Free Murder in Mesopotamia by Agatha Christie Page B

“Oh, no! I won't believe it. Perhaps she's committed suicide.”
    “Suicides don't hit themselves on the head,” I said dryly. “It's murder all right, Mrs. Mercado.”
    She sat down suddenly on an upturned packing-case.
    She said, “Oh, but this is horrible - horrible...”
    Naturally it was horrible. We didn't need her to tell us so! I wondered if perhaps she was feeling a bit remorseful for the harsh feelings she had harboured against the dead woman, and all the spiteful things she had said.
    After a minute or two she asked rather breathlessly:
    “What are you going to do?”
    Mr. Emmott took charge in his quiet way.
    “Bill, you'd better get in again to Hassanieh as quick, as you can. I don't know much about the proper procedure. Better get hold of Captain Maitland, he's in charge of the police here, I think. Get Dr. Reilly first. He'll know what to do.”
    Mr. Coleman nodded. All the facetiousness was knocked out of him. He just looked young and frightened. Without a word he jumped into the station wagon and drove off.
    Mr. Emmott said rather uncertainly, “I suppose we ought to have a hunt round.” He raised his voice and called:
    “Ibrahim!”
    “Na'am.”
    The house-boy came running. Mr. Emmott spoke to him in Arabic. A vigorous colloquy passed between them. The boy seemed to be emphatically denying something.
    At last Mr. Emmott said in a perplexed voice:
    “He says there's not been a soul here this afternoon. No stranger of any kind. I suppose the fellow must have slipped in without their seeing him.”
    “Of course he did,” said Mrs. Mercado. “He slunk in when the boys weren't looking.”
    “Yes,” said Mr. Emmott.
    The slight uncertainty in his voice made me look at him inquiringly.
    He turned and spoke to the little pot-boy, Abdullah, asking him a question.
    The boy replied vehemently at length.
    The puzzled frown on Mr. Emmott's brow increased.
    “I don't understand it,” he murmured under his breath. “I don't understand it at all.”
    But he didn't tell me what he didn't understand.

Murder in Mesopotamia

Chapter 11
    AN ODD BUSINESS
    I'm adhering as far as possible to telling only my personal part in the business. I pass over the events of the next two hours, the arrival of Captain Maitland and the police and Dr. Reilly. There was a good deal of general confusion, questioning, all the routine business, I suppose.
    In my opinion we began to get down to brass tacks about five o'clock when Dr. Reilly asked me to come with him into the office.
    He shut the door, sat down in Dr. Leidner's chair, motioned me to sit down opposite him, and said briskly:
    “Now, then, nurse, let's get down to it. There's something damned odd here.”
    I settled my cuffs and looked at him inquiringly.
    He drew out a notebook.
    “This is for my own satisfaction. Now, what time was it exactly when Dr. Leidner found his wife's body?”
    “I should say it was almost exactly a quarter to three,” I said.
    “And how do you know that?”
    “Well, I looked at my watch when I got up. It was twenty to three then.”
    “Let's have a look at this watch of yours.”
    I slipped it off my wrist and held it out to him.
    “Right to the minute. Excellent woman. Good, that's that fixed. Now did you form any opinion as to how long she'd been dead?”
    “Oh, really, doctor,” I said, “I shouldn't like to say.”
    “Don't be so professional. I want to see if your estimate agrees with mine.”
    “Well, I should say she'd been dead at least an hour.”
    “Quite so. I examined the body at half-past four and I'm inclined to put the time of death between 1.15 and 1.45. We'll say half-past one at a guess. That's near enough.”
    He stopped and drummed thoughtfully with his fingers on the table.
    “Damned odd, this business,” he said. “Can you tell me about it - you were resting, you say? Did you hear anything?”
    “At half-past one? No, doctor. I didn't hear anything at half-past one or at any other time. I lay on my