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“Do you mean he faked it? Didn’t know you could fake an actual squint.”
Poirot merely said: “A squint can be a very useful thing.”
“The devil it can! I’d give a lot to know where that fellow is now, squint or no squint!”
“At a guess,” said Poirot, “he has already passed the Syrian frontier.”
“We’ve warned Tell Kotchek and Abu Kemal—all the frontier posts, in fact.”
“I should imagine that he took the route through the hills. The route lorries sometimes take when running contraband.”
Captain Maitland grunted.
“Then we’d better telegraph Deir ez Zor?”
“I did so yesterday—warning them to look out for a car with two men in it whose passports will be in the most impeccable order.”
Captain Maitland favoured him with a stare.
“You did, did you? Two men—eh?”
Poirot nodded.
“There are two men in this.”
“It strikes me, M. Poirot, that you’ve been keeping quite a lot of things up your sleeve.”
Poirot shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Not really. The truth came to me only this morning when I was watching the sunrise. A very beautiful sunrise.”
I don’t think that any of us had noticed that Mrs. Mercado was in the room. She must have crept in when we were all taken aback by the production of that horrible great bloodstained stone.
But now, without the least warning, she set up a noise like a pig having its throat cut.
“Oh, my God!” she cried. “I see it all. I see it all now. It was Father Lavigny. He’s mad—religious mania. He thinks women are sinful. He’s killing them all. First Mrs. Leidner—then Miss Johnson. And next it will be me. . . .”
With a scream of frenzy she flung herself across the room and clutched Dr. Reilly’s coat.
“I won’t stay here, I tell you! I won’t stay here a day longer. There’s danger. There’s danger all round. He’s hiding somewhere—waiting his time. He’ll spring out on me!”
Her mouth opened and she began screaming again.
I hurried over to Dr. Reilly, who had caught her by the wrists. I gave her a sharp slap on each cheek and with Dr. Reilly’s help I sat her down in a chair.
“Nobody’s going to kill you,” I said. “We’ll see to that. Sit down and behave yourself.”
She didn’t scream any more. Her mouth closed and she sat looking at me with startled, stupid eyes.
Then there was another interruption. The door opened and Sheila Reilly came in.
Her face was pale and serious. She came straight to Poirot.
“I was at the post office early, M. Poirot,” she said, “and there was a telegram there for you—so I brought it along.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle.”
He took it from her and tore it open while she watched his face.
