Code Name: Aggie~ Part 2 Chapter 11~🖋Written in Blood.❣️



     

   Knock. Knock.
Two soft but audible raps were followed by a voice Hercule Poirot's very heart smiled to hear.  "Papa Payrow.  Bunch time."
Poirot could just hear Aaron's mom, "That's BRUNCH,  my boy,  and you shouldn't  go knocking on people's doors  before they want to wake up."
Looking at his bedside clock,  it read 9:45 a.m.
"I am awake."  Poirot called.  Letting his feet slide into his Burgandy slippers and putting his robe on, went to the door, unlocked and opened it,  to find Aaron Hastings smiling up at him.  Dressed in cover all's and a striped shirt with red runners,  he reiterated his declaration,  properly pronouncing BRUNCH.
"I'm sorry,  Hercule.  I was making his bed when this little Whirling Dervish scampered off ."
"Not at all,  Madame Isabel,"   Poirot couldn't shed himself of the need to use titles when it came to women.   Even friends.    So he compromised and called Isabel Hastings by her first name,  preceded by the title of respect.  "I am rather anxious to get the day started. But first,  I must make my bed."
"Momma can do that. She makes my bed."
"No no.  Thank you, petit Hastings.   Your mama's job is to make your bed until you are old enough to make your own.  I am old enough to make my own bed."
"How old will I have to be before you let me make my own bed, mama?"   Aaron glanced up at his mum.
"Maybe I'll give you a belated birthday present and let you make it tomorrow."   Isabel teased.
Bold as you please, the boy volunteered,  "I can help you make your bed, Papa."
"How about you WATCH and I can help you tomorrow."  Poirot opened the adjoining door wide and let the boy walk around.  Aaron meandered from room to room.  The little kitchen was tidy.  Only a coffee cup and saucer sat in the dish rack. The sitting room had a sofa,  a corner easy chair with a lamp to one side,  A radio, roughly the same model as the one that now stood in the lounge, was in the middle of the small room.
"Who is this?"  Aaron's voice called and Isabel and Poirot noticed the little boy was no longer in the living room.  Back in the bedroom,  they found the child looking at a framed picture of a younger Hercule with a beaming woman, in white,  standing on the steps of a church.  "Who is the lady?"
Taking the photo ,   Poirot let Aaron and his mom see  "That lady,  she was the dearest Madame Virginie Poirot.
"Is she coming to  ...?"
Isabel was about to scold her boy for nosiness but Poirot was not annoyed.  He smiled at the memory the image provoked. "Madame Poirot, she is in heaven now. "
"Beautiful picture."  Isabel whispered, smiling at the middle aged man who gazed, with fondest recollection, at the photo of the young couple of whom he was half.
"I heard about heaven.  Miss Brahams goes to church in the morning and tells me stories after my nap.  Heaven is really nice."
Hercule cleared his throat. "It is a lovely place .  For now, however,"   he put the photo back in its place, on the small dresser.   "you can watch while I make my bed."
Aaron's mother intervened. "How about you get dressed and get your bed made and Aaron and I will wait for you in the dining room."
"But mum...."   the boy started to protest but his Papa cut off the argument with a shake of his head.  "No, no,  mon petit .  Your mama, she is quite right.  You see, there is a lot for Papa to do today. Tomorrow,  it may be a little easier. And I will help you to make your bed. For now, you go down for breakfast, and I promise,  Papa Payrow, he will be down to eat with you."
"Promise?"  Aaron insisted.
Poirot raised his right hand in solemn vow.  "I, Hercule Poirot,  promise to be down to eat breakfast with Aaron and his mum.  Now you go with your mom.  She needs coffee."
"What's coffee?"
"Milk for adults."   Isabel answered.  The two grown ups laughed.
*****
As promised,  Poirot was down for breakfast which was a buffet.  Hastings joined them when everyone but  the boy was finished. He sat, staring at the last blueberry pancake on his plate until his mom relented.  "I knew you couldn't finish them all."
