Code Name: Aggie ~Chapter 4~Triumphs and Trials

  Poirot awoke the next day with the night's angst  replaced with a steely determination.

    His dreams, as dreams were known for,  didn't follow any consistent story line.  There were scenes from the day Miss Lemon fainted in the kitchen.  Hastings was running down a hospital corridor , carrying an unconscious Miss Lemon and talking  about  how Mr.'s Christie and Prichard would pay for her hospital stay with the money they would  have given Martin Buchanan.  He seemed very taken with their generosity

      Next scene  Poirot was in the hospital room with Virginie;  deathly ill from the cancer that was eating at her. Even still, she inexplicably found the energy to tell her husband that he had to be strong  and help to bring the illicit-drug peddling  pharmacists to justice.  What was even odder  than Virginie's  knowing about something she wasn't alive to see,  was his own reaction.  Without even questioning how his (deceased) could know any of this, he simply agreed to help.
"How can I not?  A good friend nearly fell victim to the despicable schemes; to get rich off the lives they ruin!"
"That's my intrepid detective."   Virginie whispered just audibly enough for him to hear. Asking, the next moment, for 'Water."
While he was hesitant to take his eyes off her,  Virginie's comfort was most important and so Poirot turned to pour a glass of water from the metal  water pitcher.  The sound of tinkling ice was suddenly cut off  by three loud noises.  Something hitting wood.  Startled, Poirot's head snapped up from the water he was pouring,  and he found himself in a court room.  The hospital scene was gone.   Virginie, alas, was also gone. In their place, was a judge, soundlessly,  reprimanding two men at the table next  to where he was sitting with Japp,  Hastings and Martin Buchanan. All silent and yet, he could hear the judge's anger in the expression on his face.
The defendants were standing, but only one of them,  Michael Prichard,  faced the judge.  David Christie, on the other hand,  had all but ignored the judge and had his dark eyes fastened on Poirot.  Adding to that glare came a slow, malevolent smile.
Like someone who'd tripped, and  instinctively put out his hands to break his fall,  Poirot awakened with a start before the sin-cold mind behind Christie's smile could do anymore damage.
Glancing at the pocket-watch on his bedside table,  he saw that it was just shy of six a.m in the morning.   Knowing Japp would arrive at at least 6:45,  there was little sense to staying in bed. Anyway, the sooner the day was started, the sooner the  avaricious poisoners of London's citizens would be brought to justice.
Sitting up in bed,  Poirot got into his slippers, picked up his robe, which was neatly draped over the back of  his cushioned reading chair.  From there, he headed to the hall linen closet for a fresh bath towel and face cloth. From there, to the bathroom.

****
By the time Japp arrived at the pharmacy,  it was clear there was something was going on. There were two cars in front and another two in the back entrance.
"The two in front are our guys. Unmarked cars."  Japp pointed to the family vehicle.  "He's got two kids. I see him at the odd police social event.  And he parked a discreet distance. Good move,  Paten."
"How does he fit in?"  Hastings inquired as Japp knocked on the front door. Gently, but just enough to be heard.  One. Two. One-two-three.
"He'll be working the lunch counter. Suits him, too. Paten makes a decent hamburger."
Perfect timing.  Paten opened the door to let them in but motioned for quiet and waved the men through to the lunch counter. "I just made some coffee."
He was a youngish man, in his early thirties. About Japp's height, or a spot shorter, but he knew his game. Without saying a word, he shook hands of both Poirot and Hastings as soon as the got out of broad sight where anyone else could see.  At the lunch counter, Paten  showed the men to a booth and asked if they wanted anything to drink or eat.
"Not to brag, but I make a mean fried egg sandwich." the undercover copper told the detectives.
"For now,  we better just go with coffee.  I don't wanna be stuffing my face if...."
"They just got here, not ten minutes before you lot.  Second thoughts, yeah. Better go with coffee."
"You got the code for help?"  Japp asked.
"I'll call as soon as I bring your coffee and ask if Mr. Buchanan wants a coffee. If he says No, it means he's okay. If he says yes, we move in."
"Got it in one."
"I'll be right back with your coffees."
Hastings shrugged, "No Tisane in a place like this, Poirot."
"I was not expecting it, Hastings.  I only hope the coffee is drinkable. Some of it is so strong, it can move under its own power."
"And hold up a spoon," Japp added.
