"Want me to help you with that, Clover?" Hastings got up, placing his hand under the tray full of coffee cups.

Clover tightened her grip on the tray. "Careful, Uncle, you'll upset the balance. And no thanks."

She walked forward and placed the tray on the coffee table. She crouched down, her knees on the floor.

"How do you like your coffee, Mr. Poirot?"

He gestured for the cup and sugar cubes. Clover handed them over. He added a few sugar cubes, stirring with a small spoon.

"I could have done that, Mr. Poirot," Clover laughed, "Not like I'll poison your coffee or anything."

Poirot smiled. "Perhaps not. But I have come across several cases where that was the fact."

"And what about you, Chief Inspector?"

"Two cubes for me." He slumped back in the chair, his hat on his knees. "And 'e's right. The number of poisonings Scotland Yard comes across daily could fall in the 'undreds."

"That has to be an exaggeration, Japp," Hastings noted, accepting his cup from Clover. She grabbed her own, added a spoonful of cream, and sat down next to Hastings.

"I do agree, mon ami," Poirot took a sip, "Hundreds, Chief Inspector?"

Japp shifted in his seat. "Well, maybe not hundreds."

"And daily?" Hastings added.

"You think these two 'ave never 'eard of exaggeration," Japp said to Clover. She nodded, absentmindedly taking a long sip. Hastings waved her hand in front of her.

"Clover? Clover?"

Her eyes lost their glazed look and she turned to the man next to her. "Sorry, Uncle. Was just thinking of something."

"Oh no," Japp tapped his knee, "That can't end well."

"What were you thinking about, mademoiselle?"

She got up and put her cup back on the tray, then sat back down, placing her hands on her knees. "Was just thinking about poisonings. I mean, it's the most common crime. It's quite bland."

Hastings nearly choked on his drink. "Quite morbid, don't you think?" He placed the cup back down and coughed, finally regaining his breath.

"On the contrary, Hastings, I think it is quite curious," Poirot remarked. "You think society has moved the need for poisonings, mademoiselle?"

"No, no, not like that," Clover wrung her hands, "I meant that I was thinking of you three. You encounter crime on a daily basis-"

"And don't we," Japp interrupted, placing his cup on the tray.

Clover grimaced, then continued, "I guess what I'm asking is, what would be your perfect crime?"

She saw Poirot raise an eyebrow and reddened, "I'm sorry. I know it's a rude question. But it just popped in my head, you know, since we were talking about crime-"

Then she saw the smile. "What's wrong, Mr. Poirot?"

He didn't answer.

"Now you've done it. You shouldn't have asked him that," Japp groaned, picking up his hat from where it fell.

Hastings added, "He's a detective, Clover; I highly doubt he has thought about committing crimes-"

Poirot raised a hand, "Au contraire, mon ami. I have thought about it for a while. Just because I catch criminals does not mean I have not thought about this. It is a most curious question, is it not?"

He beamed at Clover, "The perfect crime? Who better than to ask but Hercule Poirot, the greatest detective?"

Both Japp and Hastings shared an eye roll as he continued, "And I have your answer, mademoiselle."

He got up from his chair, the others following him with their eyes as he spoke.

"A man invites eight people to his house for a gathering. Four are people who work with Scotland Yard or are involved in the catching of criminals, like a private detective, for example. Innocent people. The other four are people found guilty of previous murders. They then play bridge, each group in a separate room. The host plays cards in the room that the murderers are in, and is found later dead, stabbed with a knife."

"I don't like it. It sounds dull," Hastings finally said.

Poirot sat down. "I would have known you would not have enjoyed it. For mon ami Hastings, he wants the melodrama, the cliches, the damsel in distress with the auburn hair."

"Well, at least mine would be interesting." Hastings retorted.

"Yes, at a surface level. But for Poirot, he enjoys the cases that showcase the psychology of people. To challenge the little grey cells. That is what interests him."

"Well, I don't think I'm melodramatic. And you keep bringing up the auburn hair thing."

"He's got a point, Captain Hastings," Japp noted.

"It's true, Uncle. Two of the last five girls you've met have had auburn hair."

Hastings got up. "The lot of you have got some cheek," he said with the corner of his mouth in a slight grin.

"But I do agree with him. I think it's a bit dry," Japp said, "A niche crime if you will. Not as fascinating as it could be. It might fascinate you, Poirot, but not the rest of us. I'd get bored with it pretty fast."

