The day after, an old lady was mysteriously missing, and her heirs turned up on her threshold. Of course, Poirot suspected that there was more here than meet the eyes. Of course, my brain was vacant and needed stimulation, Poirot stated matter-of-factly. A few minutes later, I was treading the cobbled path to Cawdor's hill and silently cursing the man who has coaxed me so easily. Since Sven (not to mention my sometime disastrous marriage), it had not happened. I wanted to be sure I would not be eking – again - my living over some men's heel. Poirot framed me, surely, but it was not irrevocable (at least, it was Poirot, not some suspiciously handsome lonely widows hunter. Or self-sufficient pen-pushers entangler).

I was still arguing with myself when I arrived before the front door (I definitely could sense a repetitive pattern here). The bottom line of my internal (furious) lawyer was that Poirot, using me as a scout, relished in his authoritative personality and spared him the pain of practical researches. That was exploitation. On the other hand, he acted as the legitimate master mind of the couple, on the basis that I was a clumsy, slightly backward pupil. That was defendable too, except that my vanity was taking a severe whacking. No, Poirot was not to be blamed; had I have been more careful, more of a stylist, I should never have required an esthete's services. Bah, these afterthoughts were supercilious, along with the rather infuriated look on my visitor's face after I found her off-guard in her vegetable garden. She lifted up her muddy, leeks-clutching hands as if she was on the verge of being beaten.

-I've come to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Donaghy! I yelled (I have always been afraid of gardeners - you can never predict their actions, stemming from the frustration of being a downscale employee who had not been listed in the master's will).

That was heavy-handed. A fault of an amateur, even if Poirot taught me that witnesses should never, ever, be confronted with cop-wise questions. Furthermore, my witness had not only a troubled past, but also some troubled ex-convicts' children: clearly, that was not the best starting point I had ever found. However, helping her to carry the three abominable baskets filled with rhizomes and sticky worms soothed her mood, putting her into a confessional mode I strongly encouraged (with the extra-help of one single drop of whisky I quickly poured in her teacup. Using unorthodox methods was one of Sven's favorite tricks, but contrarily to him, I could not help feeling a bit guilty. Naturally, Poirot would not be informed).

I gathered some useful pieces of information and went back to our general quartier. We (him, more likely) had decided his salon would be the center of our investigations. Comfortably seated in a velvet armchair, a glass of cherry in my hand, I began to tip off Poirot on my findings. I was rather content with myself, having discovered that the lady in question was a relative of the victim (her aunt, specifically), and that she possessed a martinet, hung on the wall of her bedroom, that looked very ominous.

Strangely, Poirot's face grew more and more reddish as my narrative progressed. When I mentioned that phenomenon to him, he startled and got up all of a sudden. In the first place, I suspected the liquor had been unpleasant to his stomach. I was soon disenchanted.

-Madam, that is preposterous! Even Scotland Yard and its armada of imbéciles would have made better progresses than you! You do not comprehend that the mind, it is a multiple-layered motor, and that you must abide to the reasonable part of it.

-But how, Poirot? I asked dismally. Never before had he given me such a piece of his mind. He usually kept his tantrums for the vile murderers of his cases, or his incompetent servant Hastings (as he named him), and I was not sure I was satisfied of joining this particular cast.

-You shall do exactly what I command you, and that irrevocably means: not trespassing your rights!

-Bloody hell, Poirot, I answered, shocked, you know I have the makings of a fictional detective, not of a real one! If you gave me some time for adjusting, I should be able to help you.

I raised my voice; after all, Ariadne Oliver did not blush in front of an audience; why should she be ashamed of herself before a pair?

-But lectures won't do, neither these sharp aspersions of yours. You must leave me room for improvement.

Even the dumbest of the physiognomist could tell Poirot was on edge. Having intensely stared at me for an endless second, he finally puffed a sigh and took a sip of his liqueur de cassis. The ice was not broken yet; I knew that my viewpoint was unpleasant and offbeat to him.

-The role of the mentor, it is not, as you say, a piece of cake. And never had I such a student like yourself, Madam (when would he abandon that qualification I found aloof?). Poirot too have to learn, therefore he will not wreak havoc on you.

He smiled with his usual discreet, amiable, and dignified gentleness; the Christic air of one who suffers for the sins of others was casting its presence on my friend's face. Poirot would have tamed Ponce Pilate himself, would I say if I was feeling prophetic, but I favored modern literature more: Mr. Hyde had disappeared and his antinomy was back, much to my relief. Looking at each other, I sensed that we were silently bracing ourselves for a fight of a new sort.

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-Poirot, you should know my gender-sensitive interpretation. A male author would print his mark on his text, as would a female one. The difference is minimal but significant: characterization of the protagonists, sexual choices, general atmosphere, style, etc., etc. I suspect the subconscious is acting on our behalf. Anyway, I spare you the tedious details; that's good enough for the Virginia Woolf and other engagés writers. All this pedantic fuss bores me at the utmost. But I'm distressed, Poirot! Our four-hands duo puzzles my sexualized inmost writing instance!

-I understand from your tumultuous garrulousness, Madam, that you are split between the feminine or the masculine perspective.

-More or less, yes. You see, I –

-Please, do let me speak to you frankly. I think the only spoke in the wheel is your prejudices. Women are adorable beings, men a bit less, but in the end only their works remain, n'est-ce pas? My investigations, as magnificent as they are, do not depend on the… (he blushed slightly) sex. My dear friend Hastings would have never been able to tie up the loose ends of criminal affairs. You are by far fitter for the task, although you need a little guidance (I knew he was trying to sugarcoat me, and I my feet impatiently). But all that, it is a puff of smoke in the eternity's eyes…

I was well-aware that Poirot had, from time to time, resurgences of Christianity. I had never said a word about that and I didn't intend to begin now. Achingly, I muffled my inmost atheist who grumbled against the detective's rosary. Some catholic verbosity was nothing compared to that piece of bigotry. In my opinion, Poirot's faith was oxymoric to his professional activities. I suspected he perfectly knew my thoughts on the subject, and was purposely spicing up his discourses with biblical allusions in order to set my teeth on edge.

Nonetheless, he hit a sensitive spot with his metaphysics. Creating a symbiosis of the female and male opponents was perhaps a hotbed where my writings could thrive more easily. Of course, I could not beat his drum too blatantly, so I interjected in the grumpiest voice I could muster:

- That could be a good beginning, but practically, how do you picture the process? I can't agree to quixotic ideas that would lead me to bankruptcy.

-C'est très facile! You only have to let me dictate to you the plot in a row! Then you add your little feminine inklings, for instance, the reactions, the emotions, the caprices, and it is done!

Ha. Pig in a poke.