"If the coffee is that strong, I will just eat the napkin."   Poirot decided. "So?  Where are the other officers?"
"Did you see the fella pushing the broom up one aisle?  He's one. Jefferson.  Small but he can hold his own.  Lippy. He can even intimidate me and that's saying something."
"I didn't see anyone at the counter except a woman, looked  to be middle aged,  working the front til.  I thought you ..."
"Gloria Stivic.  You wouldn't know it to look, but she has a grip that would have you crying Uncle, Aunt, and second cousin once removed!  If Christie and Prichard  give us any trouble, we're covered."
Paten arrived with the coffees, with little pitchers of cream for each of them and a bowl of sugar, with individual spoons.
"Enjoy them while you can, men. I just called Mr. Buchanan's office and he said that he'll want his coffee in a couple of minutes. That means things are getting close. Here's to hoping it doesn't get shadey.  That man with the brief case gave me the shivers.  He had a look that could cut through steel."
Taking a sip of his coffee, with three sugars and cream added,  Poirot was surprisingly pleased with the taste.
"I don't wonder,"  Hastings chuckled. "Half of it's sugar."
The phone rang and Paten dashed for the cashier's counter at the entry to the cafeteria.  "All right, Mr. Buchanan.  Two cream. Two sugar. I'll be right with you.  Would the other two...?  No. All right.  I'll be right there."  He hung up and side nodded twice. Code for, "Let's move!"
Coffee forgotten,  Japp had his hand on his side arm, hoping he wouldn't need to use it.  "Are the other men in place?"  he asked as Paten lead the way to the office.
"In the adjoining office."  Paten replied as they arrived at the door.
Knocking,  Paten called,  "I have your coffee."
"We're busy!"  another voice replied. Christie.
Paten moved out of the way and Japp  opened the door.  His other hand on his weapon. Poirot stood opposite him, glaring at David Christie.  The brief case was open, and staring Japp and Poirot in the face were paper-shieved stacks of bills.
"I'm afraid we're  going to have to interrupt your meeting.  There's been talk of illegal activity in this establishment."  Japp aimed his gun.  "And before you go for your weapons, gentlemen, you might think twice. There are two armed officers right behind that door.  Should you be fortunate to shoot your way through us, there are officers inside and outside this building.  Surrender and you could use another stack of cash to pay your high priced lawyer.  Add another body to the count and a hundred cases full of that money won't keep your head out of the noose. Your choice."
A moment or so of hesitation and Christie nodded for Prichard to surrender his gun, even as the two officers, from the office of the deceased Everett  Wilde, opened the door, weapons at the ready.
"Mr. Poirot,"  David Christie sneered as he was being cuffed by Japp.  "I wasn't previously familiar with your name .  I'm no longer so naive."
"A bizarre twist, Monsieur Christie.  Had you not poisoned my assistant,  You may have continued on here for a while longer.  You would have been caught eventually,  though.  Assistant Commissioner Japp, he has been watching the progress of your little game for a while. Even with the recent flu that has had all of London, if not England, in its grip, you and yours were still peddling your poison. No doubt using this sick time as the opportunity most fortuitous to sneak under the noses of the police and make your money, as you did with my assistant."
"That was an accident!"  Christie insisted.  "We had to reimburse the cost of the product another customer thought he was getting."
"And how was that supposed to work?"  Japp asked. "Bloke says, 'If you don't give me my drugs, I'll call the police?' "
Prichard cut in.  "Call it  'The Good Neighborhood Policy'.  We knew we made a mistake and were willing to make good on it."
"How civic-minded of you." Japp snarled, giving Christie a nudge forward.   "Come on!  Let's move!"
"What about the money?" Prichard asked.
"It's safe, don't you worry,"  Japp assured both men. " Until your trial, it will be kept in a secure lock-up where it will be tagged as Exhibit B. "
On the way out of the office and the pharmacy's back door,  David Christie could be heard yelling,  "You have no idea who you're dealing with, do you?!?!"
Behind Japp and David Christie , Paten and the smaller, plain clothed officer, Jefferson, handled Prichard, who was bigger in height and weight than Christie. Prichard was less than a gentleman by the language he used.  A couple of times Japp tried to get him to shut up and Prichard's answer to Japp turned the air around the pharmacy a light blue.  Business men and women either turned towards the source of the racket out of curiosity or fled from the noise pollution of four-letter expletives.
