In fact, the pharmacy was a mere two and a half blocks from Miss Lemon's home. The weather was pleasant enough, and if the pleasant temps held up, the strain of flu would loosen its grip. Then again, it wasn't all so bad when the influenza strain kicked up.
Ah yes. British weather. A mystery that not even Poirot, with all of his 'little grey cells' operating at peak efficiency, could solve or even make sense of. For the time being, though, he wasn't about to sneeze at favorable weather. Miss Lemon was doing enough sneezing, (and coughing) for both of them!
The pharmacy Poirot entered was nothing like the shop that was, itself, a walk away from Whitehaven Mansions. This place was bigger; with aisles of various household items. Even a specific section dedicated to stationery and writing supplies as well as a magazine rack and shelves of books. To the right of the stationery section there was a lunch counter where three teenage kids, two girls and a boy, sat at the counter, on the swivel chairs, laughing, talking and reading movie magazines and sipping on fountain drinks. Milkshakes? Floats? No matter. They were having fun as only kids could do.
Smiling at the sight, Poirot's eye scanned the store and spotted the chemist's counter, clear on the opposite side of the vast retail space. "Oh, mon Dieu! By the time I get to the chemist, Miss Lemon, she will be back to work!" he murmured, even as he approached the chemist's front counter. In his suit pocket, he held the prescription that he intended to give, but then he stopped short. The man Miss Lemon described was not the man standing behind the counter.
"Monsieur Everett Wilde?" Poirot inquired, as if perhaps, he heard wrong. After all, Miss Lemon's throat was hoarse from her cold or flu, so it would be easy to misunderstand a voice in that state. The next words he heard, however, took a boulder of anxiety off his shoulders.
"I'm afraid not, sir. Dr. Wilde is...." the short-ish balding man was about to explain, only to have Poirot guess and save him the bother.
Poirot smiled, "If he is like the rest of the city, he is under the covers of his bed with the sniffles, the cough and the hot Rum Toddy."
"Very good, sir. I only just recovered from that very situation; Rum Toddies and all." The man extended a hand. "Dr. David Christie."
Poirot shook the pharmacist's hand, "Bon jour, Dr. Christie. I'm Hercule Poirot." He took the prescription out of his suit-coat pocket and handed it to the chemist. "My colleague has been brought low with this illness that is rampaging its way across the city, and, I have no doubt, the country. In any case, her doctor, prescribed, for her, the ...antibiotic, which I am having filled on my friend's behalf. "
"Understood. It's been a rather...erratic virus. It effects one person with no more than cold-like symptoms; sniffling, coughing and the like. Others want to do no more than sleep."
"Miss Lemon," Poirot conceded, "seemed to have symptoms of a cold, to begin with, and then, she began feeling, as she says, 'wonky' . Slightly dizzy. This medication, it will help?"
Reading over the prescription, Christie nodded, "It should. This prescription is pretty potent. When it kicks in, your friend will be able to sleep through a war, or very near. But then she'll wake up feeling a lot better. However, filling this will it take a few minutes. With so many people recovering, we've got a bit of a backlog. I've gotten calls from other pharmacists in the city; seems the orders are going out faster than we can stock up. Though I'm sure we have this particular medication in stock.
Why don't you have a browse around the shop. If your friend likes puzzles or novels, there is an entire aisle full of puzzle books, books. After all, Just because your friend is ill doesn't mean she should be bored to death."
"Merci," Poirot nodded his thanks for the advice, even if he didn't respond to the rather tacky mention of death by boredom. As irony would have it, a few people had died of this freak flu outbreak. Two were older, in their senior years, and one was a two year old child.
In the stationery section, Poirot found a wide selection of word-search puzzles and crosswords and chose one of each. Meandering over the collection of hardcover novels, his eye caught a familiar name; Ariadne Oliver and the title of her newest Sven Hjerson story, Blaze of Glory.
Opening the book, Hercule Poirot flipped, first, to the inside cover where he read the story description;
Turning to the back inside cover and saw a picture of the woman he was certain he'd never speak to again.
Staring at the jacket photograph, his mind drifted back to the last time he and Mrs. Oliver spoke. She'd been in the middle of writing when he dropped by after giving testimony at a London courthouse, on a case that been front-page news for months. Mrs Oliver, far from being annoyed at the interruption, seemed to welcome the distraction.
"But Madame! You are hard at work! I will..."