"How many did you take?"  Arthur Hastings asked, digging into his own man-sized meal.
"Too many."   Isabel replied.  "Five, I think. Along with two sausages and a bit of scrambled eggs."
"Your son, he is trying to keep up with his dad."  Poirot nodded to Hastings' full  plate.  "His little body, however, cannot keep up with his grown up ambitions."
"Don't worry about it, "  Hastings waved waved the issue aside. "But only THREE pancakes from now on, okay? Until you're a little taller. "
Aaron was not about to argue.  Instead, he finished his milk and sat listening to the adults talk.  It was kinda boring.  Stuff about his uncle Jim Japp and something to do with an 'operative' ,  which someone named SCOTLAND YARD was closing in on.
"With any luck, all of this....fuss will be done and over with by the end of the DAY,  never mind the end of the WEEK, and we'll have good news to share by the time you get back from this evening's outing.  According to Japp,  there's a veritable flurry of excitement.  Their plant in that tavern Japp mentioned,  he's just doing his job and soaking in the information.  Better yet,  the happier those boys get, the more likely they are to imbibe, which loosens their  tongues.  Something BIG is on the horizon."
"Let us hope so,  mon ami.   The good Assistant Commissioner will be retiring after this case.  Let us hope he does not fall down from exhaustion before he can decide whether he will take his retirement here."
                               ******
The rest of the day progressed along.  Between sitting in on Aaron's Sunday school class and hearing Aaron ask Miss Brahms  about heaven, followed by one game of chess to get the new series going, Poirot almost wished he didn't have to go anywhere.  He was even tempted to call Ariadne and postpone the meeting.  For what, though?  She made such an effort to put the evening together. All of that after transposing his journal chapters into his fictional self; Giles Pendergast.  In fairness,  in all honesty,  he couldn't wait to read them.
"I am sorry we could not take petit Hastings with us,"  Poirot said as Hastings drove them to the train station.
"We would have been sorrier if I had. Aaron loves car rides, Poirot...."
"Like Father, like Son."
Hastings chuckled.  "No doubt. Unlike my pride and joy, however, my stomach isn't as particular about meal times.  Half an hour after his dinner time,  if Aaron hasn't eaten,  you'd think the child never saw food for the way he'd be carrying on.  Anyway,  he was happy enough with the idea of next weekend's excursion."
"I apologize for making such a hasty promise, mon ami."
"Not to worry!  Matter of fact,  I love the idea.   And we can make a day of it.  Isabel wants to go into London and pick up some things. She's also got a bee in her bonnet about taking  Aaron shopping for new clothes.  He is growing.  So we'll get it all done at the same time and Aaron will finally get to see the big city and find out it's not as fun as he imagines.  Especially with the traffic."
"Ah, yes, but he is a boy.  All of it is exciting to a child, even if it's nothing but heavy traffic and noise to the grown-ups around him."
"Speaking of traffic,  Poirot, you know,  I can drive you to that restaurant.  It would only be another ....forty minutes or so. And I haven't been able to open up this baby for a while.  I don't drive too fast in town and I don't drive quickly with Aaron in the car.  You'd be doing me a favor."
"And you would be doing the local garage a favor;  paying through the nose for the petrol you would need;  driving to and from  London. "
Hastings did his best to hide his nerves.  "Come on, since when have you known me NOT to love a long drive?"
Every instinct he possessed told Hercule Poirot there was more to his former colleague's  offer than he was telling.  He also surmised that it had to do with Hastings' mistrust of Ariadne Oliver.   Still,  they'd been over that ground.
"The thought is appreciated,  my friend , but I have someone picking me up from the station.  I assume that same driver, he  will drop me off at the station where I will take the train home.  May I call....?"
An idea formed in Hastings mind, but he kept his mouth shut while he planned.  "Of course.  But there's one condition.  You have to let me be the first to read that manuscript."
