It would be the talk on the buses, in cabs and at office water-coolers for about a week. Then people found other things to talk about. Something was always going in in London.
Japp, as per promise, did retire and he and Emily Japp took up residence in the suite vacated by Mr. Cohen. The retired Japp, much to even wife Emily's amazement was a different man. Much improved by the move and the lack of city noise. He happily took up the post as Styles' gardener. Well, he would, come spring.
Hastings, in the meantime, revived another hobby. Finishing where Poirot left off, he completed the cannon of stories in "The Amazing Adventures of Master Detective Hastings by adding one which made a LOT more sense to the way things REALLY were.
In COLD CASE, Master Detective Hastings is brought low by a winter flu and it was left to trusty Poirot to solve the case. For Hastings, it was a matter of taking a case he recalled from a good ten years, or more back and reversed who ended up with the cold. For Aaron, it didn't matter how the story came about. He loved it and applauded when 'Papa Payrow' helped the ailing Master Detective Hastings.
"How can you solve the crime when you cannot even remember how to stand, mon ami? No. You get back into your bed and I will do what I can to help our friends from Scotland Yard. Though, it is likely, they will be helping me." Hastings read to residents one night, after he was finished what sounded like a lot more plausible tale.
"From your lips to God's ear!" Japp laughed. When the story was finished, Emily Japp and a few others suggested that Hastings try to have it published.
Hastings saw the request as a joke at first. "Seriously!? Come on! Compared to the fiction I've been reading , Sherlock Holmes stories could make it into the Bible!" he chuckled and explained, Poirot took some of our cases and put me in the driver's seat, so to speak, to appeal to Aaron. Sweet gesture, but...."
"Publish it." Emily Japp recommended.
It wasn't advice that was easily acted upon, for some reason. Then, one night, as he felt himself drop off, Hastings realized what was causing his unease about publishing the collection.
"They're not mine," murmured.
"Of course they are yours, my friend."
Standing on the porch, Hastings puzzled why he was standing on his porch in his pajamas, housecoat and slippers in November. The voice, immediately recognizable, made Arthur Hastings forget how cold it was. "Poirot?"
On the porch swing porch, Hercule Poirot sat, seemingly content and not the least bit bothered about the chill that was bringing large fluffy flakes of snow, despite the fact that he, too, was dressed in his bed clothes, even down to his monogrammed slippers that Hastings recalled had worn out. "I left the stories with you and so they are yours. Besides, your name is on them, it is not? That entitles you to publish them."
"But you wrote them!" Hastings insisted, wondering, as he spoke, how he could be talking to .....
"Let us take a walk, mon ami. I miss the grounds."
"But it's snowing."
Hercule Poirot smiled, "I am unlikely to take a chill now."
If that change in Poirot's personality surprised Hastings, all he knew didn't take Arthur unawares at all. Poirot knew the Japp's had moved in. The clue was the neatly cut shrubs.
"I have said it once before, mon ami, and I will reiterate the point; this place, it is lovely. Aaron, he will grow up here before he gets for himself the class mates and the concerns of school life and impressing the young girls. Give him that memory. The book."
"As a special memory for him?"
"And for you, too. Aaron, he will remember you reading, to him, the stories long after he forgets what the stories were about."
"Oh, no. Aaron remembers his Papa Payrow." Hastings stammered over his apology. "I wish we ...that is...." he cleared his throat. "me and Japp, I wish we could have arrived soon enough to..."
"As I recall, Hastings, you were the one who tried to warn me. It was my fault for not listening. But all of that is forgotten. I have Virginie and our son, Michael. One day, I will introduce you to them. In the meantime, take Madame Japp's advice and publish the book. You I know I can trust."
"It must have been awful to find out that Mrs. Oliver ...."
"Was not the friend I thought she was?" Poirot nodded. "It is sad, mon ami, the things we deceive ourselves about. For a while, I had the.... how do you say, the niggling feeling that Mrs. Oliver was not the friend I wanted to believe she was. In spite of all the red banners that fluttered, like the cape before the bull, I should have paid attention to those signs that you saw, but I did not see it because I didn't want to. So much for the famous little grey cells."
Poirot looked up at the light from one room as they walked. Neither of the friends complaining about either the chill or the snow that was beginning to cover the pathway. Poirot hardly noticed. He was focused on the soft light from the room . Aaron's moon and stars night light.
"You have done well, mon ami. I recall even the days of the Cavendish/ Inglethorpe home. It was nice, and yet,.....dark. I can hardly imagine this was the same home. You and Isabel, you have brought light and comfort. Thank you for opening this home to me."
Hastings could have made much of other times when Poirot opened his apartment when needed, but that ground was tread upon. Instead, he merely replied, "You're welcome. And ....yes. All right. I'll publish the book. Or try at least."
"You will do well, Arthur."
Arthur? That was odd. Poirot had hardly ever called him by his first name.
He turned ....to find himself on the porch. The snow was coming down and Isabel was urging him to come inside. "Arthur! Heaven's sake, you'll catch your death of cold!"
Hastings looked at the porch swing, which hardly looked as though it had been sat in. Then again, did ghosts leave benchmarks?
"Coming."
Over Poirot-strength hot chocolate in their private kitchen, Hastings apologized for the sleepwalking episode.
"For some reason, this whole book thing's really been getting under my skin and I couldn't figure out why. Then, just as I was dozing off, it dawned on me. But it's okay now." Hastings took a sip of the drink and shook his head at the shot of concentrated cocoa.
"Are you sure?" Isabel asked. "I don't want to wake up one morning, to have Japp tell me he found you, frozen to death on the porch swing."
"No more of that. Still, if Poirot could walk around in his pajamas and slippers without catching a chill, I'm pretty safe."
*****
To his dying day, Arthur Hastings was never certain if he dreamed that scene or if it actually occurred. All he knew was that he felt a lot more comfortable about publishing the full collection. That was, assuming any publisher would pay for the right to print it.
They did. And, in the best of beginner's luck, the stories were accepted by the first company Hastings contacted. The letter of acceptance was received the day before Christmas Eve, 1948. On Valentine's Day, the following year, a supply of ten books arrived, along with a note from the publisher.
Setting the letter to one side, Hastings took out the first book and stared at it for a minute; unable to take it in. The title, unto itself, was a mystery. As much of a mystery as the man who wrote it.
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