"No, no. Please don't go. I'll make us up some coffee and snacks. In truth, you are a welcome break from the monotony. Sit yourself down and tell me all about the case. Perhaps your story will give me some fresh ideas and I can escape this bloody FINNISH prison!"
"Prison?"
"Yes! PRISON! I swear, Hercule, if I have to write ONE more Sven Hjerson story, I will have my hands lopped off with a butcher's cleaver, even if I have to pay the guy to do it!"
Poirot could recall himself smirking at the remark. "And on what will you live with no hands to do any work?"
Ariadne side-shrugged. "Okay, good point. All the same, I am BORED out of my mind!" HOW DO people put up with this...POMPASS little tick?!"
Upon regaling his friend with particulars that he could share, Poirot carefully broached the matter, "I do hope I have provided, for you, some inspiration for a new story idea. That way, you can, perhaps, put between yourself, and Mr. Hjerson, some distance. I do not count myself someone with too much knowledge regarding the writing of stories, but to make yourself miserable with a character you hate so much you would rather lose your hands to a meat cleaver? I would sooner ...."
Glaring at him with narrowed eyes and tight lips, Mrs Oliver declared, "You're right. You don't know anything about it. You don't know the first thing about it. To try to make a name for yourself , and then chance upon a character....somewhat resembling the work of an earlier author I'd admired. If I had been able to contact the man before he died, I MIGHT have saved myself a lot of aggravation! Maybe he would have advised me against it. Had he threatened to sue me, I would have stopped before I started. But then, where would I be? I wouldn't be living at Mayfair, I can tell you! That's the one good thing that little leech has given me!"
"Leech?" Poirot puzzled at his friend's negative descriptives for a character who seemed to have done her nothing but good. Ever-so-diplomatically, he tried another approach. "Madame, it seems to me that this.....friendship between yourself and Monsieur Hjerson, it has run its course. Simply write one last story that gives to a new character, the starring role. Perhaps, even for the fans, it is time for the breath of fresh air."
Believing that his writer friend would at least grudgingly agree, Hercule Poirot was taken aback when Mrs Oliver stalked to the door of her suite , threw it open and gestured, none-too-tactfully for the detective to leave. "I don't give YOU advice on detecting, so don't presume to tell ME how or what to write!"
"But you.. ," he'd attempted to remind his author friend.
"I'll decide that! Now please LEAVE!"
Poirot had wanted to apologize and yet, why? He had been invited into Mrs. Oliver's suite in order to distract her from the Finnish Prison (her words!) that she felt caught in.
As the recollection faded, Poirot found himself still in the pharmacy. He would purchase the novel, by way of an apology, he also chose a book of word-search puzzles. By the time those purchases were determined, the prescription was filled. This, Poirot learned, when the chemist's assistant, Dr. Michael Prichard, personally informed him. Poirot sighed with relief at this. Not just because he wasn't patient with too much waiting, but also, and even more so, because the mere thought of drinking lunch counter coffee very nearly made him sick. He didn't say this, aloud, out of politeness. As well, because the pharmacist was kind enough to tally up all his purchases at the chemist's counter, rather than making his customer making a second trip, to the front counter, only two other items.
"Please pass good wishes to your friend, Mr. Pow-rowe," Dr. Christie mispronounced. Poirot didn't bother trying to correct him. This would likely be his last visit to the shop and it really wasn't worth the aggravation, given the man's otherwise courteous assistance.
"I will. Thank you." Poirot returned the farewell upon double-checking the contents of the handled paper bag. With that, he headed out the door by the same route he came in. No small feat, considering the number of aisle there were in the shop.
Miss Lemon was thankful for the prescription and thoroughly delighted with the two extra items! "Mr. Poirot, THANK YOU! The newest Ariadne Oliver novel! I heard it was out but kept forgetting to pick it up, or I would be short on money or time!" Miss Lemon declared, even in her hoarse voice, showing off the book as Hastings cut up a piece of cake for Poirot at the kitchen counter. When it came to chocolate-related food, Hercule Poirot was not so specific about size. In fact, the more the better. As for coffee, Hastings set a cup before his colleague and let him add cream and sugar lumps to his liking.
"About the pharmacists, Miss Lemon, the men you mentioned: Dr.'s Everett Wilde and Martin Buchanan? They were not there. Instead, there was the Dr.'s David Christie and Michael Prichard. However, it does not take too many little grey cells to figure out the cause of the absence."
