II

The next day, an article in the New York Times read:

Shocking news to Agatha Christe fans everywhere! Poirot has gone missing! At least, he has entirely disappeared from every copy of Murder on the Orient Express (also known as Murder in the Calais Coach) in print, including from the National Archives! The extremely popular book, on every bookshelf, in every warehouse, and even in Agatha Christie's first final typed copy, now consists of merely this:

M. Ratchett died on the Calais Coach. No one ever caught the murderer. The end.

This is an extraordinary development that seems almost fantastic. The publishers, Randomness Home, can offer no explanation for the apparent disappearance of the great detective.

On the side, no other Poirot books have been affected by this extraordinary phenomenon.

Emily Conway of the famed N.Y. Literary Mystery Club was reading Murder on the Orient Express at the time of the disappearance.

"I was reading Murder on the Orient Express just yesterday night, and was at the part where Poirot finds the scarlet kimono in his very own suitcase (I've loved that part since I was a girl!) and, when I turned the page, the words were missing! This was extraordinary because I've read my copy of Murder on the Orient Express some half-dozen times at least, and the words never had a habit of moving or disappearing in any way! I flipped back, and on every page, it was all the same! Blank pages, hundreds of them. All once full of words, but now existing only as a timberwolf in a snowed-in coal mine. Then, that cryptic message in the beginning…what did it mean?"

"What did it mean?" That, mon amis, nobody knows. It is, perhaps, a mystery for 'ze little gray cells.'

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"So, Mademoiselle, what am I to do now?"

Hercule Poirot, the famous detective stood, staring placidly at Luna Lovegood. He stroked his moustache fondly.

Luna stood from where she had been sitting on the floor of the girl's bathroom (yes, Moaning Myrtle's) while explaining the whole situation to the great detective.

"Well, first, messieur," she stated with a horrible French accent, curtsying as low as her short school skirt would admit her, "I shall be taking you to ze scene of ze crime nationale."

"Please, mademoiselle Luna, do me ze favor of holding ze accent? If it does not come naturally to one, zen…"

"Yes, yes, I understand." Luna nodded, resuming her thick British accent.

"What, so no one pays any attention to me anymore?" Moaning Myrtle flew suddenly out of the tap.

"I was wondering where you'd got to!" Luna exclaimed. She liked Moaning Myrtle; they knew each other to be kindred sisters in some way.

"Got a French chump here now have we?" Moaning Myrtle began to slowly circle Poirot.

Poirot stepped back hastily. "Mademoiselle le fantome, permit me to say that I am not a 'French' but a Belgian 'chump.'"

Myrtle waved her hand. "Same difference. Say now, Luna, are you leaving now? Don't go."

For Luna was cleaning away her cauldron and utensils. "I'm sorry, Myrtle; I'll come visit you soon!"

"Why does everyone always LEAVE?!" cried Myrtle despairingly, looking as though she were about to break into sobs.

"Mademoiselle le fantome, please do not cry," Poirot said as consolingly as he could muster towards a ghost.

"Do YOU promise to come back?" Myrtle's look turned from heartbroken to suspicious.

"I most certainly promise." And with that, Poirot took Myrtle's ghostly hand (or gave a good imitation of it) and kissed it. "Enchante, mademoiselle."

Myrtle giggled. "The French gent's got a sweet on me, eh?" she asked Luna.

Luna shrugged indifferently. Poirot looked at her imploringly.

"Come on, Monsieur," Luna grasped his arm and guided him away. They could hear Myrtle singing softly to herself behind them:

"The French gent's got a sweet on me, the French gent's got a sweet on me!"

"Belgian" Poirot muttered under his breath.

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