Behind the cuffed criminals,  the middle aged lady at the til, Gloria Stivic, carried the case full of money that was handcuffed to her wrist.
The two men were escorted into a truck  that might have fooled the odd person into believing it was some sort of delivery truck,  but for the window in the back with the two very thick bars.   In that truck, flanked with two guards per prisoner,  David Christie and Michael Prichard  only sat, staring at each other.
"What are we gonna do, David?"   Michael asked, sounding more like a kid brother than the big brute who could walk anywhere with a briefcase full of money and not worry about being approached,  let alone mugged..
David Christie's tone was firm.  "Nothing, Michael. We aren't going to do anything, apart from making the single allowed phone call to our lawyer.  He'll take it from there. Let's not talk anymore, all right?"
"What about the.....guys? "  Michael whispered. "They'll  know something's up when we don't report back."
David Christie's  smile was slow in coming, and spooked even Michael with the total lack of warm in it.  "Exactly.  And THEY will know precisely what to do. All we have to do is sit tight and let the men do their work. We'll be out of  police custody and in our own homes and beds by the weekend."
Nothing more was said for the remainder of the ride to Scotland Yard.
****
Much to the disappointment of David Christie and Michael  Prichard , they were not out of police custody by the weekend. Even more bizarre was the visit of their lawyer the following Monday  and his recommendation that his clients  plead guilty.  The news was greeted with sarcastic laughter and expletives.
"You have three days to think about it."   Their counselor curtly remarked.
"Three?" Christie wondered as the three sat in a small private meeting room, with a guard posted outside. "You said the hearing was on Friday. That's FOUR days."
"You might give me ONE day to prepare, just in case you're FOOLISH enough to chance a trial. Good day, gentlemen."    Mr. La Marche closed and locked his brief case, knocked on the door three times and was let out.  While neither Christie or Prichard was facing the door of the interview room,  they sensed that they were being watched and listened to.
"Gentlemen,"  The guard drew their attention, or tried to.  "It's time...."
"Give us a minute!"  Christie yelled at the guard, barely glancing at him.  "Look, buddy, there are bars on the windows less than half a foot across!  We're not planning an escape. Now close the door on your way OUT!"
"Good luck at your trial!"  The guard slammed the door shut.
"Yeah,"  David  Christie said. "Thanks!"
As soon as the door closed, David Christie got out of his chair and paced the brick walled room.  "So?  What do you think we should do?"
*****
Friday,  April 25, 1947
The court room gallery was full; floor and balcony;  alive with  news men, whose pencil- holding-fedora hats dotted the audience in the balcony.   At the defendant's table sat Defense Attorney Robert LaMarche with David Christie and Michael Prichard.  Neither was too talkative but Michael doodled on a notepad . Behind the defense table,  to the right, in the first row of the spectator's gallery,  sat Martin Buchanan,  Assistant Commissioner Japp,  Captain Hastings and  Hercule Poirot.
"Are you sure about this, Poirot?"  Hastings whispered.
"About what, mon ami?"
"A guilty plea. You and Japp mentioned it in passing, yesterday,  and it's been rolling  over in my head ever since.  Those two,"  he nodded in the direction of Christie and Prichard .  "could plea guilty and walk out of prison in five...."
Japp shot him a look.  "Five years?  You might as well have said five minutes, it would have been as likely."
Poirot started to say something when the bailiff addressed the room,  "All rise! Court is now in session!  The honorable Daniel Martens is now presiding.  This is a preliminary hearing  in Case 7531;  the Crown Vs.  David Christie and Michael Prichard on the charge of First degree murder in the death of Dr. Everett Wilde,  Intent to dispense illegal narcotics.
Judge Martens took his seat at the judge's bench and the audience sat down, almost as one.
"Mr. LaMarche this hearing to  learn how this case will proceed. Will we go to trial?"
Robert LaMarche rose from his chair.  "No Sir,  My clients are pleading guilty."
"So noted, "  Martens jotted a few words onto a pad of paper in front of him,  even as a stenographer sat, at a small table to one side of the judge's bench,  let her fingers fly over what most would refer to as a mini typewriter.  "As a rule,  judges tend to show a measure of leniency to defendants who plead guilty in a sense of genuine remorse for their actions.  Moreover,  we can also guess when a defendant or defendants enter a guilty plea in order to lesson the judgement for their crime."  Daniel Martens looked squarely at Christie and Prichard,  his fingers intertwined.  "In reading the list of charges against you both, not the least of which is a murder one,  leniency, gentlemen, is not going to happen.  Please rise for sentencing."
