Another chapter and yet, not another word was heard or read from the Brotherhood. Weeks and chapters went by. A single letter came from Ariadne Oliver. Two pages that sang the praises of the four chapters she'd received so far and what she was doing with them.
"Short stories to introduce Giles Pendergast to the world while I get used to being Chandler Peterson. My agent thinks my cream cheese has slipped off my cracker but he's willing to play ball. Just so long as I don't go off on another radio rant. I all but swore on a Bible to promise I wouldn't blow up on another radio program, and definitely NOT against Giles. I mess with him and it's over. I promise you, Hercule, your stories are safe."
That letter was the last one he'd received from Madame Oliver despite having sent other chapters, with letters, requesting feedback. Even as he wrote that request, though, Hercule Poirot chuckled at his own irritation of the woman's so called 'laziness' at responding to letters. She wrote stories and characters first. Real people would have to wait.
Still, the waiting was making Poirot wish he'd listened to to his friends and bowed out. All the same, he was a man of his word. Staying up far passed his bedtime one Saturday, Poirot transcribed the last two chapters of his journal, finishing with a final letter. After brunch on Sunday, he and Aaron took a walk out to the mailbox, which was just outside the gate of the Inn. For a brief walk as it was, Aaron was dressed in a rain slicker and rubber boots. Looking up at the dark sky, Poirot wished he had taken Isabel's advice.
"Can I put the letter in the box, Papa?"
"Oui." Poirot lifted the little boy, who slid the long, tan rectangular envelope into the post box. He'd just put Aaron down when a rumble of thunder warned them to head back with all haste. Taking the boy's hand, Poirot didn't so much run as speed-walk. Taking the lead, Aaron was laughing as he barely succeeded in getting his papa to move faster than a slow jog. By the time they got to the porch of the house, the rain was coming down in a sheet. Aaron's rain jacket was dripping wet and Poirot was soaked. Even still, they were both laughing as they entered the the front door, to the welcome of Isabel Hastings, who supplied Poirot with a soft towel and then proceeded to get Aaron out of his dripping rain jacket.
"Keep it up, Aaron Hastings, you'll be in bed with the flu on your birthday."
"What's a flu?" the boy wondered.
Hercule Poirot smiled, "The flu, mon chere petit , is a very bad cold, which can, with the help of a good cup of hot cocoa, be kept away. Might I ask the permission of the kitchen staff, for use of the stove?"
Permission was given, much to Isabel Hastings' surprise. Even more so when the boy was out like a light even before Poirot finished telling his latest story of Master Detective Hastings, as Aaron and his mother sat on the couch and Poirot sat on the matching footrest, sharing the story of how Master Detective Hastings met the love of his life. All the same, the guests who were in the lounge did enjoy the tale, as did Hastings, who carried the sleepy boy upstairs for his nap.
"You really should put stories to paper, Poirot. For us, at least." Hastings suggested as the friends enjoyed an after dinner drink in Hastings cozy paneled office, almost a replica of Poirot's own, back in the White Haven Mansion days.
"Merci, mon ami. I may well. As it is, my mind, it is still occupied with the lack of communication from Madame Oliver."
Arthur Hastings sipped his scotch. "If you don't mind my saying, old boy, perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. To be quite blunt, I don't trust the woman. She slags off her own character to a radio audience. To me, that speaks of lack of respect. In her heart of hearts, Poirot, Ariadne Oliver didn't even care about her own audience. The people who read her books were cut loose. Left on the curb with the rubbish on collection day. Apart from missing the financial compensation those former readers no longer provide, I doubt Mrs. Oliver doesn't seem to give half a damn!"
Hastings expected some rebuke from his friend but received none. Instead, Hercule Poirot side shrugged. "I am beginning to wonder the same, Hastings. The way she would ridicule poor Monsieur Sven Hjerson, one would think he was an ex husband who used to mistreat her rather than a character who has done her no harm." Poirot sipped his drink and smiled. "I believe I felt more sympathy for the pauvre Monsieur Hjerson than for young orphan, Oliver Twist. At least little Oliver, he got a family at last. Other than the odd bit of good fortune here and there, it was like Madame Oliver was going out of her way to make things difficult for the poor detective."
