Murder in Mesopotamia by Agatha Christie

him very well, but I endeavoured to keep up a conversation so as to improve my Arabic. I thought, perhaps, that being a townee he would understand me better than the men on the dig do.”
    “Did you converse about anything else?”
    “As far as I remember, I said Hassanieh was a big town - and we then agreed that Baghdad was bigger - and I think he asked whether I was an Armenian or a Syrian Catholic - something of that kind.”
    Poirot nodded.
    “Can you describe him?”
    Again Father Lavigny frowned in thought.
    “He was rather a short man,” he said at last, “and squarely built. He had a very noticeable squint and was of fair complexion.”
    Mr. Poirot turned to me.
    “Does that agree with the way you would describe him?” he asked.
    “Not exactly,” I said hesitatingly. “I should have said he was tall rather than short, and very dark complexioned. He seemed to me of a rather slender build. I didn't notice any squint.”
    Mr. Poirot gave a despairing shrug of the shoulders.
    “It is always so! If you were of the police how well you would know it! The description of the same man by two different people - never does it agree. Every detail is contradicted.”
    “I'm fairly sure about the squint,” said Father Lavigny. “Nurse Leatheran may be right about the other points. By the way, when I said fair, I only meant fair for an Iraqi. I expect nurse would call that dark.”
    “Very dark,” I said obstinately. “A dirty dark-yellow colour.”
    I saw Dr. Reilly bite his lip and smile.
    Poirot threw up his hands.
    “Passons!” he said. “This stranger hanging about, he may be important - he may not. At any rate he must be found. Let us continue our inquiry.”
    He hesitated for a minute, studying the faces turned towards him round the table, then, with a quick nod, he singled out Mr. Reiter.
    “Come, my friend,” he said. “Let us have your account of yesterday afternoon.”
    Mr. Reiter's pink, plumb face flushed scarlet.
    “Me?” he said.
    “Yes, you. To begin with, your name and your age?”
    “Carl Reiter, twenty-eight.”
    “American - yes?”
    “Yes, I come from Chicago.”
    “This is your first season?”
    “Yes. I'm in charge of the photography.”
    “Ah, yes. And yesterday afternoon, how did you employ yourself?”
    “Well - I was in the dark-room most of the time.”
    “Most of the time - eh?”
    “Yes. I developed some plates first. Afterwards I was fixing up some objects to photograph.”
    “Outside?”
    “Oh, no, in the photographic room.”
    “The dark-room opens out of the photographic room?”
    “Yes.”
    “And so you never came outside the photographic room?”
    “No.”
    “Did you notice anything that went on in the courtyard?”
    The young man shook his head.
    “I wasn't noticing anything,” he explained. “I was busy. I heard the car come back, and as soon as I could leave what I was doing I came out to see if there was any mail. It was then that I - heard.”
    “And you began your work in the photographic room - when?”
    “At ten minutes to one.”
    “Were you acquainted with Mrs. Leidner before you joined this expedition?”
    The young man shook his head.
    “No, sir. I never saw her till I actually got here.”
    “Can you think of anything - any incident - however small - that might help us?”
    Carl Reiter shook his head.
    He said helplessly:
    “I guess I don't know anything at all, sir.”
    “Mr. Emmott?”
    David Emmott spoke clearly and concisely in his pleasant soft American voice.
    “I was working with the pottery from a quarter to one till a quarter to three - overseeing the boy Abdullah, sorting it, and occasionally going up to the roof to help Dr. Leidner.”
    “How often did you go up to the roof?”
    “Four times, I think.”
    “For how long?”
    “Usually a couple of minutes - not more. But on one occasion after I'd been working a little over half an hour I stayed as long as ten minutes - discussing what to keep and what to fling