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Poirot adopted a very confidential, gossipy tone.
“I have heard a rumour (naturally I do not like to ask the doctor) that there was a tendresse between her and one of the members of Dr. Leidner’s staff. Is that so, do you know?”
Miss Johnson appeared rather amused.
“Oh, young Coleman and David Emmott were both inclined to dance attendance. I believe there was some rivalry as to who was to be her partner in some event at the club. Both the boys went in on Saturday evenings to the club as a general rule. But I don’t know that there was anything in it on her side. She’s the only young creature in the place, you know, and so she’s by way of being the belle of it. She’s got the Air Force dancing attendance on her as well.”
“So you think there is nothing in it?”
“Well—I don’t know.” Miss Johnson became thoughtful. “It is true that she comes out this way fairly often. Up to the dig and all that. In fact, Mrs. Leidner was chaffing David Emmott about it the other day—saying the girl was running after him. Which was rather a catty thing to say, I thought, and I don’t think he liked it . . . Yes, she was here a good deal. I saw her riding towards the dig on that awful afternoon.” She nodded her head towards the open window. “But neither David Emmott nor Coleman were on duty that afternoon. Richard Carey was in charge. Yes, perhaps she is attracted to one of the boys—but she’s such a modern unsentimental young woman that one doesn’t know quite how seriously to take her. I’m sure I don’t know which of them it is. Bill’s a nice boy, and not nearly such a fool as he pretends to be. David Emmott is a dear—and there’s a lot to him. He is the deep, quiet kind.”
Then she looked quizzically at Poirot and said: “But has this any bearing on the crime, M. Poirot?”
M. Poirot threw up his hands in a very French fashion.
“You make me blush, mademoiselle,” he said. “You expose me as a mere gossip. But what will you, I am interested always in the love affairs of young people.”
“Yes,” said Miss Johnson with a little sigh. “It’s nice when the course of true love runs smooth.”
Poirot gave an answering sigh. I wondered if Miss Johnson was thinking of some love affair of her own when she was a girl. And I wondered if M. Poirot had a wife, and if he went on in the way you always hear foreigners do, with mistresses and things like that. He looked so comic I couldn’t imagine it.
“Sheila Reilly has a lot of character,” said Miss Johnson. “She’s young and she’s crude, but she’s the right sort.”
“I take your word for it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot.
He got up and said, “Are there any other members of the staff in the house?”
“Marie Mercado is somewhere about. All the men are up on the dig today. I think they wanted to get out of the house. I don’t blame them. If you’d like to go up to the dig—”
She came out on the verandah and said, smiling to me: “Nurse Leatheran won’t mind taking you, I dare say.”
“Oh, certainly, Miss Johnson,” I said.
“And you’ll come back to lunch, won’t you, M. Poirot?”
“Enchanted, mademoiselle.”
Miss Johnson went back into the living room where she was engaged in cataloguing.
“Mrs. Mercado’s on the roof,” I said. “Do you want to see her first?”
“It would be as well, I think. Let us go up.”
As we went up the stairs I said: “I did what you told me. Did you hear anything?”
“Not a sound.”
“That will be a weight off Miss Johnson’s mind at any rate,” I said. “She’s been worrying that she might have done something about it.”
Mrs. Mercado was sitting on the parapet, her head bent down, and she was so deep in thought that she never heard us till Poirot halted opposite her and bade her good morning.
Then she looked up with a start.
She looked ill this morning, I thought, her small face pinched and wizened and great dark circles under her eyes.
“Encore moi,” said Poirot. “I come today with a special object.”
And he went on much in the same way as he had done to Miss Johnson, explaining how necessary it was that he should get a true picture of Mrs. Leidner.