"Same thing everyone else has?" Miss Lemon guessed, nodding. "Of course. Captain Hastings was meandering over the paper and there is good news."
Looking at the generous slice of cake, Poirot was well satisfied. "Merci, Hastings. So? What is the good news you have read?"
"There's talk, within the medical community, health authority and hospital staff, that the epidemic is beginning to wane. Emergency Rooms aren't so crowded now. Then again, even nursing staff have been calling in, ill, or ending up in hospital beds, themselves. By next month, it should be but a bad memory." Hastings quoted.
"That is news to celebrate! Now, Miss Lemon," Poirot said, adding three lumps of sugar to the cup, and hardly a dab of cream. "the doctor's instructions, they are on the medicine bottle. My instructions, they are this; you take your medication, take to bed your book and in no less than the third day, you may return to work. No less. Hastings and myself, we have an interview with Miss O'Connor tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. Trusting your judgement, we will permit the temporary receptionist to do what needs to be done."
"I don't like it!" Felicity Lemon said after clearing her throat a few times. "However, in view of the extent of this ...condition, I won't argue. My sister is having her own issues with staff coming back too soon, only to end up going back home again. Students, calling in sick or coughing themselves silly in class. As I said, I don't like it, but I will do my best to stay put until I'm well enough to return."
"This way," Hastings explained after polishing off his second slice of cake and coffee. "you come in on Friday, get your footing and then start fresh on Monday."
Gazing, in almost disbelieving happiness at her book, as well as the volume of word search puzzles, Felicity Lemon acquiesced to her friend/employer's insistence. "I'll finish the soup you have been so kind to get for me. Have a slice of cake and then take one of my pills" she said, holding up the bottle in her index finger and thumb. "and turn in with my new novel."
Poirot and Hastings finished their cake and coffee and cleaned up their dishes, despite Miss Lemon's protest. "Your job, Miss Lemon, is to get well. And you cannot do that, cleaning up your guests' dishes."
Again, Felicity Lemon was not about to argue the point. The friends said their goodbyes and Miss Lemon promised, on the very publication Mr. Poirot got for her, that she would go to bed early and that she WOULD call if there was anything else she needed.
On the way home, Poirot confided, "I know Miss Lemon is an honest woman, Hastings, but she is also jumping out of the skin to be back to work. I predict she will be in by Wednesday morning, if not tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Arthur Hastings had to keep from rolling his eyes as he drove. "Poirot, Miss Lemon could hardly talk, although she just about ripped out her tonsils when she saw that book. She could hardly wait to get us out the door so she could start in on it. Nope." Hastings insisted, " I'll wager you five pounds that we don't see Miss Lemon til Friday, if we see her then. A woman with chocolate cake and a good book in the house? You'll be lucky to see her on Monday, never mind BY Monday."
"My dear friend, if I am wrong, I will gladly pay to you the five pounds. I hope, equally, that the good Assistant Commissioner calls with some case that is boggling his mind, before I lose mine."
As luck would have it, Japp DID call, but only with something of a HOPE that there was something lurking. "Only by way of rumor. There is talk of some sort of drugs ring operation. An underworld scheme. But that's IF it turns out to be true.
All I know, right now is that a few reputable chemist's shops have been bought up in Belfast. Mom and pop shops , family owned businesses. In both cases, the couples were middle aged and whoever conducted this....business, offered the couple enough cash to choke a race horse. Of course the couples took the money and ran. Who wouldn't, right? But then, ....things start happening."
"You say this is RUMOR? It sounds to me, to be pretty concrete."
"I thought the same thing," James Japp admitted. "No smoke without fire. Thing is, Poirot, while it's in Belfast, we can't really do anything until we're asked. And as much as I wouldn't mind a juicy case right now, the thought of having to chase illegal drug dealers down, in every pharmacy in Ireland doesn't sit well with me."
"Nor with me." Poirot admitted. "We can only hope that the same illness afflicting a good part of England will have Belfast in its grip, if only to keep the underworld under the blankets."
~~~~
Miss Lemon, thankfully, did NOT surface the next day. Miss Carol O'Connor did, though. Promptly at 9:00 a.m. complete with resume, which impressed both Poirot and Hastings. Pretty but modestly dressed with well-kept hair.
"In fact, Sir, I do have a permanent job. That is, I will. But with this flu, I've been here, there and everywhere; filling in for receptionists, and office staff that have been stuck in bed. I'm amazed it hasn't happened to me yet. Hopefully, when Miss Lemon is better, and things settle down, I'll be back at the school. In the meantime, I've done just about everything on the fly. If there's a job that needs doing, I can do it or learn in a hurry."
