Poirot 2013
The characters belong to Agatha Christie, but the way they are handled and portrayed belongs to me, I'm not making any money out of this so please don't sue.
…
It was the end of autumn in the city of Buenos Aires, the former Captain Hastings looked at the window of his luxurious apartment in the exclusive neighborhood of Recoleta. Below hundreds of Argentineans and people of many other nationalities walked around the crowded street, immersed on their usually hectic lives. Hastings could never describe them as dull for he thought they could feel, inspire and generate from the most passionate love to the worst hatred, nothing could be considered neutral around them. Every discussion or statement usually triggered fiery debates and arguments; they could help with candor any stranger on the street or rudely insult any other without the mildest consideration. The Argentineans were a passionate, rude, tough, aggressive, kind, loyal and loud lot and he would miss every single one of them.
His friend Seth entered his apartment holding two heavy bags, he told him sadly:
-"Well this is the last one; Dulcie says all your remaining things are here"-
Hastings felt a dull pain on his chest, he had expected at least a fight about their material goods but there wasn't. All she wanted was to get through the divorce as quick as possible.
-"This is it… isn't it?"- Hastings said defeated. Seth knew the statement had nothing to do with the final knick knacks of what used to be his friend's marriage.
-"Sorry man, you know what they say 'bout marriage, only 50% last. And in Buenos Aires I think it's even less. I think going back to London will be good for you sometimes the motherland can cure some of the 'old wounds"-
-"You ever considered going back to the US?"- The only reason they became friends was because both of them were "gringos" on the southamerican country. He wondered whether they would still be friends after he left.
-"Hell no! I love it here and if I went home I'll go straight to Miami or something because you know I can't live without some good Latin booty!"- The happily loyal married man said as if he were the Casanova he pretended to be. –"soo… what are you planning to do after you get to London?"-
-"I told you, I'll stay with my mate from the military Poirot, it will be just until I find a place to settle in then I guess I'll start over"-
-"That prissy little Belgian? By the way you describe him I don't understand how you two got along in Afghanistan."-
-"Well you know how it is on the army, I pulled her out of a jeep on fire and she alerted me of an enemy attack before they could strike saving my entire company. It's the kind of thing that bonds you for good with another person"-
-"Wow pull back a second. You pulled her out of a jeep and she alerted you? Sonufabitch are you saying you'll nurse your wounded heart with a female friend from the past? And I thought you were a helpless little pup, you're a total dog!"-
The English man sighed, he had been careful not to tell Seth that Poirot was a woman for he knew he'll react that way.
-"I was nothing like that, I was married to Dulcie when I went to Afghanistan and never cheated on my wife, if anything I believe we became friends because I was the only one that truly respected her"-
-"But you are divorced now"- Seth said with a coy smile
-"And nothing will change between me and Poirot, I respect her as I did back in the day we are only friends, I don't even expect you to understand it"-
-"I completely understand"- The American said sober –"She must be really ugly"-
Hastings considered leaving it that way; he wasn't in the mood to discuss his relationship with the opposite sex. But then he thought of how unfair was that comment. –"She's not ugly"-
-"Show me a picture"- His friend said
Hastings shuffled through his wallet and found a small picture of him with the woman in question. It was taken the last day they spent on the field, a hopeful moment he chose to preserve close to his heart.
-"Are you kidding me? Granted she's no ten and in those military rags she's a seven but with some decent clothing and perking up she could pass up for at least and eight, specially with that gorgeous ass!"-
-"How could you tell that? The picture shows us from the shoulders up"-
Seth did a bad impression of Sherlock Holmes with a fake English accent:
-"Elementary my dear Arthur: First she's a little on the chunky side so that guarantees an ample volume on the posterior region, second her shoulders are muscular which means her ass is not only big but also quite firm and third and most important, you asked how did I know instead of saying no she does not!"-
They laughed about it for a while, the first laughs he had in quite some time.
…..
The flight to London was long and depressing; he had thirteen hours to mentally relive all the rights and wrongs of his marriage. He had also been concerned about how would he relate to Poirot out of the military ambient, they had nothing in common and he often though that her meticulous and petulant ways were annoying. What was worse it that she did have good reasons to be that way for she possessed a bright mind and ambitious character.
But there is no turning back now, annoying or not Poirot was there for him in a time of need she couldn't be that bad.
