Murder Killing
1 Letter
The WaKtU was June 1935. I came back from my farm in South America to live for six months in England. It was a difficult moment for us there. Like everyone else, we are also affected by the depression that hit the world. There are things I have to deal with in England, which I feel will only do well if I handle it myself. My wife lives to take care of the farm.
Needless to say, the one thing I want to do when I get to England is visit my old friend, Hercule Poirot.
I met him at his new home, one of London's most recent forms of lat models. I accuse him (and he acknowledges that fact) of choosing this building solely for its geometric appearance and arrangement.
”But it's true, man, this place is a symmetrical building that's the most fun. Don't you feel it?”
I said that I thought this building was too much of a checkered impression and while offending an old joke I asked, whether in this super modern building they are able to persuade the hens to produce a square egg.
Poirot laughed.
”Ah, do you remember that? Whoa! No science has yet succeeded in persuading the hens to like modern tastes, they still produce eggs of different sizes and colors!”
I looked at my best friend with a dear look. She looked perfectly healthy not a day, looking older than the last time I saw her.
”You're in top shape, Poirot,” I said. ”Same doesn't seem to get older. In fact, if possible, I dare to say that your gray hair is less than when I last saw you.”
Poirot was beaming at me.
”And why is that impossible? The reality is so.”
”You mean, your hair can change from gray hair to black, and not the other way around?”
”Persis so.”
”But scientifically it's impossible!” ”Samely no.”
”But it was amazing. As if against nature.”
”As usual, Hastings, you have a clean mind, free from suspicion. Years
passing by doesn't change your nature! You see a fact and express the solution in the same breath, without realizing that that is what you are doing!”
I looked at him full of question marks.
Without a word she walked into her bedroom and came back with a bottle in hand, then gave it to me.
I took it, for a moment did not understand his mother-sud.
It says there:
REVIVIT— To restore the natural color of your hair. REVIVIT is not a dye. Available in five shades, gray, dark reddish brown, golden red, brown, and black.
”Poirot,” I shouted. ”You have dyed your hair!” ”Ah, now you understand.”
”So that's why your hair looks blacker than the last time I came back.”
”Betul.”
”Jeez,” my heartbroken, having recovered from the shock. ”I think next time I come here again, you'll wear a fake moustache or, have you worn it now?”
Poirot whining. His mustache was a very sensitive thing for him. He was so proud of his own. My words offended him.
”No, certainly not, mon ami. I pray that
that's never gonna happen. Fake mustache! Horreur quelle! Horrible!”
She pulled her mustache hard to convince myself that it was real.
”Wah, it turns out your mustache is still thick,”. ”N’esterepas? Never been in the whole
this corner of London I saw a pair of mustaches like mine.”
Tidy, I thought in my heart. But I don't want to offend Poirot by saying those words.
I even asked him if he still occasionally runs his profession.
”I know,” I said, ”that you actually retired a few years ago”
”C’est vrai. Right. To plant sweet squash! And suddenly there was a murder and I let the sweet gourd get buried by itself. And since then I know very well what you're going to say I'm like a prima donna who steadily put on her last show! But that last show happened over and over again, countless times already!”
I'm snapping.
”In reality it is. I said many times: This is the last one, but there is always something that comes up! And I'll admit, man, I didn't spare a single moment in my mind to retire. These little gray cells will rust when not trained.”
”Betul,” I said. ”You train it with medium tempo only.”
”True. I picked and chose. For Hercule Poirot, now this is just a special criminal case.”
”Are there many special cases lately?” ”Pas mall.
Appreciable. Not long ago I was almost wretched.”
”Because of failure?”
”Not, not.” Poirot looks surprised. ”But I—aku, Hercule Poirot, almost gone.”
I whistle.
”A snapper-class killer!”
”Cannot be said snapper because of his boredom,” said Poirot. ”Persis so teledor. But there's no need to talk about it. You know, Hastings, in many ways I consider you my mascot.”
”Oh yes?” I said. ”In what way?”