David Christie, Michael Prichard and their counsel  rose from their seats.
"David Christie and Michael Prichard,  you have plead guilty to the charges of Murder in the First Degree against Dr. Everett Wilde, the selling of illegal drugs under the guise of operating a reputable pharmacy.  And, unless I am misinformed,  you killed Dr. Wilde specifically because he did not sell you his family business.  Murder One,  unto itself, is a capital offense. The motivation for said killing makes it that much more egregious. That said, I have no choice but to hand down the following sentence;   David Christie,  Michael Prichard  you will be returned to the prison where you have been detained. On Midnight of Sunday/Monday, the 28th of April , you will be taken to a place of execution where you will be hanged by the neck til dead.  And may God have mercy on your souls."
There were cheers, but the shouts of the defendants drowned them out.   David Christie contradicted the judge, who simply ignored the insistence, "YOU CAN'T DO THIS!!! You have NO idea who you're dealing with. while Prichard threatened their lawyer;  grabbing him by the collar til Japp intervened. "Roughing up your solicitor might get your hanging moved to midnight TONIGHT."
"He's gonna appeal the judge's decision, aren't you, LaMarche?  And you're gonna do it NOW."
LaMarche,  just about as tall and built as Prichard,  was still  intimidated  enough to ask the bailiff for an audience with Judge Martens.  After a minute or so of back and forth haggling,  the bailiff went to the door of the judge's chamber,  knocked and walked in.  A moment later
"And you two... Mr. Japp?"  Christie's tone was calm and oozing sarcasm.  "And YOU.....Monsieur Poirot? I didn't recognize you at our first meeting.  I guess I was otherwise occupied. I've learned since then."  Christie bent forward til his nose was nearly touching Poirot's.  "If you think you're going to get away with butting in on my territory, Belgian, then you aren't anywhere near as smart as you imagine yourself. And you had DAMN well better hope that our lawyer gets that appeal.  Because, if he doesn't, neither will you."

"And threatening our lives;  how, exactly is that going to help your situation?"  Poirot's voice was much calmer than the man, himself felt.  As in the dream,  he could feel the malevolent glare of David Christie just about bore through his forehead.
"Come on, Poirot,"  Japp side-nodded. "We know what we came to find out."
The smirk on David Christie's face likely turned Japp's blood cold.  "What I said to  Poirot goes for you, Officer Japp. You arrested us in your little sting operation.   Whatever happens in the judge's chambers,  the pair of you shouldn't worry about your retirement savings.  You won't live long enough to spend it."
*****
The attempted appeal failed. Two days later, at midnight,  Sunday/ Monday  April 28th  Judge Marten's  sentence was carried out;  David Christie and Michael Prichard were executed by hanging.
A week to the day later,  their former defense attorney, Robert LaMarche, was killed when his car was forced off the highway and  set rolling down a steep embankment of nearly a hundred feet.
A week later.....

Two days later,  Miss Lemon presented Poirot with a very nearly typed envelope, his name was exquisitely typed, along with the address,  minus a return address.
From the envelope,  he removed  two clipped articles;  one  about the suspicious death of legal counsel Robert La Marche.  The second article chronicled  the grisly death of Judge Daniel  Martens.  Buried inside the folded articles, was a single piece of white  paper,  inscribed, in blood red ink.
   "Poirot?"  Hastings puzzled;  noticing the paleness of the detective's complexion. In all the years the two men had been friends and colleagues,  Arthur Hastings could not recall Hercule Poirot ever looking so....rattled. It scared him.  "Poirot?"
Poirot glanced up from the page. Seeing the concern on his colleague's face, he handed the paper to Hastings.
"Oh my God!"  Hastings  murmured  at the sight of the threat in stark red ink. "Poirot, you need to tell Japp about this! "
Poirot put his right index finger to his lips.  "Miss Lemon must not hear."
"What must Miss Lemon NOT hear?"  The assistant returned with Mr. Poirot's customary Tisane.  Hastings, out of consideration for the hotness of the beverage,  thought better of handing Miss Lemon the note while she was still holding the cup.  As soon as the cup was on Poirot's desk,  Hastings handed Felicity Lemon the square piece of note paper.  Her reaction was what he expected, but the not the language.
