Code Name Aggie: Part 2 chapter 7~Reluctant Farewell~





Sleep did not come easily for Hercule  Poirot that night.  Consequently,  waking did not come easily for him when he did finally drop.   As if all of that wasn't bothersome enough,  his dreams were an odd assortment. They started,  if dreams could be said to start anywhere, with various reunions with his close circle of friends.  Miss Lemon's Wedding yesterday.   His collaboration with (then) Chief Inspector Japp on the investigation of Roger Ackroyd's murder.  Meeting Captain Hastings at the airport when he arrived home from Belgium.  Only to arrive home and find the office littered with letters, written in either BLOOD or blood-red ink.  The envelopes containing those letters were held to the wall of his office,  and nowhere else in the apartment,  with knives that dripped blood.
Staring, with stunned incredulity,  at the knives and the bloodied lettering on the envelopes,  Poirot became aware of the uncomfortable sensation of moisture on his clothes.  He looked at his suit jacket to find a red stain growing.   Without seeing his enemy, or the  weapon wielded by this invisible assailant,  Poirot heard another shot fired and felt the burning bullet just before bolting upright in his bed and checking his pajama top.  No blood.
Closing his eyes in grateful relief,  Poirot glanced at his pocket watch.  It read 11:35 a.m.  He considered another half hour's sleep and then decided against it.   That last dream or clip of his dream was TOO vivid.  Was it trying to warn him or was his sub- conscious merely over-reacting to the letter he'd received the night before?
The Letter.  Yes!  That was the foremost order of business.  Thankfully, he'd eaten enough at the reception so hunger really wasn't an issue.  Instead,  he sat at his dining room table with a slice of toast and a glass of orange juice,  staring at the envelope which he'd placed in a plastic bag ;  hoping against hope that the predator was foolish enough to forget to use gloves.  Fingerprints might just be enough to tag him.  It was a very unlikely longshot.  Anyone associated with the Manchester Brotherhood were too shrewd to make such an obvious mistake.  Then again,  people made mistakes. Especially when they believed themselves incapable of getting caught.  Against all probability, Poirot hoped that his predator was one such arrogant individual.  His life depended on that over-confident conceit.
*****
At Scotland Yard headquarters,  Poirot knew he would not be meeting Japp.  One of his Lieutenants teased,  "I've got a five pound bet going with a colleague.  He's sure Japp will be in tomorrow.  I'm not so sure."
With more calmness than he felt,  Poirot replied,   "I am sorry to say that you will owe to your colleague that five pound note.  Assistant Commissioner was,  how do you say....a bit wobbly, but not heavily intoxicated.  In fact, he ate more than he drank.  However, I am here on a matter of great importance.  Is the commissioner in?  I need some evidence processed with all speed."
"May I see...?"
This officer, who didn't mind the odd joke, also knew when to play by the rules. As soon as Poirot removed the bagged  letter from his jacket pocket,  the officer asked the detective, "May I open this?"
"Yes. Bien sür. But do exercise all care. There may well be fingerprints."
From a drawer and the front desk,  the lieutenant got out a pair of gloves which he slipped into and then, with the utmost caution,  removed the envelope from the bag, and then carefully extracted the one page letter from the matching envelope, unfolded it and read.  Refolding it exactly,  the officer slid the paper back into the envelope and placed the envelope back into the plastic bag and then picked up the receiver and dialed three numbers.  "Forensics.  I need someone at the front desk to pick up a piece of evidence. Thank you."
The officer put down the receiver and let Poirot write a note to be included with the letter.    At the very top of the note were the words.FINGERPRINTS
A man from the Forensics department arrived to pick up the package and recognized Mr. Poirot.
"You are delivering this from the site of a crime, Mr. Poirot?"   The technician asked.
"I hope not."   Poirot said.
"Sorry."   The technician puzzled.
"I received it last night.  It was given to my night watchman."   Poirot sighed. "And I am an idiot."
That comment caught the attention of both the officer and the Forensic technician.
"How do you come to that conclusion?"   the officer asked.
"The envelope. It was given to my night doorman by someone who was likely NOT wearing the gloves."
"The ENVELOPE may not have been protected,  Mr. Poirot,"  the lieutenant pointed out.  "but the letter might still be safe from tampering, provided the writer forgot to use gloves."
