Emmott gave a sudden grin.

‘No. Pretty little jabs with an embroidery needle-that was her method. He was irritating, of course. Just like some blubbering, poor-spirited kid. But a needle’s a painful weapon.’

I stole a glance at Poirot and thought I detected a slight quiver of his lips.

‘But you don’t really believe that Carl Reiter killed her?’ he asked.

‘No. I don’t believe you’d kill a woman because she persistently made you look a fool at every meal.’

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.

Of course, Mr Emmott made Mrs Leidner sound quite inhuman. There was something to be said on the other side too.

There had been something terribly irritating about Mr Reiter’s attitude. He jumped when she spoke to him, and did idiotic things like passing her the marmalade again and again when he knew she never ate it. I’d have felt inclined to snap at him a bit myself.

Men don’t understand how their mannerisms can get on women’s nerves so that you feel you just have to snap.

I thought I’d just mention that to Mr Poirot some time.

We had arrived back now and Mr Emmott offered Poirot a wash and took him into his room.

I hurried across the courtyard to mine.

I came out again about the same time they did and we were all making for the dining-room when Father Lavigny appeared in the doorway of his room and invited Poirot in.

Mr Emmott came on round and he and I went into the dining-room together. Miss Johnson and Mrs Mercado were there already, and after a few minutes Mr Mercado, Mr Reiter and Bill Coleman joined us.

We were just sitting down and Mercado had told the Arab boy to tell Father Lavigny lunch was ready when we were all startled by a faint, muffled cry.

I suppose our nerves weren’t very good yet, for we all jumped, and Miss Johnson got quite pale and said: ‘What was that? What’s happened?’

Mrs Mercado stared at her and said: ‘My dear, what is the matter with you? It’s some noise outside in the fields.’

But at that minute Poirot and Father Lavigny came in.

‘We thought someone was hurt,’ Miss Johnson said.

‘A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,’ cried Poirot. ‘The fault is mine. Father Lavigny, he explains to me some tablets, and I take one to the window to see better – and, ma foi, not looking where I was going, I steb the toe, and the pain is sharp for the moment and I cry out.’

‘We thought it was another murder,’ said Mrs Mercado, laughing.

‘Marie!’ said her husband.

His tone was reproachful and she flushed and bit her lip.

Miss Johnson hastily turned the conversation to the dig and what objects of interest had turned up that morning. Conversation all through lunch was sternly archaeological.

I think we all felt it was the safest thing.

After we had had coffee we adjourned to the living-room. Then the men, with the exception of Father Lavigny, went off to the dig again.

Father Lavigny took Poirot through into the antika-room and I went with them. I was getting to know the things pretty well by now and I felt a thrill of pride – almost as though it were my own property – when Father Lavigny took down the gold cup and I heard Poirot’s exclamation of admiration and pleasure.

‘How beautiful! What a work of art!’

Father Lavigny agreed eagerly and began to point out its beauties with real enthusiasm and knowledge.

‘No wax on it today,’ I said.

‘Wax?’ Poirot stared at me.

‘Wax?’ So did Father Lavigny.

I explained my remark.

‘Ah, je comprends,’ said Father Lavigny. ‘Yes, yes, candle grease.’

That led direct to the subject of the midnight visitor. Forgetting my presence they both dropped into French, and I left them together and went back into the living-room.

Mrs Mercado was darning her husband’s socks and Miss Johnson was reading a book. Rather an unusual thing for her. She usually seemed to have something to work at.

After a while Father Lavigny and Poirot came out, and the former excused himself on the score of work. Poirot sat down with us.

‘A most interesting man,’ he said, and asked how much work there had been for Father Lavigny to do so far.

Miss Johnson explained that tablets had been scarce and that there had been very few inscribed bricks or cylinder seals. Father Lavigny, however, had done his share of work on the dig and was picking up colloquial Arabic very fast.

That led the talk to cylinder seals, and presently Miss Johnson fetched from a cupboard a sheet of impressions made by rolling them out on plasticine.

I realized as we bent over them, admiring the spirited designs, that these must be what she had been working at on that fatal afternoon.

As we talked I noticed that Poirot was rolling and kneading a little ball of plasticine between his fingers.

‘You use a lot of plasticine, mademoiselle?’ he asked.

‘A fair amount. We seem to have got through a lot already this year – though I can’t imagine how. But half our supply seems to have gone.’

‘Where is it kept, mademoiselle?’

‘Here – in this cupboard.’

As she replaced the sheet of impressions she showed him the shelf with rolls of plasticine, Durofix, photographic paste and other stationery supplies.

Poirot stooped down.

‘And this – what is this, mademoiselle?’

He had slipped his hand right to the back and had brought out a curious crumpled object.

As he straightened it out we could see that it was a kind of mask, with eyes and mouth crudely painted on it in Indian ink and the whole thing roughly smeared with plasticine.

‘How perfectly extraordinary!’ cried Miss Johnson. ‘I’ve never seen it before. How did it get there? And what is it?’

‘As to how it got there, well, one hiding-place is as good as another, and I presume that this cupboard would not have been turned out till the end of the season. As to what it is – that, too, I think, is not difficult to say.We have here the face that Mrs Leidner described. The ghostly face seen in the semi-dusk outside her window – without body attached.’

Mrs Mercado gave a little shriek.

Miss Johnson was white to the lips. She murmured: ‘Then it was not fancy. It was a trick – a wicked trick! But who played it?’

‘Yes,’ cried Mrs Mercado. ‘Who could have done such a wicked, wicked thing?’

Poirot did not attempt a reply. His face was very grim as he went into the next room, returned with an empty cardboard box in his hand and put the crumpled mask into it.

‘The police must see this,’ he explained.

‘It’s horrible,’ said Miss Johnson in a low voice. ‘Horrible!’

‘Do you think everything’s hidden here somewhere?’ cried Mrs Mercado shrilly. ‘Do you think perhaps the weapon – the club she was killed with – all covered with blood still, perhaps…Oh! I’m frightened – I’m frightened…’

Miss Johnson gripped her by the shoulder.

‘Be quiet,’ she said fiercely. ‘Here’s Dr Leidner. We mustn’t upset him.’

Indeed, at that very moment the car had driven into the courtyard. Dr Leidner got out of it and came straight across and in at the living-room door. His face was set in lines of fatigue and he looked twice the age he had three days ago.

He said in a quiet voice: ‘The funeral will be at eleven o’clock tomorrow. Major Deane will read the service.’

Mrs Mercado faltered something, then slipped out of the room.

Dr Leidner said to Miss Johnson: ‘You’ll come, Anne?’

And she answered: ‘Of course, my dear, we’ll all come. Naturally.’

She didn’t say anything else, but her face must have expressed what her tongue was powerless to do, for his face lightened up with affection and a momentary ease.

‘Dear Anne,’ he said. ‘You are such a wonderful comfort and help to me. My dear old friend.’

He laid his hand on her arm and I saw the red colour creep up in her face as she muttered, gruff as ever: ‘That’s all right.’