"Can you start this morning?" Poirot inquired.
"In the time it takes me to put my purse away."
"Good." Poirot stood up to escort Miss O'Connor to the desk when the phone rang. Miss O'Connor walked briskly into Miss Lemon's office and picked up the phone, "Mr. Poirot's office. Who may I say is calling? One moment, please." A minute later, if that, Poirot was speaking to Assistant Commissioner Japp.
By noon, Miss O'Connor had two letters typed up, with corrections to the first. "Different typewriter brand," she said, by way of apology.
Considering the issues Poirot expected to have to contend with , the issue of typewriter styles and two mistakes was nothing shy of a miracle.
After lunch, there was a phone call from Miss Lemon, who spoke to Miss O'Connor. After thanking Miss Lemon for the recommendation and a bit of girl talk, the call was patched to Mr. Poirot.
"Hello, Miss Lemon. Do you feel any better? You slept well? Good. Pardon? What is WONKY?"
"I see five pounds coming my way," Hastings sang as he meandered the Cricket scores in the sports page.
"Did the instructions mention whether the medication, it should be taken on the full or empty stomach? Sometimes that makes a difference. All right, Miss Lemon. Get into bed, enjoy your book and rest. And remember, Miss Lemon; Friday. No sooner."
By the middle of the afternoon, Japp was in the office with none-too-pleasant news. "It's closer than we thought, Poirot." the Assistant Commissioner insisted, striding with long, purposeful steps Poirot was familiar with. Japp meant business.
"What is that, Assistant Commissioner?" the detective was relieved to have the activity of a case, even if the very nature of that case troubled Poirot to the very depths of his being.
"This drugs ring operation I talked to you about yesterday. "For openers, these greedy goons may well be in England after all. There are whispers flying around the precinct about small towns feeling the pinch. Why they'd want to go after small shops in these little horse towns makes zero sense to me, but that's what's going on." Japp sat himself down on the couch, opposite end to where Hastings finished reading the paper.
Knocking on the door, Miss O'Connor peaked in. "Would anyone like some coffee?"
"Yes, please, Miss O'Connor. We will get the letter done later. Thank you."
"Are you keeping her?" James Japp asked with a smirk in his voice if not on his face.
"Until Miss Lemon returns," Poirot replied, not oblivious to what Japp was hinting at.
Coffee was served and the men mapped out their plans. By the time the coffee was finished, the three were on their way out the door. "We will be gone for the rest of the afternoon, Miss O'Connor. Would you please tidy the office. We will see you tomorrow."
"What about that letter?"
"Do not worry about that for now. I'm sure it will get finished by lunch time tomorrow. For now, the underworld, it is back in business and I am beginning to regret my wish."
Carol O'Connor was not sure how to respond to that. She simply assured her temporary employer that the letters needed would be on his desk by the time she left.
"Thank you," Poirot replied. "You will be getting a most enthusiastic recommendation.
Poirot returned to the apartment after eight in the evening to find the kitchen and office in pristine condition. Thank heaven. With all he'd had learned that day, the last thing he wanted to have to deal with was a temporary secretary who had to be watched. it was bad enough there were greedy business men who would stop at NOTHING to line their pockets. Even to poison children with the very remedy their parents bought to treat an illness, rather than imperil the child even further!
Hercule Poirot dozed off that night, wondering if he was making ANY difference at all.
~~~~
The next morning, Poirot was getting dressed for work when he heard a key in the door and assumed it was Hastings or Miss O'Connor, to whom he gave key. Upon leaving his bedroom, he walked into the kitchen and saw none other than Miss Lemon.
"Miss Lemon," Hercule Poirot sighed his frustration. "Why are you here? I thought ..."
"I know, Mr. Poirot. I know, And I did try. But after I got off the phone with you, yesterday, I went to bed and took a nap. I didn't take another pill on account of the odd side-effects. I just had some orange juice. Then I got up, after my nap had some of Captain Hastings' cake and a glass of milk, went back to bed with my book and I woke up feeling fine. So I'll just help Miss O'Connor with a few things. Nothing heavy. And if I begin to feel tired or my throat gets raw again, I promise I'll go home. I just got...so bored of looking at those four walls I thought I'd be climbing them if I had spend another day in that house."
At that, Hercule Poirot had to chuckle. How was he any different? "The first sneeze, and home with you."