"We can only hope."   Poirot spoke just above a whisper.  "Sir,  if I may ask,  how conclusive are the fingerprint analysis, assuming there are prints on that letter?"
The technician cringed.  "A hundred factors come into play there,  Mr. Poirot. Not the least of which is comparative prints.  Do we have a set of finger prints that are even close to those that might be on that letter?"
Poirot shrugged.   "Let us pray."
"At the same time,  Mr. Poirot,"  the desk officer pointed out. "there is handwriting comparatives to look at."
"There is.  I believe your people have on file another letter with the words, 'You're Next, Poirot!'  That is the note which provoked my friends to send me off to Belgium for a time. It was the invite of a friend, to her wedding, that brought me back.  Anyway, England it is my second home."  The detective smiled, albeit briefly.  "Again, at the end of the day,  if I were to scuttle off like the frightened rabbit every time I was confronted with the angry criminal,  I would not be fit for this job. When all is said and done, gentlemen,  if these people, they do not wish to be caught in their criminal activity, they should not commit the crimes that get them caught."
"That might help."  the lieutenant chuckled, sitting back at his desk.
The Forensic technician held up the plastic bag.  "Not to worry, Mr. Poirot,  I will take the utmost care. Rubber gloves and all. And  I'll make sure Assistant Commissioner Japp knows.  He helped set up the operation that brought down two of the Manchester Brotherhood."
"Oui.  The question that remains, however, is , how many members does this BROTHERHOOD hold?  We may be trying to search  for the proverbial needle in the haystack."
"Let's hope we find this needle before you or Assistant Commissioner get stuck with God alone knows what."
As unsettling as that thought was,  Poirot was relieved that the evidence was in police custody.  The thing to do, for the time being was to try and take his mind off it.  The best way to do that was to immerse himself in the journals; translating the cases into chapters which Mrs. Oliver would turn into fictional accounts.
This he did.
On the way home from Scotland Yard head office,  Poirot stopped by a bookstore where he purchased two notebooks with covers resembling novels, but for the lack of a title on the spine.  Considering the project he'd agreed to work on,  the style seemed appropriate.
At home,  Poirot went through the side cupboards of his sideboard and took out three of his journals,  dating from 1925-1935 and just beyond. If nothing else, they'd make for an interesting day's reading.   He glanced at a corner easy chair but opted against.  If he wanted to make notes,  one book or the other was bound to fall.
Arranging the notebook and journals at his desk, Poirot was about to go into the kitchen to prepare his Tisane when the phone rang.   Poirot picked up on the second ring.
"Hercule Poirot, he speaks."
"Hello there!"  Arthur Hastings replied.  "I hope I didn't wake you."
"At 2 p.m ?"
"Wild night life usually isn't your thing, Poirot. "
"It is also not the thing of little Aaron.  How is he?"
"He slept through breakfast."  Hastings told his friend.  "First for the books.  Anyway, that's not why I called.  I intended on inviting you to Styles Country Villa.  I had the invite with me but completely forgot to give it to you.  Isabel stamped and mailed it out this morning. "
Poirot chuckled. Good old Hastings.  "I have heard lovely things about your new place from Japp.  And the photographs you have sent.  Wonders have been done to the old place!  I have one of the pictures on my desk,  along with the professional family photo of you three.  Japp is right.  Aaron, he does resemble a smaller version of of you, in full dress suit."
"And like me, he's wild about cars. A few of our guests had some classic models . Now  Aaron wants to be sixteen tomorrow so he can learn how to drive and have a car just like it.  He also took to Miss Le...that is Mrs. Bennett. He had such fun dancing with her at the wedding.   So he wants to be married with a car by the time he's sixteen.  It'll be nice to have you around to take his mind of cars and marriage . You can tell him stories of our 'hunting days'."
It was all Hercule Poirot could do NOT to declare,  "I will be there first thing tomorrow!"   In fact,  he was more on edge than he would have dared to admit to anyone else.  This latest threat rattled him. To that end,  he was genuinely glad that he went to the  police with the written threat.  In such a situation, he would make....some effort to contradict Japp,  if only to keep him from thinking he won too easily.