Poirot didn't answer my question right away. He continued, ”As soon as I heard you were coming, I said to myself: Something is going to happen. As in the past, we will hunt together, the two of us. But if so, the problem should be endemic, not mediocre.” He moved his hand excitedly. ”Something that recherce smooth soft..” He said the last unexplainable word in an affirming style.
”Jeez, Poirot,”. ”Anyone will think you're ordering dinner at Ritz.”
”When people are unlikely to order a crime. Yes so it is.” He's sighing.
”But I per-
put your luck on fate, if you want. It is your fate to walk beside me and prevent me from making unforgivable mistakes.” ”And you think, what a mistake
can't you forgive that?” ”Ignore reality.”
”Dan,” I said smile, ”does that special evil already appear?”
”Pas encore not yet. At least so”
He paused for a moment. A wrinkle of confusion adorned his forehead. His hand automatically straightened back objects that were tilted because it touched my hand accidentally.
”I'm not sure,” he said slowly.
There was something odd in her tone so I looked at her in wonder.
The wrinkles on his forehead are still visible.
Suddenly with a small nod convinced him to walk across the room to a drawer table near the window whose contents were neatly arranged, so that he could easily find the file of the letter he wanted.
Poirot stood in front of me again, with an open letter in his hand.
He read it to himself, then handed it to me.
”Say, mon ami,” he said. ”What do you think about this.”
I took it, I was interested.
On a piece of white paper is quite thick, it is written with printed letters:
Mr. Hercule Poirot you assume you can solve a mist riymystery that's even too complicated for our stupid British police, right? Let's prove it, Mr. Clever Poirot, get to where your cleverness is. Maybe for you this case is not too difficult to solve. Beware of what will happen in Andover on the 21st of this month.
Respect to me, though,
ABC
I glanced at the cover of the letter, which was also written in printed letters.
”Cap post W.C.1,” said Poirot, when I noticed the stamp. ”Well, what do you think?”
I shrugged as I handed the letter back to her.
”I think people are crazy or something.”
”Is that all you can reveal?”
”Well, is it not the work of a madman for you?”
”Betul, Friend, right so.”
His tone was grim. I looked at him with curiosity.
”You take it seriously, Poirot.”
”Crazy people, mon ami, should be taken seriously. Crazy people are dangerous.”
”Of course it's true.
that facet... But what I mean, it feels like a dumb prank. Maybe most people drink.”
”Comment? Drinkies? Drink what?”
”Drink liquor, of course. I mean drunk people.”
”Merci, Hastings phrase ’mabuk’ I've heard so often. Like you said, maybe nothing more than that.”.
”But you think, more?” tanyaku, struck by his tone of dissatisfaction.
Poirot shook his head in doubt, but said nothing.
”What have you done about this?” my many.
”What can be done? Show it to Japp. He has the same opinion as you, that stupid joke that's the term he uses. In Scotland Yard they face these kinds of things every day. I also got my share..”.
”But you take this one seriously?” Poirot answered slowly.
”There was something about the letter, Hastings, that I didn't like.”.
His tone impressed me. ”What do you think?”
He shook his head, took the letter, and put it back on the writing table.
”If you really take it seriously, can't you do something?” my many.
”As usual, active action! But, what is
doable? The police had seen the letter, but they did not take it seriously either. No fingerprints on the letter. There are no signs indicating the possibility of who the author is.”
”Which there is only your own instinct?”
”Not instinct, Hastings. Instinct is not the right word. More precise is my knowledge of my experience telling me that something was wrong in the letter”
He showed a hand signal, after failing to get the words he wanted, then shook his head again.
”Maybe I exaggerated the issue. Whatever the case, there is nothing more to do, except wait.”
”Yes, the 21st is Friday. If massive sewer-vacation occurs around Andover, then”
”Ah, if it can be said light!”
”Ringan?” I glare. That word is too amazing to use.
”The robbery can be a sensation, but it's never light!” my protest.
Poirot shook his head excitedly.
”You're wrong, man. You don't understand what I mean. A robbery will be a relief, because it can eliminate my worries about something greater.”
”For example?”
”Murder,” Hercule Poirot.