"Girl Guide's Honor. I'm just going to make myself some tea with lemon. I can make your Tisane while I'm at it."
"That is all right, Miss Lemon. I will take my Tisane at eleven, as per usual. For the time being, I am making it, myself. Miss O'Connor prefers to focus on her typing accuracy. She says her typewriter is different than yours. But that aside, Miss Lemon, did you bring your medicine? You can take it with, maybe, some toast and your tea?"
Felicity Lemon made the face of a child who was told she had to eat her vegetables. "I don't like them, Mr. Poirot. They aren't sitting well with me."
"Perhaps you should call the pharmacy and see if your Dr. Wilde is back. He might be able to tell you what is the problem."
Miss Lemon checked her watch. "Too early yet. I'll call in another two hours." Going into her purse, she took out the bottle and read the instructions. "It doesn't give any specific instructions about taking before of after meals, it just says "Take As needed' .
"So take one as soon as you've had some tea. The antibiotics act strangely with some people."
There was logic to that theory. She simply didn't like the things.
By the time Hastings and Miss O'Connor arrived, Miss Lemon was sitting at the kitchen table, having tea, toast with raspberry Jam. She explained to Miss O'Connor, "I was climbing the walls at home so I thought I'd come to work for a few hours,..."
"...And make us climb the walls." Poirot teased as Hastings went into his wallet and paid the five pounds Poirot had won.
"Seriously though, you do SOUND better, but you look a bit.... white." Hastings conceded. "Have you been taking your medication?"
"I'm just about to, though I dread the very thought. They make me....sick. Dizzy. I took the first one within an hour after you and Mr. Poirot left and I barely made it to my bed."
Hastings picked up the bottle and read aloud, "It says take one or two every six hours or as needed. Antibiotics react differently with people. "
"That's what Mr. Poirot said. And I don't want to take one at work. I don't even know why I brought them."
"Maybe taking two at a time will help you build immunity to the side effects. And if you feel badly, I'll drive you home." Hastings left Miss Lemon to finish her breakfast and take her cold medicine.
Shivering at the thought, Miss Lemon braced herself and took two capsules and chased them with a long drink of her now-warm tea. Finishing off the tea, she went to the sink to clean up the cup. In the time it took her to turn off the tap, the room began swaying. Closing her eyes, she opened them and for a moment, everything was fine. But then it went sideways again.
"Oh, help. I don't think that was a good idea."
Carefully, she moved from the kitchen sink to the breakfast table; holding onto the counter for balance. By the time she got from the counter to the breakfast table, Miss Lemon could hardly see where the table was.
In the living room, there was the loud crash and a long moan.
"What was that sound?" Poirot looked up from the letter he was reading. "Miss Lemon?"
Nothing.
Leaving his desk, Poirot headed for the kitchen with Hastings just ahead. In the kitchen, Miss Lemon was on the floor, unconscious, with the chair on its side.
"Miss Lemon!" Poirot shouted; calling for Miss O'Connor to call an ambulance.
Checking for her pulse, Hastings contradicted, "No. We have to get her to a hospital now. Get a blanket from the closet."
Poirot moved faster than Hastings had seen him. Bringing back a blanket, Hastings wrapped Miss Lemon in a hurry . "Get the door! Every second counts."
Miss O'Connor went for the door and Hastings was out the door with a bundled Miss Lemon in his arms. Poirot was right behind, tucking the pills in his pocket. "Miss O'Connor, if the Chief Inspector Japp calls, tell him we had to take Miss Lemon to St. Jude General."
"I'll take care of it ."
"Poirot! HURRY!" Hastings shouted from the elevator.
~~~~~
For the first time in, forever, Poirot's biggest concern was NOT Hastings' driving. He was too concerned for the state of his friend to even think about it. Though, when they did arrive at the emergency room, he wondered how they made it in one piece.
Somehow, even in his panic, Hastings made the situation clear enough to the emergency room staff and Miss Lemon was whisked away on a gurney and Poirot and Poirot and Hastings were instructed to sit in the waiting area.
"But ...." was as far as Poirot got before the nurse cut in.
" We only have one waiting area in Casualty, sir. The doctors could find that room in a black out. Not to worry! As soon as there is anything to report, you will be notified, I assure you."
"Merci." Poirot conceded and walked a downcast Hastings to the vast waiting area, with it's many chairs, but thankfully, not too many people waiting. Hastings was hardly in his chair for a second before he was up and pacing.