Hercule Poirot nodded.  "Right after I finish. But, not to fear.  I will likely get most of the story read by the time I disembark from the train."
As they neared the train station,  Hastings finally spoke up what was on his mind.  "I realize we've been over this same ground, ad nauseam,  but I do NOT trust that woman.  And I know you have ....misgivings at least. Just say the word, and I'll turn this jalopy around and head for home."
"And be riddled with guilt over not even bothering to let her know that I would not be able to attend.  No.  You are right,  that I am....apprehensive.  I was. However,  I now know the anxiety to be nerves for wondering what she has done with my stories.  That is the way of the unknown.  We fear it as much as we want to see what is coming.  Anyway,  Madame Oliver, she was in a rather jovial mood.  She  spoke of books and deals and champagne or wine, and the light dinner.   Unless she is planning on poisoning my food or drink, so that she may enjoy all the profits, ..."
  "I wouldn't put it passed her."
Poirot sighed,  "I do appreciate your concern,  mon ami,  and if it was up to me to allow it,  I would invite you to come along.  That way, the grievances, they could be aired and gotten out of the way.   But the permission, it was not given.   So please,  let us put the matter aside.  I need to catch the train.  The 6:24.  That will give me a bit of extra time.   And when you pick me up tonight,  I will inform you off all that went on and you will feel....well, we may BOTH feel foolish for our uncertainty."
The train was,  almost thankfully, a few minutes late.  "A rowdy passenger had to be let off and handed over to the police. "  the ticket agent informed his customer.  "Something to do with a card game gone wrong.  Anyway,  it should be here in a few minutes and he'll move like lightning to make up for the loss."
"No need.  I would sooner arrive at my destination late and alive rather than on time and scared to death."
Just about five minutes later, the train arrived and passengers disembarked before Poirot and a few others boarded.  "If I am too late,  I will call a taxi...."
"You'll do no such thing.  Just call our private number.  When Aaron's down for the night,  it would tale just shy of a bomb dropping on the house to wake him."
As soon at the train left the station for London,   Hastings jumped in his car and headed for London.  He had the address for the Olive Tree  restaurant.  While he wouldn't stop right in front,  he'd be close enough.  He'd call Isabel as soon as he was in the city.  Priority one was to keep a very unscrupulous woman from taking advantage of someone who considered her a friend.   Hastings wanted to be close enough to make sure she did not get away with anything close to it!
*****
Isabel Hastings had just given her boy a bath and was getting him into his pajamas when the doorbell rang.  "Go figure,"   she grumbled, wrapping her boy in the towel she dried his head with.  "Come on.  Let's go answer the door. "
In the time it took her to get to the door,   the bell rang a couple more times.
"I'm coming!"  Isabel called, picking up her pace, which Aaron flew ahead;  using his bath towel as a cape. She could see his still -cute childishly innocent tush.
Peeking out the peep hole,  she saw Enid and opened the door.
Enid?  What's....?"    As a rule,  Enid arrived either late on Sunday,  or very early for week's work.
"There's a call for you on the kitchen phone.  Mr. Japp.  It sounds urgent."
More flustered than worried,  Isabel asked her kitchen supervisor to stay with Aaron til she got back.  "Give his hair a good comb or it'll take a miracle to untangle it tomorrow."
"I've raised my own kids,  Isabel. I know tangles.  Just go answer the phone. "
Leaving her suite  Isabel just about ran to the kitchen. In the small  office within the kitchen, Isabel picked up the receiver from the office desk.  "Jim? What's the...."
"Thank God. Please tell me Poirot is still ...."
"No. He left at quarter to six. Why...?"
"We found the operative.  The one working for the Manchester Brotherhood.  Ariadne bloody Oliver!"  Japp swore.  "They have her on their payroll!  We have to get men to that place as of five minutes ago!  Is Hastings....?"
"No. He drove Hercule to the station. Not sure why he isn't back already."