"Exactly, which is why I think this lack of communication might be more good than bad. God alone knows what she'd say about this new ....."
"Ahh, but Madame Oliver is writing under the Nom de Plume; a man's pen name of Chandler Peterson. So, if she were to, as you say, slag off Giles Pendergast, she would give her game away and no one would ever trust her again. She would not be able to so much as sell a recipe to a cookery book." Taking another sip of his drink, Poirot set the empty glass on a marble coaster. "However, I have decided, even as little Aaron accompanied me to mail the last installment, that I would let the matter be closed. If I hear from Madame Oliver by the end of the month, the project, it can commence. If not, I shall, as you have recommended, put the whole matter down to a lesson learned, and move on. "
"I'm sure it won't be easy. You two have been friends for a while."
"Oui. Then again, it has been an odd 'friendship' . Sometimes, I almost felt like an extension of Monsieur Hjerson. Now, mon ami, let us discuss more pleasant matters. Madame Hastings reminded me that, next month, it is little Aaron's birthday."
Hastings consulted his desk calendar. "Good Lord, yes! In a few weeks' time, too."
"What are the plans? Do you wish to get for him something special?"
Hastings polished off his drink and set the tumbler on his own coaster. "For the past two years, he's wanted a Shetland pony. That all started when we took him to a little country fair with ponies and rides and the like. He was fine with the Ferris wheel and the little cars, but then I walked him around when he rode the Shetland pony and he's asked for a pony every year since. I'm amazed he remembers it. He was only three."
"Perhaps we should pitch...."
"No." Hastings shook his head. "Unless you want Isabel and Japp to form a lynch mob and chuck you out of Europe. We've worked too hard to get these grounds up to scratch, and Japp's been a huge help. If he were to have to side-step through a pony mine field every weekend, he'd give up in disgust. Best our boy can hope for is a puppy, but that won't be for another few years. Thanks to you and Miss Brahms, we're beginning to make headway in getting Aaron to put away his toys when he's finished. I don't think he should be responsible for a living creature bigger than a gold fish until he's at least seven."
*****
Nearly the full month went by without a word from Madame Ariadne Oliver. As he promised himself, Hercule Poirot chalked the ordeal up to a life lesson learned and got on with his life. He had, by this point, earned the trust of the kitchen staff; offering his services when a member of staff couldn't come in. He was, on the other hand, respectful of Enid's territory and let her be the boss. Her organizational skills were much like his own, apart from the difference in timing, but the end result was the same.
On the day of Aaron's birthday; Friday, October 15th, he got to enjoy his favorite breakfast food; pancakes with strawberries. The guests got variations on that theme and some of the permanent tenants gifted Aaron with cards, some of which contained money. Pound notes Shillings for his piggy bank. Giddy with joy over all the presents, Aaron said thank you any number of times.
"What are you going to spend it on?" Poirot's chess buddy, Isadore Cohen asked. "Or are you going to save it and buy something big?"
"How much is a pony?" Aaron asked.
After a post-lunch game of miniature golf with his dad, Poirot , Mr. Cohen and Miss Brahms, Aaron hardly needed coaxing to take a nap. In fact, he was asleep on his dad's shoulder. In his room, Poirot spent some time on a story in his new series. Sure, it would be for the family and for fun. On the other hand, Poirot discovered the genuine joy out of switching places and letting Hastings take the first order.
Eventually, the words began swimming in front of his eyes and Poirot closed the book and left his desk for his bed. He had taken off his slippers and was about to let his head settle onto his pillow when that fond hope was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
With few knowing his number, other than Assistant Commissioner Japp and a few of the permanent residents of the Inn, Poirot assumed he would be invited, by Mr. Cohen, to begin a new chess series.