"I fear the week, it will drag,  now that I have that weekend to look forward to."
"Are you all right, Poirot?  You seem......forlorn."
"If you can believe it,  I am meandering over my journals from years gone by so that I can translate those entries into chapters for Mrs. Ariadne Oliver to transcribe to a fictional story.   She is going to be the new author Chandler Peterson. "
"Chandler Peterson?  That sounds like it would be a man's name."  Hastings replied, unsure of what else to say.  "Uh....Poirot,  shoot me down if you must, but I'm not altogether sure I would work with that woman.  She's up to her fingertips in scandal.  I heard her tirade on that radio program.  If she can GIVE away another detective novel,  it'll be better than I expect.  Question is, what makes her think she'll get away with this?"
"I think, mon ami,  that she is hopeful.  She writes as a man, then Ariadne Oliver,  technically is forgotten, while at the same time,  Chandler Peterson  in some part,  saves the career of Madame Oliver."
"How do you feel about it?"
"If I may be so honest, Captain Hastings,  I am ...apprehensive.  I would like, very much, to believe that she would treat a friend better than she treated a fictional character.  On the other hand,  Mrs. Oliver,  she is rather defensive when backed into a corner. She does not like to admit the obvious.   I suppose that this....collaboration is my way of patching up the fence of our past rickety friendship."
"Friendship aside,  old boy,  I would employ the services of a lawyer,  just to be on the safe side."
Of everything he and Hastings discussed,  the matter of seeing a lawyer behind Mrs. Oliver's back,  to make sure he didn't end up going the way of Mr.  Sven Hjerson....it didn't sit well with him.  Still, he would call tomorrow and get some advice at least.
*****
"Will you listen to me now?"   the first words Poirot heard upon picking up his phone.
"Pardon?"  Hercule sat up in his bed.  His alarm clock read 7:25. "Who is...?"
"You not awake yet?  It's Japp.  I got here not twenty minutes ago and what do I see on my desk but a  report from the Forensic lab, having to do with finger print analysis, which unfortunately, is negative.  There were no prints on the letter.  That's the report I read. Imagine my surprise when I saw the letter and who it was addressed to."
Clearing his throat,  Poirot explained,  "That letter, it was left with the night doorman on the day of Miss Lemon's wedding.  The evening of that same day, along with a substantial tip to make sure the letter got to me.  I asked  for a description, but the best information was too vague, beyond  being able to affirm that the voice  of the messenger, she was female.  Whoever arranged that delivery, mon ami,  he or she was smart enough to keep his messenger cloaked in night rather than a distinctive wardrobe."
"Wait a minute, Poirot. The front door of Whitehaven Mansions is pretty well lit.   Least ways,  I don't recall...."
"The light, it was burned out and not yet replaced.  Forgive my suspicions but..."
Japp was ahead of him,  or at least on the same page. " 'You are in the collective mind and sight of the Manchester Brotherhood' ."  the Assistant Commissioner quoted.  "The odds of that light being out when it was needed is either dumb luck, or a strategic happening. I'm inclined to option B. myself. And that is why I'm getting you out of the city by day's end . Week's end at the latest."
"And how are people supposed to contact me ?  I am just rebuild..."
"Fat lot of good that clientele will do when you're in bits and pieces, all over England!  Look, I don't care how you do it.  We'll help out on this end if you want, but I want you out...."
"I spoke to Hastings yesterday. I will spend the weekend at his country villa. The concern I have is about the safety of Captain Hastings' family and guests.  I would never forgive myself if this business with the Manchester Brotherhood did harm to good friends."
"What are you doing for lunch?"  Japp asked.
"Pardon?"
"A PowWow.  We need to get out heads together and find out how to make this work. I'll bring the commissioner if he's available.    We need to find who's doing this but I'll be damned if I'll let you paint a target on your back in the meantime! Look,  I've gotta go. I'm being frantically waved at.  Be here at 11:30 ."
Click.
How was that for a way to start the day?  The week?
At eight thirty, the phone rang and Poirot was relieved to hear from the temp agency.  A woman by the name of Jean Hemsley sounded apologetic right off the top of the conversation and explained,  "We were supposed to send a temporary receptionist to your office today, Mr. Poirot, but we seem to have run into a bit of a labor dispute."
