Murder in Mesopotamia

Miss Reilly said: ‘That’s rather clever of you, M. Poirot. It’s certainly true that if ever a woman deserved to be murdered Mrs Leidner was that woman!’

‘Miss Reilly!’ I cried, scandalized.

She laughed, a short, nasty laugh.

‘Ah!’ she said. ‘I thought you hadn’t been hearing quite the truth. Nurse Leatheran, I’m afraid, was quite taken in, like many other people. Do you know, M. Poirot, I rather hope that this case isn’t going to be one of your successes. I’d quite like the murderer of Louise Leidner to get away with it. In fact, I wouldn’t much have objected to putting her out of the way myself.’

I was simply disgusted with the girl. M. Poirot, I must say, didn’t turn a hair. He just bowed and said quite pleasantly:

‘I hope, then, that you have an alibi for yesterday afternoon?’

There was a moment’s silence and Miss Reilly’s racquet went clattering down on to the floor. She didn’t bother to pick it up. Slack and untidy like all her sort! She said in a rather breathless voice: ‘Oh, yes, I was playing tennis at the club. But, seriously, M. Poirot, I wonder if you know anything at all about Mrs Leidner and the kind of woman she was?’

Again he made a funny little bow and said: ‘You shall inform me, mademoiselle.’

She hesitated a minute and then spoke with a callousness and lack of decency that really sickened me.

‘There’s a convention that one doesn’t speak ill of the dead. That’s stupid, I think. The truth’s always the truth. On the whole it’s better to keep your mouth shut about living people. You might conceivably injure them. The dead are past that. But the harm they’ve done lives after them sometimes. Not quite a quotation from Shakespeare but very nearly! Has nurse told you of the queer atmosphere there was at Tell Yarimjah? Has she told you how jumpy they all were? And how they all used to glare at each other like enemies? That was Louise Leidner’s doing. When I was a kid out here three years ago they were the happiest, jolliest lot imaginable. Even last year they were pretty well all right. But this year there was a blight over them – and it was her doing. She was the kind of woman who won’t let anybody else be happy! There are women like that and she was one of them! She wanted to break up things always. Just for fun – or for the sense of power – or perhaps just because she was made that way. And she was the kind of woman who had to get hold of every male creature within reach!’

‘Miss Reilly,’ I cried, ‘I don’t think that’s true. In fact I know it isn’t.’

She went on without taking the least notice of me.

‘It wasn’t enough for her to have her husband adore her. She had to make a fool of that long-legged shambling idiot of a Mercado. Then she got hold of Bill. Bill’s a sensible cove, but she was getting him all mazed and bewildered. Carl Reiter she just amused herself by tormenting. It was easy. He’s a sensitive boy. And she had a jolly good go at David.

‘David was better sport to her because he put up a fight. He felt her charm – but he wasn’t having any. I think because he’d got sense enough to know that she didn’t really care a damn. And that’s why I hate her so. She’s not sensual. She doesn’t want affairs. It’s just cold-blooded experiment on her part and the fun of stirring people up and setting them against each other. She dabbled in that too. She’s the sort of woman who’s never had a row with anyone in her life – but rows always happen where she is! She makes them happen. She’s a kind of female Iago. She must have drama. But she doesn’t want to be involved herself. She’s always outside pulling strings – looking on – enjoying it. Oh, do you see at all what I mean?’

‘I see, perhaps, more than you know, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot.

I couldn’t make his voice out. He didn’t sound indignant. He sounded – oh, well, I can’t explain it.

Sheila Reilly seemed to understand, for she flushed all over her face.

‘You can think what you choose,’ she said. ‘But I’m right about her. She was a clever woman and she was bored and she experimented – with people – like other people experiment with chemicals. She enjoyed working on poor old Johnson’s feelings and seeing her bite on the bullet and control herself like the old sport she is. She liked goading little Mercado into a white-hot frenzy. She liked flicking me on the raw – and she could do it too, every time! She liked finding out things about people and holding it over them. Oh, I don’t mean crude blackmail – I mean just letting them know that she knew – and leaving them uncertain what she meant to do about it. My God, though, that woman was an artist! There was nothing crude about her methods!’

‘And her husband?’ asked Poirot.