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M. Poirot went on: “Was not Dr. Leidner distressed that you and his wife did not get on together better?”
Carey hesitated a minute before saying: “Really—I’m not sure. He never said anything. I always hoped he didn’t notice it. He was very wrapped up in his work, you know.”
“So the truth, according to you, is that you did not really like Mrs. Leidner?”
Carey shrugged his shoulders.
“I should probably have liked her very much if she hadn’t been Leidner’s wife.”
He laughed as though amused by his own statement.
Poirot was arranging a little heap of broken potsherds. He said in a dreamy, faraway voice: “I talked to Miss Johnson this morning. She admitted that she was prejudiced against Mrs. Leidner and did not like her very much, although she hastened to add that Mrs. Leidner had always been charming to her.”
“All quite true, I should say,” said Carey.
“So I believed. Then I had a conversation with Mrs. Mercado. She told me at great length how devoted she had been to Mrs. Leidner and how much she had admired her.”
Carey made no answer to this, and after waiting a minute or two Poirot went on: “That—I did not believe! Then I come to you and that which you tell me—well, again—I do not believe. . . .”
Carey stiffened. I could hear the anger—repressed anger—in his voice.
“I really cannot help your beliefs—or your disbeliefs, M. Poirot. You’ve heard the truth and you can take it or leave it as far as I am concerned.”
Poirot did not grow angry. Instead he sounded particularly meek and depressed.
“Is it my fault what I do—or do not believe? I have a sensitive ear, you know. And then—there are always plenty of stories going about—rumours floating in the air. One listens—and perhaps—one learns something! Yes, there are stories. . . .”
Carey sprang to his feet. I could see clearly a little pulse that beat in his temple. He looked simply splendid! So lean and so brown—and that wonderful jaw, hard and square. I don’t wonder women fell for that man.
“What stories?” he asked savagely.
Poirot looked sideways at him.
“Perhaps you can guess. The usual sort of story—about you and Mrs. Leidner.”
“What foul minds people have!”
“N’est-ce pas? They are like dogs. However deep you bury an unpleasantness a dog will always root it up again.”
“And you believe these stories?”
“I am willing to be convinced—of the truth,” said Poirot gravely.
“I doubt if you’d know the truth if you heard it,” Carey laughed rudely.
“Try me and see,” said Poirot, watching him.
“I will then! You shall have the truth! I hated Louise Leidner—there’s the truth for you! I hated her like hell!”
Twenty-two
DAVID EMMOTT, FATHER
LAVIGNY AND A DISCOVERY
Turning abruptly away, Carey strode off with long, angry strides.
Poirot sat looking after him and presently he murmured: “Yes—I see. . . .”