"It's MY fault, Poirot! All my fault! If I hadn't convinced Miss Lemon to take two of those ...pardon the language---BLASTED pills! She insisted they didn't agree with her. Instead of suggesting that she make an appointment with her ...that is, your..."
"No, no, Hastings, you were correct in your first statement. My own physician, he has agreed to take Miss Lemon as a patient. In any case, please to continue."
Arthur Hastings pondered where he left off and then commenced. "In any case, she could have seen her doctor and told him about the odd side effects." Hastings shook his head at his stupidity. "I will NEVER forgive...." His words were cut off by the sight of the pill bottle in front of him.
"You bear not ONE OUNCE of guilt, cher ami. On the bottle is written the instruction; One to two pills every six hours. Nothing about eating or abstaining from food. So perhaps this medication, it is too strong for her. Miss Lemon, as a rule, did not succumb to illness sorely vexing. More than likely, Hastings, she had the bad reaction to a strong medication." Hercule Poirot offered a supposition as close to plausible as possible, before they knew the facts of the situation.
"I hope you're right," Hastings said sitting on the waiting room sofa, watching Poirot light a cigarette in a hand that shook a little.
"So, my friend, am I."
In the eternity or so it took before they heard from the Emergency Room physician , people came and went. At last, a youngish man entered the room, in a white lab coat. His stethoscope stuck half in, half out of right lab coat pocket.
"Captain Hastings?" the doctor, a man in his mid-thirties met Arthur Hastings, who introduced Poirot. It was an odd procedure from the usual, but this wasn't a police matter. Poirot couldn't have cared less whose name was mentioned first. Miss Lemon was the first priority.
"Mr. Poirot," the doctor said, both out of respect and in a sense of relief. The men shook hands, "I'm doctor Edmond Hudson." "I can't begin to tell you how relieved I am to meet you. We seem to have a bit of a....situation which may lend itself to ...legal ramifications."
"First of all, good doctor, how is Miss Felicity Lemon?"
The doctor invited the men to resume their place on the couch and sat with them. "Miss Lemon is resting. We had to give her a drink that would induce vomiting and therefore hopefully expel the majority of any toxins. I believe that much has been accomplished. Still, she will be in Intensive Care, under careful watch of the nurses. The next twenty-four hours will make all the difference."
"But you believe Miss Lemon will recover?" Poirot asked, butting out his cigarette in a teeny square dispenser.
"'Guardedly optimistic', " the physician said. " However, that brings me to the cause of your friend's series condition. Do you happen to know if Miss Lemon is taking any sort of medication?"
Poirot went into his right suit-jacket pocket and brought his hand out of that same pocket, holding a pill bottle which he handed to Dr. Hudson. "I went to the chemist's shop for Miss Lemon, who was too weak and hoarse from her cold to venture out. It was, as Dr. Christie called, an 'Antibiotic' ."
"May I hold this for a time? I would like to have the contents analyzed in the lab."
"Bien sûr! Of course. But what do you....?" Before Poirot finished what he wanted to ask, Dr. Hudson opened the bottle and took a capsule out, tipped the capsule so that all the powder inside slipped to one side and then, ever so carefully taking the two ends apart. Wetting his left pinky finger with his tongue, for the briefest second, Edmond Hudson touched the full side of the capsule and then touched the powder to his tongue. His eyes opened wide.
"Just as I thought, gentlemen," Dr. Hudson said, handing the half capsule to Poirot. "the powder in this capsule, and I assume, every capsule in this bottle, including those that landed your friend in this hospital, is pure cocaine."
Hastings' eyes were almost perfectly round as Poirot fixed his gaze on the physician hardly half a minute before he tested the powder of the half-capsule the same way Dr. Hudson had. Sure enough, hardly a speck or two and the tip of Poirot's tongue was rendered temporarily numb. "Mon Dieu! It is a wonder that Miss Lemon, she is still alive!"
"She is not a habitual drug user?" The doctor inquired, greeted with an incredulous glare from Arthur Hastings. "I'm sorry, but I need to establish a profile. To me, she doesn't appear ...."
"Miss Lemon has to be persuaded to take a headache remedy!" Hastings insisted, offended at any implications.
Poirot attempted to calm his angry colleague when Chief Inspector James Japp strode into the waiting area, tagged behind with three others, who were gazing on at the scene with the curiosity that possesses anxious and yet bored people. A man, a woman and an older man varied between concerned conversation and listening to the discussion taking place nearer the wide open door. And the purposeful stride Japp affected told the three that there was SOMETHING about to happen. They weren't wrong.