"Damn and blast it!  Look, if he calls, you tell him to hightail it to the Olive Tree restaurant.  I'm heading there right now"
Isabel heaved a heavy sigh , as if she'd been holding her breath.. "Oh God!  Japp, PLEASE call as soon as you find out anything!  PLEASE!'
"As soon as I know, you'll know!"
Japp rang off without pleasantries. Isabel set the receiver down on the cradle. Her mouth was dry as she checked her wrist watch.  7:25.  Where in the world was Arthur?!  She headed out of the kitchen and back to their suite when she heard the phone ringing in the living room.  Another sprint.
"Hello?"
"Sorry, honey!  It's just me.  My car has a bloody flat!  I'm at a gar...."
"Where are you?"   Isabel asked, frantic.  "I mean, are you closer to home or...?"
"I'm still in London.  I wanted to keep an  eye...."
"Arthur, Japp just called.  Ariadne Oliver is the Operative for those men you've been so worried about."
"What?! Are you certain you heard right?"
"His exact words were  'Ariadne BLOODY Oliver!'   You have to get to the Olive Tree Restaurant .  Japp's men will be either ahead or right behind you.  Just BE CAREFUL!!"
"I'm already there!"   Next second,  she was listening to a dial tone.
Isabel Hastings got off the phone and found Aaron all dressed for bed,  looking like his dad and dressed almost like a little version of his Papa Payrow.   "Please GOD bring them back safe!"  she thought before declaring,  "I know a boy who would like a story time over a mug of hot cocoa. Would you happen to be that boy?"
Aaron nodded with enthusiasm.
****
Poirot's driver was polite but not too sociable. As much as he got was the man's name was Nicolae. No last name was volunteered and Poirot didn't ask.  He was relieved to check his pocket watch and see that it was hardly after 7p.m. when the car drove to a section called STAFF PARKING.   Getting out,  Nicolae was at least kind enough to open the door on Poirot's side.
"We need to go in by staff entrance,  Sir.  The restaurant is not open to the public today."   The man was either Polish or Russian by the accent, but his English was good enough.
Opening the screen door,  Poirot heard three knocks, in numerical succession.  One knock. Two knocks. Three knocks.   Odd.
"We have had problems with thieves, sir. Now the staff are on guard."
"Why not a key?"
Nicolae held up the key.  "The knocks are to make sure they know that a stranger does not have the key."
This puzzled the veteran detective.  The area in which the restaurant was located was very high end.  Surely there would be a strong police presence to ensure against burglary.
"Sir,  when have you ever known the police to be where and when they were needed?"  Nicolae said with a chuckle.
Once in the restaurant,  Poirot was guided around the kitchen area,  which wasn't busy.  The closer they got to the dining room,  the clearer Poirot could hear other voices, the more comfortable he became.
The restaurant was high end posh and yet had an elegant old world style to it that reminded Hercule of the restaurant he took Virginie to,  when they first courted.
At a corner table, away from windows and the drawn curtains,  sat Ariadne Oliver with , Poirot assumed, the man who would be her cover 'author' for Chandler Peterson.    They arose from their chairs upon seeing Nicolae and the guest of honor.
"Hercule!  It is true pleasure to see you,  tonight of all nights.  Please,  may I introduce you to Mr. Damien Suchet.   He is a big reason we are here tonight."
"Mr Poirot."   Damien Suchet shook Poirot's hand.  "As Mrs. Oliver said, a GENUINE pleasure to have you here.  When Mrs. Oliver told me she knew you,  and you were collaborating on a project I was going to be the 'author' of,  I've waited for this opportunity to thank you for the help you've gen to our mutual friend. It is appreciated ...more than I can put into words.  I've already read the story....the first few chapters anyway.  Cinema potential.  I hope I get to play your part."
The actor was nearly Poirot's height.  Even the same eye color.  He wore a beard which, though bushy, was not unkempt.   "It is possible,  Monsieur Suchet. However,  I think we should take one step at a time. Let us start with the drinks and getting acquainted."
