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“But Dr. Leidner cannot have killed his wife! He was on the roof all the time.
“And then, one evening, as she herself is on the roof puzzling about it, the truth comes to her in a flash. Mrs. Leidner has been killed from up here, through the open window.
“It was at that minute that Nurse Leatheran found her.
“And immediately, her old affection reasserting itself, she puts up a quick camouflage. Nurse Leatheran must not guess the horrifying discovery she has just made.
“She looks deliberately in the opposite direction (towards the courtyard) and makes a remark suggested to her by Father Lavigny’s appearance as he crosses the courtyard.
“She refuses to say more. She has got to ‘think things out.’
“And Dr. Leidner, who has been watching her anxiously, realizes that she knows the truth. She is not the kind of woman to conceal her horror and distress from him.
“It is true that as yet she has not given him away—but how long can he depend upon her?
“Murder is a habit. That night he substitutes a glass of acid for her glass of water. There is just a chance she may be believed to have deliberately poisoned herself. There is even a chance she may be considered to have done the first murder and has now been overcome with remorse. To strengthen the latter idea he takes the quern from the roof and puts it under her bed.
“No wonder that poor Miss Johnson, in her death agony, could only try desperately to impart her hard-won information. Through ‘the window,’ that is how Mrs. Leidner was killed, not through the door—through the window. . . .
“And so thus, everything is explained, everything falls into place . . . Psychologically perfect.
“But there is no proof . . . No proof at all . . .”
None of us spoke. We were lost in a sea of horror . . . Yes, and not only horror. Pity, too.
Dr. Leidner had neither moved nor spoken. He sat just as he had done all along. A tired, worn elderly man.
At last he stirred slightly and looked at Poirot with gentle, tired eyes.
“No,” he said, “there is no proof. But that does not matter. You knew that I would not deny truth . . . I have never denied truth . . . I think—really—I am rather glad . . . I’m so tired. . . .”
Then he said simply: “I’m sorry about Anne. That was bad—senseless—it wasn’t me! And she suffered, too, poor soul. Yes, that wasn’t me. It was fear. . . .”
A little smile just hovered on his pain-twisted lips.
“You would have made a good archaeologist, M. Poirot. You have the gift of recreating the past.
“It was all very much as you said.
“I loved Louise and I killed her . . . if you’d known Louise you’d have understood . . . No, I think you understand anyway. . . .”
Twenty-nine
L’ENVOI
There isn’t really any more to say about things.
They got “Father” Lavigny and the other man just as they were going to board a steamer at Beyrouth.
Sheila Reilly married young Emmott. I think that will be good for her. He’s no door-mat—he’ll keep her in her place. She’d have ridden roughshod over poor Bill Coleman.
I nursed him, by the way, when he had appendicitis a year ago. I got quite fond of him. His people were sending him out to farm in South Africa.
I’ve never been out East again. It’s funny—sometimes I wish I could. I think of the noise the water-wheel made and the women washing, and that queer haughty look that camels give you—and I get quite a homesick feeling. After all, perhaps dirt isn’t really so unhealthy as one is brought up to believe!
Dr. Reilly usually looks me up when he’s in England, and as I said, it’s he who’s got me into this. “Take it or leave it,” I said to him. “I know the grammar’s all wrong and it’s not properly written or anything like that—but there it is.”
And he took it. Made no bones about it. It will give me a queer feeling if it’s ever printed.