"Poirot!"
Poirot stood up with care; still holding the incriminating evidence. "Good Assistant Commissioner Japp! How...?"
"I called your office and your temporary receptionist filled me in. How's Miss Lemon?"
"To answer that question, I introduce to you Dr. Edmond Hudson. Doctor Hudson, Assistant Commissioner Japp of Scotland Yard. Dr.Hudson, would you please to tell the good Scotland Yard officer what you have just told Captain Hastings and myself."
Edmond Hudson hardly needed to be prompted. He had, in his very hearing, three of the top men in criminal detection. "Assistant Commissioner, Felicity Lemon was brought into casualty, unconscious and suffering from serious irregular heart rhythm." Hudson took the pill bottle Poirot gave to him. "Miss Lemon was prescribed an antibiotic, which, to read, wouldn't arouse any suspicions. However, even with my limited experience, people aren't known to go into Arrhythmia or pass out on this ...minor strength medication."
"How about allergies?" Japp wondered.
Dr. Edmond Hudson acceded, "There is that. In this case, however, .... ," He turned to Poirot and requested the half-capsule of powder, which he suggested Japp sample. Japp wet the tip of his pinky, (an age-old police practice) touched the pinch of powder to his tongue. His eyes got wide.
"That's Cocaine!" Japp whispered, seeing the other people in the waiting room. "Where did you get this?"
"The pharmacy near to Miss Lemon's home." Poirot supplied the address, which Japp etched into his official flip-page notebook.
"You recall the names of the phony pharmacists?"
Poirot was uncharacteristically intimidated by Japp's no-nonsense tone. Japp wasn't like this too often, but when he was, Poirot, and anyone else who worked with the Scotland yard veteran, simply answered whatever questions he posed. "I recall Dr. David Christie, who said Dr. ...."
"Wilde," Japp filled in.
"Yes, thank you. Dr. Everett Wilde. Dr. Christie said that Dr. Wilde, he was ill from the same thing most of London was suffering."
"Well," Japp replied, almost hesitating. "he's not suffering."
"Dr. Wilde, he is well now?"
Japp shook his head, "No. Dr. Wilde is DEAD now."
Both Hastings and Poirot were stunned at the news. Even Dr. Hudson, who got the feeling Japp had more news he wasn't certain how to break.
Somehow, Hercule Poirot SENSED, with everything in him, that Dr. Everett Wilde's death had NOTHING to do with the flu outbreak. Not after just learning that Miss Lemon's antibiotics were just about pure 'street drug'. Powdered money, as the street talk went. Still, he had to know for sure. "HOW, Assistant Commissioner, did Miss Lemon's Pharmacist die?"
"Not from Flu complications, that much I can tell you. Not unless one of the more serious symptoms of this flu include a bullet between the eyes. That's what I came to tell you. Mind if I sit down?" Japp sat himself on the couch before anyone could even apologize for not issuing the invite.
By this time, Japp hardly cared about who else was listening. All the same, he kept his voice as quiet as possible, while letting the three around him hear. "We got a phone call early this morning from the cleaning lady, who goes into that particular chemist's shop about three times a week. This morning, she was cleaning the little kitchen area in the back of the store when she heard knocking. She checked the back door. Nothing. Then she looked in on the supply room, where she usually didn't go into. That's when she found them; Martin Buchanan, bound and gagged, and a very dead Dr. Everett Wilde. When she called the precinct, it was all the Sargent could do to make sense out of what she was saying. He got the address and then a whole lot of blather. The Sargent told me and I recruited another officer and we headed over.
That's where we found the two proper pharmacists. One in the staff kitchen, nursing a strong cup of tea, and the dead pharmacist, still in the supply closet. We called the city morgue for the body and an ambulance for Dr. Buchanan. He insisted he didn't need it, but I wanted him to get a proper seeing to. In any case, he told me plenty before the ambulance arrived. Not the least of which is WHY Dr. Wilde was killed."
It was Hastings who answered, "Drugs have to have something to do with it. Why else would Miss Lemon's cold medication be so heavily spiked? What Pharmacy keeps such a stock of pure cocaine?"
"Precisely. And the answer is, NONE. Not to that potency." Japp replied. "Does the hospital pharmacy keep any such stocks?"