Hercule's longtime author friend took his side.  "Agreed. Enough with the buttering up,  Suchet."  Ariadne declared,  bringing two drinks to the table. "Mr. Poirot will die of cholesterol poisoning!  I poured you a drink.  It's at the bar.  When Nicolae returns with the appetizers,  he'll tell us that everything is secure and then, we can proceed."
"Oui.  Your driver,  he is not much for the small talk, but he did mention there have been robberies?"
"A couple,"  Mr. Suchet said, seeming to know more about the day to day running of the restaurant than Poirot thought he should.  "But measures have been taken.  I don't anticipate anymore trouble."
Nicolae returned to the dining room with a tray containing three plates of  little sandwiches and mushroom,  green olives and tiny meatball hors d’oeuvres on crackers. Poirot congratulated his friend for an excellent creme de cassis.
"All is well, Nicolae?"  Ariadne inquired.
"All is well. Secured."
"Excellent."   Damien Suchet nodded. "Have a good night."
The man nodded  respectfully to Mr. Suchet and left the room.   At that point,  Suchet and Ariadne Oliver were seated on the outside of the corner table.  Poirot was in the first chair but in a corner.
Taking a fortifying sip of his drink,  Hercule inquired,  "Monsieur Suchet,  I hope you can forgive me for asking,  how do you know so much about this restaurant?  I thought you were an actor."
Mr. Suchet took a sip of his Scotch.  "Not a STARVING actor,  Mr. Poirot.   I run this restaurant as a family business.  I have other interests,  of course.  Acting just happens to be a hobby.  And I may well continue.  Judging by my performance this evening,  I'm pretty damn good at what I do. "  He smiled at Ariadne Oliver, who was just about beaming. "As are you,  my dear Aggie."
That name.  It was familiar to Poirot, though he wasn't immediately sure why.
Taking another drink of his Creme de Casis,  Poirot asked his friend,  "I would very much like to see what you have done with the stories.  Do you have it with you?  I promised a few friends I would let them read it after I was finished."
Initially,  Ariadne seemed genuinely puzzled but then remembered.  "Oh BROTHER!  Of course! Silly me!  I invite you here to show you the work I did and then I don't have it here when you arrive."  She chided herself all the way to the sideboard,  where she opened and closed a low cabinet. Then the first of three drawers where the utensils were kept.   She returned with a small beige brief case in her right hand.  Her left hand was kept in the pocket of the suit jacket of a very glamorous soft pink gown she wore.  In fact, it was, perhaps a bit too high end, considering it was supposed to be an informal evening.
Opening the briefcase,  Poirot felt for a thick wad of paper with anticipation.  Ariadne read the puzzlement on the face and in the eyes of the master sleuth, as he brought out a paper-clipped collection of ,  he guessed,  fifteen pages.   The title,   "It All Began...."   by Giles Pendergast  {As told to Chandler Peterson }  was there,  but it didn't make sense that chapters of twenty pages each could be whittled down to,  at best,  fifteen pages.
"Madame,  I do not unde..."    Hercule Poirot's niggling aggravation was exchanged with utter disbelief when he faced the barrel of a pearl handled revolver. Holding that pearl handle was none other than Ariadne Oliver.
"Well, well, well!"  Ariadne Oliver chuckled.  "And they say it couldn't be done.  But look at me! I've pulled off not one but TWO bona fide miracles.  First, luring the great Hercule Poirot into a trap, and then,  if that wasn't enough,  I actually rendered him SPEECHLESS."
"You're right,  Aggie.  I didn't think it could be done.  I can't wait to tell the fellas."   Damien Suchet kissed Ariadne on the right cheek."
At last finding his voice,  Poirot moved from the table he'd occupied.  "Madame,  if this is part of some elaborate play,  then you are to be congratulated on the authenticity.  If not, then this is plan of yours,  it shall not succeed!"