"Good God!"  she exclaimed ; hand to her heart.   "THIS was  in the envelope I gave you?"
"Oui."  Poirot replied, holding up two news articles. "Along with these cuttings."
"May I read them?"
"Bien sûr."    He allowed Miss Lemon to take and read the brief articles.
This very morning, over her breakfast,  Miss Lemon already read the  two full obituaries that appeared in the paper;  extolling the career accomplishments of the judge who heard the case,  as well as the lawyer to Mr.'s  Christie and Prichard.  Two men involved in the case of Christie and Prichard. Both failed the defendant. Both were now dead.  This was NO coincidence!
"Mr. Poirot, you NEED to report this to Mr. Japp right this minute!" Her tone told all in the room that she was not concerned about the employer/ employee protocol but their longtime friendship.   "Whoever wrote this THREAT,  he was associated  with Mr. Christie and Mr. Prichard.   A strong association, no doubt. "
Poirot could not argue the point.  On two occasions at least,  Christie himself  hinted that he had connections.  Likely hoping that such information would intimidate his arresting party  out of their plans to incarcerate.  In court,  after the sentence was handed down,  Christie repeated his threats;   that his associates would inflict gruesome retaliation on those who thought that he and Prichard would be executed without consequence.   And now,  little more than two weeks later,  two people connected with the case were dead.   In possession of some of the reward, (a per centage of the money the men used to buy the shop)   Martin Buchanan fled England, with family.  This recollection had Poirot wondering if he should follow that lead.
Assistant Commissioner Japp was at the apartment inside of twenty minutes after the phone call.
"Can I assume you're going to see sense and leave England before ...?"  Japp insisted, standing in front of the desk,.
"What about you?"  Poirot looked up.  "How can I turn the tail and run;  leaving you in the sights  of the Manchester Brotherhood?"
"I have back-up.  Those fellas may be malicious but they're hardly stupid.  They kill me, and every copper in England would be looking to bring them down."
"Small consolation, since you would be dead."  Poirot replied. "I would not be able to live with myself , from safely away,  knowing my cowardice put you in the morgue."
Sitting down, Japp expounded a theory of his own.  "And with you out of the country and out of danger, I can focus on my own safety without needing eyes in the back of my head."
"Have you also been threatened by post?"
"Not as of yet.  Then again, I haven't opened my morning mail."
"This is not an occasion for humor, Assistant Commissioner."  The rebuke did not come from Poirot but Miss Lemon.
Usually cheerful or at least polite,  now, she was insistent now. A death threat, in writing, from someone who had already killed twice , was nothing to be casual about.  Hercule Poirot had been a good friend to her, and a generous employer.  It took some doing, to train him in the technical needs of a receptionist.  In addition,  he simply would NOT listen to any advice regarding weight and fitness.  Even in his middle age.  No matter.  They were friends and she would do what she could to keep him alive,  even if it meant losing her job.  She could get a job within  her sister's dormitory.   Just so long as Mr. Poirot was safely out of the sights of the 'Manchester boys'.
       "If I  may speak freely,"   she continued.  "Mr. Poirot,  if you were giving advice to a client in a similar situation, what would you recommend they do?"
*****
That same night,  there was no sleep for the beleaguered detective. Staying would tell his friends that he was not afraid.  However, that would not be true.  In addition,  staying could possibly endanger Japp, even if, for the time being, he wasn't on the Brotherhood's hit list. Then again, could Japp be lying about not having received the same threatening letter,  just so he would leave without fearing for his colleague and friend.
When he did begin to doze off, terrifying images filled his mind's eye.  Japp, riddled with bullets, slumped over his desk.  Hastings blown up in his brand new car.  Miss Lemon collapsed on her typewriter, with a letter opener in her back.   As bad, if not worse than the ruthless form of murder, was the note that was stuck through with the letter opener.

Finally, Poirot gave up trying to sleep and went into the drawer of his bedside table, where he found a a little pocket book of Comfort Psalms.   He read those verses til he fell asleep without the nightmarish scenarios.  The last dream image Hercule Poirot had before the alarm clock  sounded was himself, on the deck of a ship that was entering a slip. Next thing he knew,  Poirot was surrounded by family.  Brothers and sisters he had not seen for too long.
By the time Poirot's feet slid into his monogrammed slippers,  he knew he would  be returning to Belgium.