"Bonjour Monsieur Cohen. I am...." he began, only to be cut off by a familiar but long since heard from female voice, who began her discussion as if they'd never been estranged.
"They LOVE IT!!!!"
"Pardon? Who...?"
"Silly! It's Ariadne! I'm sorry, Hercule. I know, I KNOW I should have called back when, but I got caught up in reading your stories and working on the fictional version of the stories. I showed the first to my publisher, and ...at first, they weren't over the moon about the potential of another brouhaha. I practically had to do cartwheels to convince them that I wouldn't put them or myself in another ....embarrassment." She stopped just long enough to take a breath but not long enough for Poirot to get a word in. "Anyway, your other journal posts came...I love the way you set them up as chapters. Saved me a step....and I got to work on those and my agent just about melted out of his chair, he was so thrilled. Up until then, he was contemplating dropping me as a client. Well, in a way he did. Ariadne Oliver, the writer, no longer exists. To all intents and purposes, I am legally Chandler Peterson. Mr. Sven Hjerson has been left to die on the vine. Rest in Peace. Whatever.
In any case, I've been so caught up in getting these stories fictionalized that I might as well have been living in a cave, for all the interaction I've had, with anyone else. So tell me, what are you doing this weekend?"
Finally! She stopped talking long enough for Poirot to even THINK of what he wanted to say. Moreover, he wondered if he'd be able to sleep after trying to make sense of the speed race pace of Ariadne's monologue. "I am glad the chapters, they are successful. However, it is just as well you did not ask me about tonight. It is my grandson's birthday. Tomorrow is good. However, if you wish to meet on Sunday, you may come over...."
"Sunday would be perfect! I have some friends who own this lovely Italian restaurant, the Olive Tree. They make a Fettucine you'd crawl through broken glass for, so to speak. As a rule, the restaurant isn't open on Sundays. The family who owns the Olive Tree are devoutly religious and wouldn't break that commandment for love or money. However, they do have staff who are not so religious and don't mind catering to small, private groups.
To that end, I want to introduce you to Mr. Damien Suchet. He's the young actor who will be posing as Chandler Peterson for the book's jacket cover. He just about bribed me to set up the introduction. Seeing how the night manager of the Olive tree isn't religious, he didn't mind doing something small, by way of meals. Appetizers. White wine. I arranged that. paid for it so we can finalize the contract and to apologize for keeping you waiting. Please say you can come! "
He could hardly say no to such a pitiful, apologetic plea. "What time would you like to meet?"
"Is seven to late?"
"No. 7 p.m. it is acceptable. I will simply have to put in an extra round of golf with Aaron to work off the calories."
"I can think of worse ways to spend a day." Ariadne laughed more enthusiastically then the comment was entitled to. Poirot put it down to the woman's being relieved that they had re-connected and were still friends, even after the prolonged disconnect.
"Oh for heaven's sake. Here I am, blathering away. I never even bothered to give you the address." She gave the full address of the restaurant, which Poirot recognized as Mayfair's social circle. "I'll have a car meet you if you like. Cabs on Sundays are about as plentiful as water in the middle of a drought . Even in London's most upscale neck of the woods. Anyway, I'll see you there. Do call if you can't make it and we can reschedule. Thanks for everything, Hercule! Tata!"
She hung up before he could return the greeting.
*****
The rest of the day went by in a happy haze of activity. Finally, all played out from the day's birthday frolicking, Aaron was tucked into bed. Poirot wasn't too far behind, but for a hot cocoa and some time spent on his Master Detective stories. His heart and mind weren't in it, though. All the more bothersome was that he couldn't figure out why. Even stranger was his wish that he never heard from Madame Oliver after all. Was any amount of money worth worrying when the flighty woman would decide she was bored with M. Pendergast and toss him to the literary scrap heap, regardless of the guise she was writing in.