He arrived in his natal city tired and in a bad mood; he hoped that wherever she lived his friend had a nice bath where he could shower and scrub of some of his jet lag. He scanned the large amount of people outside the gate, he had kept in touch with her via mail for years but he didn't know how she looked right now. Given her love for gourmet food he wouldn't be surprised if she gained a few pounds and he expected to see her using a cane since she was forced to early retirement due to a severe wound on her right knee, product of an explosion on the battlefield.
Her face was exotic and he had no problem recognizing her deep brown piercing eyes, she hadn't changed one bit. The jet black long hair fell lustrous on her shoulders instead of the rigid bun she used on the field and her expensive delicate suit fit her perfectly, she had always liked the fine things of life. In his head he could almost hear Seth cheering "I told you man! She's a total eight" Arthur shook his head clearing away the inappropriate thoughts.
-"Bienvenue mon cher ami"- She said sweetly, he kissed her cheek in the usual Argentinean way forgetting how the English rather shaking hands, she didn't seem to mind. –"How was your flight?"-
-"Fine I suppose, how are you my dear Helene?"- He wanted to change the subject fearing that exhaustion might bring him to tears at the minimal mention of Dulcie –"I see you can walk without difficulty, that is very good news"-
-"Mais oui, I made intensive sessions of physiotherapy and because of that I can walk by myself. Let me help you with your bags"- She offered but Hastings was a gentleman and would not let a lady carry his luggage.
They arrived to her car, a brand new mini cooper that somehow managed to fit his large bags and both of them.
-"My flat is not far from here, I know how exhausting a flight so long can be so I'll take you there and you can rest while I settle a few things at the police station, then we can go out so you can readjust to your homeland"- Her voice was maternal and in spite of living for years in the UK she never lost her thick French accent.
-"You work for the police?"- In her mails she did tell him she became a criminologist
-"I am a private detective, modesty aside I am the best of London, perhaps the world. On some cases I am consulted by Scotland Yard at a lower feed from my usual, but it is worth it since allows me to obtain important contacts"- She said cheerfully, typical of her to leave modesty aside. Back in the day often he would reprimand her for it but he wasn't her superior anymore, she wasn't a mere cadet. She was his savior in a time of need so for now he would keep quiet and play along.
-"How interesting, so they have consulted you on a case?"-
Her over confident expression changed into a somber one, it would be one of the rare occasions were she would admit her limitations.
-"A sniper has targeted several people all around London, he (or she) kills different people at public locations; there is no particular pattern of victims, places or time. This has brought great distress over the city."-
-"I saw it on the news; the papers back in Argentina say that there might be a terrorist involved"-
-"These crimes are not within my area of expertise, but Scotland Yard is desperate enough to hire me anyway and I cannot refuse given the amount of lives in stake"- She said concerned.
-"I take it that you are not so close of figuring who this guy is"- Hastings said gently, arrogant or not she always took her job seriously, he knew Helene would always give her best.
-"The key to every case is the psychology that leads to the violent act, this time I'm afraid the psychology behind it is hard to grasp"- She said sadly.
Hastings was about to try to cheer her up when her cellphone rang, she activated her Bluetooth device so she could focus on the heavy traffic.
-"Poirot can you hear me?"- Inspector Japp sounded angry.
-"Oui inspector, how can I help you?"- She said in her usual calm tone
-"I need you to get to the precinct right now it's an emergency"-
-"I will be there in a few minutes I just have to…"- before she could finish the sentence he cut her off
-"Whatever you are doing right now drop it and come to the station"- the last words sounded menacing
Helene Poirot was not the kind of person to bulge at any threat posed to her persona so she declined the order until the frustrated inspector spat:-"Bloody hell Poirot there is a life threat against you, a serious one so I suggest you stop doing whatever you're doing and get in here… right now!"-
-"It sounds serious we should go"- Hastings said concerned
-"Pah! Death threats are most common against detectives, if anything it proves I am getting closer"- Only someone like Poirot would be glad to receive such news.
Hastings insisted that they went to the station before she left him at her flat, he felt compelled to be by her side until they could figure out about this threat.
When they made it to the precinct her triumphant poise turned into rage when she knew of the details. Officer Clarke, an honest well loved officer had been found dead in his home, killed by a single shot to the head, like all the previous victims of the mysterious shooter.
In the scene of the crime near the body the police found several pictures of Poirot on her daily activities, someone drew a tiny red spot on her forehead in all of them, behind every single photo there was a single word written in red: NEXT