Breathing a sigh of relief, at not having to send a receptionist home,  he listened to the woman's explanation. "The receptionist we sent you last week.  Agatha ...oh I forgot her last name. No matter. She was dismissed from our agency,  but then, three of our other receptionists walked out in sympathy so we're short-staffed.  I can give you the number of..."
"No merci, Madame Hemsley.  As it turns out,  I am thankful, at least in this instance, for your difficulty, though I hope you find new staff soon.  In fact, on this end, there is also a situation that has arisen, and I may have to take down the shingle for the last time. So I am grateful that no one has had to make the trip, only to have her time wasted."
"Oh dear. Not medical is it?"  the woman inquired about Poirot's business.
"Well, yes. In a way.  It has been recommended, for my health , that I consider the permanent retirement.  I have  tried retirement before and it was not all that I thought or hoped it would be.  Last year. I tried going home to Belgium for a time.  That was enjoyable, but I missed the work and my friends here.  Now I am beginning to wish that I  had taken my sister's advice."
"Sisters have good advice to offer on occasion.  In any case,  I do hope your situation does sort itself so we can do business again....as soon as OUR situation is sorted out."
"I am hopeful that, by week's end, you have more applications than you know what to do with.  Good day, Madame Hemsley."
Poirot  replaced the receiver with a minor sense of accomplishment.   One obstacle overcome. Though,  in fairness, he had to admit that he'd all but forgotten about the temp help request.  Being threatened by mail had a way of pushing incidentals to the back of ones mind.
Looking over the list he made yesterday,  while talking to Hastings,  Hercule  pondered the idea of calling his solicitor.  Just now, however, is seemed like an entirely foolish idea.  Ariadne Oliver was a friend. Friends were different from characters.  Friends were flesh and blood. Real people.  Characters?  Well, they were imagined people. Not REALLY real.  Though Mrs. Oliver spoke of Mr. Hjerson as if he was a real person.  Someone she HATED and who, to all intents and purposes,  had been left to die on the vine.  And again,  the question Hastings posed gained a sense of renewed validity.
  WOULD Ariadne Oliver destroy the fictional version of Poirot, himself,  once she got bored with him?   Should she be legally allowed to?
Apart from facing forced retirement,  as , literally, a matter of life and death,  the prospect of being left out in the cold by someone he long considered a friend made Hercule Poirot want to return to his bed, and not wake up.
He ended the stalemate by phoning his solicitor.  Much to his surprise,  the man was as uncomfortable with Poirot collaborating with Ariadne Oliver as Hastings and even Mrs. Japp were.
"Does she have plans on drawing up any sort of contract?"  the man asked.
"I believe so.  She seems intent that I should get half the profits, should the book be published. "
"I'll have to study up on this,  Hercule. I'm not  versed in publication law.  However, if you make it a point of protecting your name,  real or fictionalized,  and she balks, then  you'd be a fool to help her.  Remember the woman has or had a contract with a publishing company, and that didn't stop her from trashing her own career over the airwaves.  I don't have the first clue what sort of contract she has with her publisher,  but you don't have to be gifted with too many of your little grey cells to figure out that money is sizable chunk of that particular contract. Pounds and per centages of the same.   It's anyone's guess how much harm she did to that collective profit margin;  hers and her publisher's.
Tell you what.  I'll have my  secretary draw up a very simple contract. No legal jargon,  just a simple agreement that, should she wish to discontinue writing for your character,  whatever his name is....."
"Giles Pendergast."   Poirot informed the man on the other end of the line.  "My father's first name and her mother's maiden name."
"Interesting,"  was all the man would say.  "But that's good we have a name.  I'll have my receptionist write up a letter, stipulating that,  should Mrs. Oliver become disinterested in writing for Mr. Giles Pendergast,  and the real person implied by that character, namely you,  would not be subject to any sort of malicious actions on her part. Though she would be, as you would say, thirty six times a fool if she slammed another character in a public forum.  Her career is in a precarious state already.  To rub salt on one's own wounds is masochistic if not suicidal.  And if she screws this deal up, she might as well commit suicide!"
"That is a touch extreme, is it not?"  Poirot asked,  doing his best not to sound angry. This man did not even know the author , apart from the disastrous radio program and perhaps from the books he may have written.
