some Johnny did get in from outside. Must have been an artful sort of beggar.”
Poirot considered him for a minute or two in silence.
“You are an Englishman, Mr. Coleman?” he asked at last.
“That’s right, sir. All British. See the trademark. Guaranteed genuine.”
“This is your first season?”
“Quite right.”
“And you are passionately keen on archaeology?”
This description of himself seemed to cause Mr. Coleman some embarrassment. He got rather pink and shot the side look of a guilty schoolboy at Dr. Leidner.
“Of course—it’s all very interesting,” he stammered. “I mean—I’m not exactly a brainy chap. . . .”