Then again, he thought, sighing and finishing off his hot cocoa, being so foolish as to toss this new character aside would do her harm, at the end of the day. It wouldn't matter whether or not her readers would ever suspect that Ariadne Oliver was the true author of the stories they'd be reading. If she were to undo M. Pendergast's life, that would be the end of it. And so, unless Madame Oliver wanted to end up on the street, she would not make such a costly mistake. And Madame Ariadne Oliver was a woman who liked her creature comforts.
With that hope to comfort him, Hercule Poirot turned down his bed , sat on the bed, removed his slippers and slid his feet under the comfortable bedding. Poirot was beginning chapter three of a Gary Gregson mystery, when he felt his eyelids droop. Replacing the book mark and turning off the bedside lamp, the detective, retired, was sound asleep inside of a minute.
*****
Emily and James Japp arrived at the house just after breakfast but the weekend kitchen supervisor was used to the routine and had something made up for them before Japp went to work on the garden. Hastings marveled that the man would want to drive all the way up to Styles after a week of work. Over coffee, Japp plotted out the day's work. Emily, on the other hand, was content to putter in the garden that lined the side of the house. How many times did he think back on Evelyn (Evie) Howard, from back, a whole life time ago, when Styles looked every bit as different.
" 'Fraid we won't be able to stay over night this weekend, but the reason will make you both happy. You in particular, Poirot. Our boys are closing in on the operative. It's been slow going but it's not like our guy can ask any questions. Bartenders are usually allowed to be friendly, but we can't get too 'friendly' or the Brotherhood boys are liable to get suspicious."
"Be there just don't be visible." Hastings said.
"Exactly. "
"And there have been no more threats? No more messages?" Poirot asked.
"Not a one, I'm happy to say. One less thing to worry about. Still in all, we still need to account for the suspicious deaths of their lawyer, the judge and one of the pharmacists, not to mention the singular fact that peddling illegal and controlled substances under the guise of a local pharmacy is punishable by, at the very least, a life-long prison sentence. At the worst, the noose. You'll forgive me for sounding cold-blooded but I wouldn't mind if the lot of them hanged, and in the same stretch of rope. At the same time! "
Poirot and Hastings chuckled. "I am afraid that will not happen, mon ami."
"I know. I know. Can't blame a man for dreaming, can you?" Japp smiled, sipping on his coffee.
"Since we are near the end of this drama, then you will not mind if I have dinner out tomorrow." Poirot informed the Assistant Commissioner.
"Oh.Might I ask who issued the invite?"
"I received a telephone call from Madame Ariadne Oliver yesterday. We have been collaborating on a story. I think I told you."
"You did. I just didn't believe you."
"Well, mon ami, tomorrow night, I will be enjoying a light dinner with Madame Oliver, where she will show me what she has written before it is published."
Japp nodded, apparently impressed. "Good work. Truth to tell, Poirot, I was surprised you held up this long without Hastings having to lock you in the house to keep you from getting back in the saddle."
Poirot drank his coffee, "As am I. On the other hand, I knew you had a job to do, and trying to keep me out of the way and do the job necessary to capture the Brotherhood, it would be not only not fair of me but equally dangerous to you. I would never have forgiven myself if you were injured or killed trying to do keep your eyes on two fronts at the same time. And besides, as 'hide-outs' go, this has been most enjoyable. I almost don't miss the work."
"Almost." Japp echoed. "Where's the first lady of literature taking you anyway?"
"It is a place called The Olive Tree."
Hastings whistled and Japp nodded. "You do have friends in high places. I would have taken Emily there for our anniversary last month, but I would have had to take out a bank loan to pay the parking meter. "
"Very droll, mon ami." Poirot smiled, albeit briefly.
"Droll or not, you just make sure you get a square deal out of this." Japp jabbed the table with his index finger. "Make damn sure you get treated better than Mr. Sven Hjerson fared. Emily's still breathing fire over that."
"If Madame Oliver has a copy of the stories, I will let you see them next weekend. Along with the contract."
"Believe it or not, I'm looking forward to that."
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