"Given all she could lose....her fan base,  her swanky spot at Mayfair.  A woman with Ariadne Oliver's  reputation , to say NOTHING of her EGO;   to watch all of that sink to the depths of oblivion,  by her own actions, no less,  would drive anyone to despair. "  The solicitor sighed. "All of that said,  I will NOT forbid you to collaborate with this woman. Only be careful.  Do you need that letter today?  I can send it over by messenger."
"Tomorrow will be fine."  Poirot replied.  "I have another matter to deal with,  this afternoon."
"Serious?"
"I am not certain.  I will let you know tomorrow. "
"Hercule, are you al...?"
Poirot didn't give the man a chance to ask any more questions.  Instead, he thanked his solicitor for the advice and hung up.
*****
Another meeting in the lunch room for the upper ranks of Scotland Yard's leadership, with one more in the company.  Poirot,  Assistant Commissioner Japp and Commissioner Alan Spaulding .  The lunch was hot roast beef sandwiches with strawberry Shortcake for dessert.   Commissioner Spaulding was a handsome man, just passed middle age but wearing it well,  in spite of the demands of his job.  He approached the issue of the Manchester Brotherhood in semi-positive terms.
"The Manchester Brotherhood aren't invincible,  gentlemen.  They can be brought down. And the pair of you proved it when you corned two of their boys on that drugs ring operation."    Spaulding followed a forkful of his dessert with a sip of coffee.
"Two members of an organization that numbers in the....what?  Thousands?"
"First of all,  Japp, it's not just the pair of you.  Europe's police force is on their trail.  You'll remember that Belfast had to deal with the drug ring before it came to us. And I have a difficult time believing that, however many members this organization has,  every one of them is focused on this particular case."
"They lost a great deal of money on that botched operation.  Pharmacies,  set up for illegal drug dealing as well as legitimate prescriptions.  And there were the two of their men who got the noose.  Interestingly,  even thugs of that sort have a sense of loyalty. David Christie and Michael Prichard did good work, and they might have made a go of it..."
"Except for the mistake that almost cost a good friend of mine her life."  Poirot cut in.  "I may well have helped with the case in the professional capacity, but the near death of Miss Lemon , resulting from an accident of  mixing up the legitimate prescription with one of their clients.  How many people had that happened to?  How many more COULD have been seriously harmed or KILLED.
Mon Dieu!  I think of little Aaron Hastings.  Suppose he had a cold or some sort of childhood malady.  Hastings, or Isabel, they take home the prescribed medication,  and ....."  Poirot shook his head as if to force the image from his imagination.  "I cannot even speak what I am thinking!   I went after those VERMIN so that no one else will endure the same horrors,  accidental or not,  because the 'Brotherhood'  they are more focused on the making of money.  It is ironic, in the extreme,  mes amies ,  that they will also kill off their own customers in time."
"There will always be new customers,"   Spaulding replied.  "That's the sad thing of it.  People are willing to flush their lives away and they have people who are willing to help them do it."
"All of that considered,  we still need to find a way to get you out of their line of fire."  Japp told his colleague of  years.  "You put yourself in the very center of their firing line by making your crusade against them personal.  I think that's part of the reason you're their first target.   I helped, but in an official capacity.  And the Brotherhood is well aware that,  should they come after me and succeed,  the British police community in particular will make it their business to hunt those vermin down,  if they have to hang them on a parking violation!  While Scotland Yard DOES and will watch your back, Poirot,  after your years of helping us,  technically, you're a lone wolf as far as the Brotherhood are concerned.   So you're best chance at safety is to high tail it to that country villa."
Poirot finished his coffee and set the cup aside.  "That is another matter,  Assistant Commissioner, of which I am very uneasy.  What if the Brotherhood find out where I am?  I shudder to think what they could do to someone else just to get to me."
"I think you can rest easy in that regard,"   Commissioner Spaulding spoke up.  "They want YOU and so they will go after YOU.  They won't risk hanging for killing an innocent party.   That would be stupidity on their part. No, Mr. Poirot,  that country inn is the best place you could be. Keep yourself out of their mind by keeping OUT of their sight."