Damien Suchet laughed.  "And here was me thinking you were so smart.  You're not so bright.  I bet you haven't even figured out my part in this little scheme.  A few minutes ago, I told you that this restaurant was a family business. That much IS true.  It belongs to my sister and her husband.  However, the money for this restaurant was....donated by me and a few of my friends. Two of whom have been sent to the gallows, thanks to you!"
Hercule Poirot's eyes were wide open.  "Oh , mon Dieu. The Manchester Brotherhood."  His declaration was just above a whisper. Still,  it was heard by the man who faced him.
"Got it in one."   Damien Suchet smiled the smile of triumph over a long-illusive enemy, who'd finally be caught . "Shame you didn't have the good sense to figure it out sooner.  Then again, that was something the Brotherhood were counting on.  See,  you thought that we disappeared off the scene as soon as you moved out of Whitehaven Mansions.  To a point, that was true.  Well,  sort of."    The man circled Poirot in a wide, casual stroll as he explained.   "We did have people around,  watching.   One of the night security at the apartment building."
"The woman who delivered the note ...."
Suchet shook his head.  "Nope.  She was simply someone who needed a few extra pounds.  Twenty did the trick easily.  However,  to make it more of a challenge for that night security to identify her,  the light at the front door had to be disabled.  Earlier on in the day,  we made paid a young boy to take care of that.  He played outside like he was just waiting for someone inside. As soon as he managed to break the light fixture with that baseball,  (a plain old rubber bouncing ball couldn't have done it)  he got ten pounds.  Not too many kids with his spending money. That boy was probably the most popular kid in the school yard. "  The man added, "And you'll notice,  we did it on a day we KNEW you would be away.  How do you think we were aware of that?"
"I assume you had my telephone bugged."   Poirot sounded angry,  but he was equally nervous and even more confused.
"Correct once  again ,"   Suchet side-shrugged.  "I may have to amend my opinion."
Poirot ,  recovering his composure,  faced the woman who was holding a gun on him. "One thing I do NOT understand,  Madame Oliver, is WHY you are doing this?!  We had agreed  to this project.  It would have helped you!   Am I to believe this entire project, it was nothing more than an elaborate rouse?"
Ariadne's gun-wielding  hand slid to her side.  "Oh no.  That was legitimate.  And it may well have stayed that way.  However,  I have been..... LESS than honest about the enthusiasm with which these stories were greeted.  In fact,  my publisher was talking about dropping me.  Even after I showed him the first two chapters I'd  adapted, he remained skeptical.  He was certain I would turn on this character, too.  As I did mention, honestly,"  she went to the table and took a drink of her wine.  "I all but swore an oath in blood to ensure that I would not slam Mr.  Giles Pendergast as I had maligned Mr.  Hjerson.
She continued, "I was in a café,  scribbling as though my life depended on it,  and, well, in fact, it did.  My life. My career.  I wasn't sure of anything right then.  Even if I had written the entire book,  would my publishing company have accepted it?   And then,  as if in answer to a prayer I didn't know I'd been praying,  Mr. Suchet, here,  and Nicolae  (your driver) walked into the cafe and, free as you please,  sat themselves down at my table.  They bought me a second cup of coffee and a very lovely piece of Black Forrest cake,  after which, they proceeded to make their proposal;  I deliver you up to the Manchester Brotherhood, and they pay my mortgage at Mayfair,  and finance me for a year so I could finish a new story,  under a pen name."
Mr. Suchet cut in.  "In the time we were keeping tabs on you, Mr. Poirot,  the Manchester Brotherhood learned something interesting;   That is, you have absolute faith in your friends."
"Until now."  Poirot stared at Ariadne Oliver and then the gun at her side.  Even if he, by some miracle,  escaped that member of the Manchester Brotherhood,  unlikely as that was,  there was no escaping a bullet, on the assumption that Madame Oliver could fire a gun.
