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“Yes, yes, I see what you mean,” said Mr. Reiter. “But indeed, I do not see that I can be much help to you. I am new here this season and I did not speak much with Mrs. Leidner. I regret, but indeed I can tell you nothing.”
There was something a little stiff and foreign in the way he spoke, though, of course, he hadn’t got any accent—except an American one, I mean.
“You can at least tell me whether you liked or disliked her?” said Poirot with a smile.
Mr. Reiter got quite red and stammered: “She was a charming person—most charming. And intellectual. She had a very fine brain—yes.”
“Bien! You liked her. And she liked you?”
Mr. Reiter got redder still.
“Oh, I—I don’t know that she noticed me much. And I was unfortunate once or twice. I was always unlucky when I tried to do anything for her. I’m afraid I annoyed her by my clumsiness. It was quite unintentional . . . I would have done anything—”
Poirot took pity on his flounderings.
“Perfectly—perfectly. Let us pass to another matter. Was it a happy atmosphere in the house?”
“Please?”
“Were you all happy together? Did you laugh and talk?”
“No—no, not exactly that. There was a little—stiffness.”
He paused, struggling with himself, and then said: “You see, I am not very good in company. I am clumsy. I am shy. Dr. Leidner always he has been most kind to me. But—it is stupid—I cannot overcome my shyness. I say always the wrong thing. I upset water jugs. I am unlucky.”
He really looked like a large awkward child.
“We all do these things when we are young,” said Poirot, smiling. “The poise, the savoir faire, it comes later.”
Then with a word of farewell we walked on.
He said: “That, ma soeur, is either an extremely simple young man or a very remarkable actor.”
I didn’t answer. I was caught up once more by the fantastic notion that one of these people was a dangerous and cold-blooded murderer. Somehow, on this beautiful still sunny morning it seemed impossible.
Twenty-one
MR. MERCADO, RICHARD CAREY
“They work in two separate places, I see,” said Poirot, halting.
Mr. Reiter had been doing his photography on an outlying portion of the main excavation. A little distance away from us a second swarm of men were coming and going with baskets.
“That’s what they call the deep cut,” I explained. “They don’t find much there, nothing but rubbishy broken pottery, but Dr. Leidner always says it’s very interesting, so I suppose it must be.”
“Let us go there.”
We walked together slowly, for the sun was hot.
Mr. Mercado was in command. We saw him below us talking to the foreman, an old man like a tortoise who wore a tweed coat over his long striped cotton gown.
It was a little difficult to get down to them as there was only a narrow path or stair and basketboys were going up and down it constantly, and they always seemed to be as blind as bats and never to think of getting out of the way.
As I followed Poirot down he said suddenly over his shoulder: “Is Mr. Mercado right-handed or left-handed?”
Now that was an extraordinary question if you like!
I thought a minute, then: “Right-handed,” I said decisively.