Hercule Poirot sighed.  "I feel such a fool for thinking that they had so easily given up that I tried to rebuild my business.  Now,  I have to disconnect, again,  my ...."
"We can do that,"  Japp spoke up.   "By making is an OFFICIAL situation,  they'll act fast and won't think their customer has lost his mind;  going back and forth."  Japp meant the last part as a tease, but his friend could hardly see the humor of it.   Apart from a  brief smile of gratitude and a  'Thank You' ,  Hercule Poirot said nothing more.
"Do you have any long-range plans, Mr. Poirot?"  Commissioner Spaulding asked.
"Belgium.,"  Poirot said without enthusiasm. " I will return to my home.  However,  I would, first. like to spend some time with friends .  I will see how it goes."
****
That night,  Hercule Poirot lay in his bed;   his head tucked between two pillows, to insulate his ear's from the city traffic;  wondering how much longer he would be able to call 32 B  Whitehaven Mansions his home.   He dozed, finally,  and dreamed that he was back at his sister's bakery, but as a customer.  Across from his,  the young and healthy smile of his blessed Virginie. They ate chocolate Mousse cake with Poirot's favorite coffee,  but all the while,  he could not take his eyes off the woman he'd lost so long ago.
How odd that he could just sit and talk to her like they had made the date to dine a few days earlier.
The next minute, they were walking down the street on the way back to her place, the way they did when they were courting.   It was getting dark and yet the couple talked as if there was all afternoon to wile away.
"What do YOU want to do, Hercule?"  Virginie escorted them to a park bench.  "This is not like you, love. You're usually so much more ....rational."
"On cases that do NOT concern family and danger,  I am as ...methodical as the great Sherlock Holmes, of whom   I like to regard as my fictional twin bother."
"You're avoiding the question."  Virginie sang.
Poirot smiled at her. "I am.  Simply because I do not know the answer.  After all, my family, it is here. My home is here. And yet, in England, I have family as well.  Maybe not family by blood, but...."
"We aren't family by blood."  Virginie pointed out.
"C'est v'rai!  They have been good friends Sometimes better than I deserve at times."  He stared ahead, at the children running by and then faced Virginie.  "When all, it has been said and done,  returning to Belgium will ensure their safety and that is what I need to do.  Knowing this won't make the task any easier to carry out."
"May I offer some advice?" Virginie said as they left the park and walked, arm in arm, back to the house.
"Bien sür! Do tell, dearest."
"Why don't you let your friends decide?"
"How do I do this?"
"Very simple.  Just drop a hint that you are thinking of returning to Belgium.  If ...."  she stopped.  "What are their names again?"
"Arthur and Isabel Hastings,  and little Aaron of course.  I see him and I think of our little Michael.  I wish you had a picture."
"He's a handsome boy!  Just like his dad."  Virginie brought Hercule's hand to her lips and kissed it.  "Anyway, if you say to Arthur and Isabel that you are thinking of returning to Belgium, and they let you go with fondest wishes and all that,  then you come back.  If, on the other hand,  they plead with you to stay with them,  then you tell them you are concerned for their safety and that's why you need to return. If they agree with that idea,   then come back home.  After all, I'm sure Arthur and Isabel would not willingly put their son or their guests in danger. And if everyone's safety would best be served by your coming home, including yours , then that's what you do.
I'm only suggesting that you investigate all of your options before coming to a conclusion,  Monsieur Detective.  You will be making the decision that will affect the rest of your life.  So don't make a hasty decision you'll never be able to undo. Rather, exercise those famous little grey cells of yours  and weigh all of the evidence for the good of everyone, including yourself. "
In front of the door to the home that was once theirs,  Hercule Poirot gave his wife a quick but meaningful kiss which was returned. Then watched Virginie ascend the steps and then open the door to the house.  "Do not worry, beloved,  we will be together again."
"Give Michael my love."
"I will,"  Virginie nodded as the front door closed.  To the very second the door was closed and he could see her no more,  Hercule Poirot kept his eyes on the woman he loved and needed.
He woke up with tears on his cheeks and a dry throat.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Feel free to disagree but keep it civil, please.

"Every Child Matters" ? Hmmmm 🤔

They should matter to us when they're alive.     Would to heaven that were true! Sadly, though, this slogan gets the most air play after...