"That's as may be,"  Suchet replied.   "however,  at the time, THEN present,  we found out enough about Mrs. Oliver's situation, via a misstep on her part,  to know that her financial situation was precarious.  She needed money and she needed her reputation restored.  SOOooooo we decided to test the bonds of her friendship with you.  Much to even OUR surprise,  that hold was very....slippery.  All the same, the Brotherhood needed to provide ourselves with some....insurance.  She could say no to our offer, with no ...consequences,   just so long as she did not go to the police about it.   Because whether or not she gave a tinker's damn about your neck, she at least had to care about her own.  That condition agreed to,  we gave her twenty four hours,  a full DAY to decide if she wanted to accept the offer."
"What if she had violated the condition?"  Poirot knew the answer to that question before the words passed his lips.
"Foolish question,  Poirot!  You know the answer! I'd be dead.  Whether I agreed to supply the Manchester Brotherhood with their prize catch;  YOU,  I wasn't about to risk my own life."
"Surely you are aware what happens to people who run afoul of us,  sir?"  Suchet spoke calmly, but the edge in his tone could have drawn blood.
"The pharmacist who would not sell to you, his family business.  The judge, who would not permit the appeal of the death sentence and the lawyer, who could not get for your family what you wanted from the judge.  Though, I am certain both men knew they risked their lives to go against the Brotherhood!  I count those three men more worthy of respect than you will ever be!  To use money to take from people, their lives!   I hope you enjoy that money,  Monsieur Suchet!  Because, one day,  all the money you can lay your hands on,  it will not acquit you before the Judge, whose life will not be taken for BILLIONS of Pounds! "  Poirot took a full step towards Ariadne before she raised her gun.   "And you, Madame Oliver.  Is the money worth the betraying of a friend? I was willing to help you"
Pondering the question,  Ariadne  Oliver  replied,  "I thought about that,  Poirot.  I really did.   The offer of having my home paid for,  and enough money to keep me afloat until I finished my next book,  versus our   'friendship'. "  Her eyes rolled at the very idea. "Guess what?  It took me less than the day to decide to take the offer. See, we don't really have any real friendship.   Acquaintance, perhaps, but no honest friendship.   The reason for that is very simple;   I don't like you. I don't really believe I ever did! In fact, I find you....DETESTABLE,  Hercule Poirot."
You're an ARROGANT little creep!   So sure you have the ALLLL the answers!  You and your Tisane and your fussy as all get out symmetrical bloody organization! It amazes me that you have a friend to your name!"
Mrs. Oliver spoke as if such information should have been obvious,  even to the target of the barb.  Poirot only stared at his former friend,  as if the insult was worse than the threat of death that was literally facing him.
In a blink,  her tone softened and the was a smile. Perhaps more along the lines of a smirk. "On the other hand, you have been very ...useful.  Much appreciated"   Ariadne Oliver attached a small, matching silencer to her gun.
"Come on, Aggie!"  Damien Suchet  called to her. "Let's get this done and get back to the house."
"Right behind you."   Ariadne  called back.  Facing Hercule Poirot for the last time,  the woman he thought of as a friend merely smirked.  "Can't say it's been a pleasure."   Twice, the gun was fired and Ariadne Oliver watched her former friend,  {if he ever was a friend at all}  fall into a high backed chair;  two dots of blood beginning to blend from closely aimed shots.
Turning her back on the man who'd once called her a friend, Ariadne Oliver  followed Damien Suchet out of the restaurant, through the same back entrance Poirot had been lead in by.
*****
When Poirot regained consciousness,  he found himself on the floor of  the restaurant dining room,  feeling like someone had jammed a flaming arrow into his chest.   He could barely summon the will,  let alone the strength,  to glance down,  but he did,  immediately wishing he hadn't. The white shirt he wore  was just about red with the blood that had soaked through his grey suit vest and the first thing he thought of was, "Why did I not listen to ....?"   He cut himself off and then murmured, even as it hurt to breathe.  'Imbecile,  Poirot! It would serve you right.  A true friend tries to warn you, and yo do not listen!"