"Of Pure cocaine, you mean?" Dr. Hudson verified the question and promptly shook his head in the negative. "No. Post-operative patients might receive a very brief prescription for morphine. I'm talking about 48 hours. For terminal cases, Demo-Verenol. But pure cocaine?" The physician reiterated his earlier statement. "Any pharmacy with that stock is not operating a legitimate business."
"My sentiments exactly," Japp decided. "Anyway, it's unlikely our ersatz chemists will be returning to that particular shop. By the time I left , there were still police cars at the curb. If Doctor Christie and his associate saw those cars, it's anyone's guess where he might have gone. And given the stock I saw behind the pharmacy counter, neither of them will want to be seen for the foreseeable future."
"It scares me to think how much worse this could get, if those ....gents are up to as much as you're implying." Dr. Hudson stood up. "Anyway, I have to finish my rounds and check on your Miss Lemon."
"May we see Miss Lemon, doctor?" Poirot inquired.
Edmond Hudson thought and nodded with some indecision. His instruction, on the other hand, left no room for argument. "Five minutes. No more. Less, if you can manage it. The more sleep she gets, the better her changes of getting this ...mess out of her system. On the other hand, it might help her to know that her friends want her to recover. Again, no more than five minutes."
Japp shook Hudson's hand and thanked him, as did Poirot. Hastings apologized for the earlier outburst and Dr. Hudson was gone. Upon the doctor's departure, Poirot inquired of his longtime friend, "Will Dr. Martin be in the hospital for long? Perhaps I can speak to him."
"He'll likely be kept for observation for a night." Japp guessed. "See what's going on in his head."
"Is he conscious? Awake?" Hasting asked. "To be locked in a room with a dead man! Especially when that man was a longtime friend! Poor man must be very near catatonic!"
"Why don't you peek in on Miss Lemon then I'll run you up to see Dr. Buchanan. He'll explain the whole thing."
Getting direction from a receptionist, Poirot, Hastings and Japp went to the room which was more of a mini-ward for casualty patients. Poirot gave Hastings the 'First Watch' You were the one who rushed to the hospital."
"I was also the one who suggested that she take two of those wretched pills at one time."
"As it was instructed on the bottle. Miss Lemon, she is no fool, mon ami. Nor are you. Would you have made such a recommendation if it was not written as such?"
"Of course not!"
"My friend, no one deserves to be punished for this ....atrocity more than the one who put into those capsules, the killing drug!" Hercule Poirot insisted. "And believe me when I tell you, these ....MONSTERS, they WILL be brought to justice! If it comes to it, I would gladly put the noose about their vile necks, myself!"
It was a sentiment Poirot repeated to Miss Lemon when he went into visit her, a few minutes later. Standing at the bedside of his deeply sedated colleague, Poirot thought back to the dark days before the death of his beloved Virginie . The difference, in that case, was that there was no malevolence involved. Nothing that was done out of greed or malice. It was a tragedy that befell in a world full of tragedy. And the more he got to know of this world, the more Poirot was comforted by the possibility that God spared Virginie and their son from the worst of things to come. It was a theory he was willing to live with . God knows, it made a LOT more sense than what was taking place now.
The WHY of Felicity Lemon's illness was all too easy. Greedy fiends, for whom money in the bank meant more than the lives they were destroying in the name of that money.
Taking one of Felicity Lemon's hands, Hercule Poirot vowed to her as he promised to Captain Hastings, "I will lead, to the very gallows, the SOUL-LESS fiends who push the POISON that has done this to you! Their filthy lucre will do doctors Christie and Prichard no good where they would wind up! So you get well in time for us to tell you that the monsters, they are where they belong! The temporary receptionist, she is good, but she does not have your skills with the cross referencing."
The door to the room slowly opened and Hastings peeked his head in. "We have to go, Poirot. The nurse is pointing at her wrist watch."
Setting Miss Lemon's hand at her side, Poirot took a long, steadying breath and answered, "I'm coming , mon ami. I was simply informing Miss Lemon that she has to get well soon before you weaken and eat the cake in her refrigerator."
Arthur Hastings was tempted to be angry, but Poirot's smile had a ....weariness about it that told Hastings that the tease was a cover.
Walking briskly past Hastings and Japp, Poirot insisted as they approached the lifts. "Let us be on our way, mes ami, to see the good Dr. Buchanan. The more clues he can provide, so much the sooner, the quicker we will corner our poison pushers and put to this tragedy, a speedy end."
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