"You too, Chief Inspector, have fallen victim to the melodrama? I would think it is spreading."

Japp raised his hands up. "I'm just saying, Poirot, the rest of us aren't into the 'little grey cells' like you are." He gestured quotes while speaking.

"Forgive Poirot if he has taste."

Clover played with her hands, managing a forced laugh. "What about your perfect crime, Uncle?"

Hastings rubbed his hands. "Hear me out. Two diamonds, according to legend, are said to be the eyes of some Chinese god. They belong to two famous couples, who have received threatening letters to return the jewels before the full moon. Otherwise, they will be stolen in three days' time."

"And you say my crime is ridiculous." Poirot remarked.

"Hey, at least it has intrigue and not just psychology," Hastings retorted.

"And the wives, with their tears, come to the detective asking for him to investigate, while the husbands doubt the validity of the letters?"

Hastings paused. "How did you know?"

"Tropes, mon ami," Poirot smiled, "You usually tend to go for the outlandish whenever we solve cases."

"True," Hastings said in a defeated tone.

"I agree. It's a bit simple, Captain Hastings. My money's on that it's insurance fraud to pay out some debts," Japp shifted in his seat, "I've seen it a few times."

Clover patted him on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Uncle. I think it could be intriguing. Perhaps one couple is blackmailing the other and has their own stolen so they aren't suspected. Or maybe it's an undercover black market."

Hastings brightened up. "Or perhaps it's tied to a syndicate of criminals that are out to harm the detective."

Clover made a face, "Perhaps not. Sounds more like a spy novel that shoehorns the detective in. Could be messy. What about you, Chief Inspector?"

"Prime Minister of England gets kidnapped. Entire fate of the Western Continent is on the line. They believe he's been shipped to France because the car was found there. However, he's still in England and a disgruntled employee has done it."

There was a pause. Both Poirot and Hastings pondered the idea, then said in unison, "It's terrible."

"Terrible? That might be an exaggeration-" Clover said.

"What do you lot mean it's terrible? A lot can be done in this. It has potential," Japp argued.

"I think it's ironic that you called my idea simple when you can plot the plot twist from a mile away," Hastings shot back.

"I agree. And where is the psychology behind this? If it is an employee, he will be suspected immediately because he was the only one there. And if a random person, why the Prime Minister? Not many would know about the supposed peace talks. Poirot does not like this idea."

"At least it's better than a Chinese god!"

The three began arguing, with Clover stuck in the middle. She got up, picked up the tray, and walked back to the kitchen, still hearing the argument as if she was in the room.

She came back, the argument still continuing.

She should have kept her mouth shut. Now she had to think her way out of this. She realized that she didn't share her perfect crime yet.

Wait, that was it.

She raised her hand. "I didn't share mine yet."

They didn't hear. She stoked up and shouted. "What about mine?"

They fell silent. "Guess you guys heard. Here's my idea."

Now she had to make up something. Just ramble. Any organized thought might ruin the plan.

"A man runs into a woman at the airport and gets roped up into an international conspiracy. A dictator who was thought to be dead may have had a secret son and his supporters and trying to re-bring back their movement. Their actions is leading to civil unrest, violence, and drug use among the young. Eventually, the British Intelligence defeat this group and everything is restored back to normal."

She grinned, hoping that the idea was ridiculous enough.

And it was. They tore it to shreds.

"There is no motive, no thought behind it. Why does this lead to that? What is being taken into consideration? There is no thought process here. It is as random as tossing a pair of dice," Poirot began.

"And it seems like it's trying to account for violence among the youth, which is due to several things, but most certainly not some organization. Poverty, domestic violence, etc are factors," Japp continued.

"Also, there is no intrigue if random plot twists are thrown in for no reason. Something needs to make sense," Hastings finished. "The idea seems terrible, Clover. It's almost a satire."

"Almost as if it was purposeful to stop an argument, perhaps?" Poirot asked.

Clover shrugged, "I just felt bad for causing you guys to argue."

"You do not need to worry, mademoiselle. Even if we were, a silly argument would not tear apart years of friendship."

She laughed, "Thank God. I thought it would have been the end."

"It's going to take a lot more than that to end this," Japp checked his watch and rose, "I've got to be going. But it's been a pleasure having this conversation."

And with that, Hastings and Clover also said their good-byes as well.