His thoughts were cut off  by sounds. Noises.  VOICES.  Not certain how long he'd been unconscious,  he wasn't altogether certain he was conscious.  Perhaps he was dreaming,  wishing as he drifted. And yet, the sounds, instead of fading,  came closer.
"JAPP!  CALL AN AMBULANCE!!"   The familiar voice was a blessing.  At the same time, Hercule Poirot could not recall the last time his colleague ever shouting so loudly.
Just about ripping off his jacket,  Arthur Hastings rolled it up in a ball and tucked it under Poirot's head. Then,  stealing two egg-shell white linen napkins,  he scrunched them and,  carefully as he could,  applied it  over the wounds.
"Good news is, you'll be fine,  but I'm afraid your suit has had it."
It didn't take a brilliant sleuth to tell Hastings was covering, No matter. He preferred believing the fib.  For as long as he had to.  "Mon ami, "  Poirot whispered. "how did...?"
"Shush!  Just rest."   Hastings insisted.
Another pair of footsteps Poirot recognized, striding like he was about to break into a full gallop.  Japp was about to speak when he saw the sight of Poirot on the floor, his shirt drenched in blood.  Throwing off his jacket,  he handed it Hastings, who used it as a blanket for his wounded friend and mentor.
"The ambulance is on its way.  We got 'em, Poirot!   Four police cars surrounded Ariadne Oliver and her Manchester Brotherhood co-conspirator as they were heading out the door.  They're now on the way to Scotland Yard lock up.  I don't give a bloody rip if they spend every last penny on lawyers,  they'll need the Almighty Himself to get them out of this!"
Poirot tried to speak but could only cough.   "H-- how did you find...?"  he finally managed.
"Our man in the field.  Like I said,  the Manchester boys were in their cups over something big about to happen. About five minutes after they mentioned Ariadne Oliver,  our guy gave himself a good nick with a broken glass and called my office on the way to the hospital.  I'm gonna see to it that he gets a medal. Above and beyond the call."
"Witness..." Poirot stopped and grasped Hastings' hand,
"Witness Protection.  We've got that covered.  The Brotherhood are bound to put two and two together when they find out one of their big boys is behind bars along with their accomplice.  In the meantime,  you give those little grey cells of yours a break and rest."
"Merci,"  Poirot whispered.  "Madame Japp,  she will be angry over your jack...."
"Are you kidding?  She's been after me,  forever,  to give the thing to a charity shop.  Once you're recovered,  she's going to make you the best roast beef dinner you've ever eaten.  Now I'm gonna wait for the ambulance."
"Mon ami,"  Poirot began only to grip his good friend's hand.  "I owe...I owe to you the apology. You have tried to....."  he stopped and grasped Hastings'  hand again.  For a man of Poirot's stature, he had a grip. But Hastings could feel the grip weaken.
"You can apologize to me in the hospital,  when you're not complaining about the food. I want to be able to tell Aaron his Papa Payrow will be home in a few weeks."
Poirot barely managed a smile. "You have....a lovely home, mon ami.  Tha....thank you."
"You're welcome."  Hastings replied;   doing his best to keep his voice calm when Poirot's hand gripped his again.  This time,  that once-fierce grip was little more than the hold of a firm handshake.   Noticing the drink on the table,  Hastings asked, "Would you like some of your Creme de Casis? It'll keep you warm. "
No answer.
"Poirot?  Poi....?"    Hastings stopped short and his mouth went dry.  It was only then that he noticed that Poirot's grip on his had had slackened and his head rested in the crook of the arm that held to Hastings hand.
In the distance, the sound of a siren could be heard.  As it drew closer,  the sound of footsteps could be heard.  "Hastings!  Poirot!  The ambulance is here!"  Not a word.  "Hastings?"
Returning to where he found them,  Japp was startled silent by the sight of Hastings'  heaving shoulders and Poirot's head leaning to one side.
For the first time, since the death of his father,  James Japp wanted to cry.

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