Writing for Fun
March 2019
It's A Crime - Anne Wilson
The dapper little man rose from his desk immediately upon her entering the room. Much to her surprise she found that instead of shaking her proffered hand, he kissed the back of it. A continental custom, she supposed.
He gestured towards the leather chair opposite.
‘Please sit down, Madame,’ he said, ‘and tell me what Poirot can do for you.’
She was a stocky, middle-aged woman, not ostentatiously dressed but of obvious good breeding.
‘I’m here to see you on a matter of the utmost importance, Monsieur Poirot.’
‘But, of course,’ he replied, smiling with smug self-satisfaction. ‘Poirot, he deals with nothing less.’
His inflated sense of self-worth was so typical of him and she winced. What an immodest little man he was.
‘I’m here to warn you, Monsieur Poirot’, she said calmly.
He looked at her quizzically.
‘Of what, Madame?’
‘You are about to be killed in the not too distant future,’ was the reply.
His smile tightened, pleasing her. He was not so sure of himself now.
‘By whom?’ he enquired.
‘By me,’ she replied.
His face betrayed no further change in emotion, something which, in itself riled her. He was so sure of his own superiority that even a provocative remark failed to alarm him.
‘Have we met before, Madame?’
‘We have never met before,’ she countered in an even tone, ‘but I know you very well.’
‘What have I done to inspire such hatred within you?’ he asked, leaning forward in his chair, his smile wavering now.
‘I scarcely know where to begin, you irritate me so profoundly’ she replied. ‘The mangled English, the arrogance, the vanity, the mincing little walk, that silly little moustache and, above all, the habit you have of always referring to yourself in the third person.’
He raised his hand in protest.
‘Poirot, he refutes this,’ he said indignantly. ‘He is not guilty of any of those things of which you accuse him. He speaks the English which is fluent and he is the modesty personified, despite his brilliance.’
‘I rest my case,’ she sighed.
‘Pray tell me Madame’, he said, ‘how you intend to carry out this heinous act. This tragedy that will bring the nation to its knees with grief.’
‘I think most people’s lives will continue without too much disruption,’ she said drily. ‘I don’t like murder by gunshot: it’s very risky. You need to be a perfect marksman to be sure your target will die following only one attempt. Neither do I hate you with such vehemence that I would wish to subject you to the violence and bloodshed of death by a sharp weapon. I certainly would not want to see you writhing in resistance to death by strangulation, so that only leaves one method: death by poisoning. I am very knowledgeable on the subject and, as I have it within my power to dictate every aspect of this event, you will be unable to prevent it. I cannot imagine that even you will able to double-check everything you eat and drink. It will happen when you least expect it and when you are off-guard.’
‘Madame, I am never off-guard,’ he said icily. ‘And, you have overlooked one thing. Poirot’s leetle grey cells.’
She stood up with a finality that indicated the matter was to be brought to a close.
‘And that ridiculous expression is yet another thing that irritates me about you,’ she said as she turned abruptly towards the door. ‘The conversation is now over, Monsieur Poirot.’ She turned the door handle and left.
Freedom at last, she thought as she left the block of flats and walked into the fresh air. Just outside an elderly bird-like woman was waiting for her – head anxiously cocked sideways in anticipation.
‘Did you tell him?’ she asked nervously.
‘I did,’ came the firm reply.
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ twittered the woman. ‘I shall be your most important creation now. Perhaps your next book could be re-titled ‘Marple On The Orient Express?’ Oh, I can see it now. I will go all over the world solving murders. No more of those silly village mysteries.’ She slipped her arm through that of her creator. ‘You’re a wonder, Agatha’ she gushed.
The writer’s heart sunk. She saw Jane Marple as inextricably linked to a parochial environment, not an international jet-setting detective. She glanced down at the chattering creature as they walked along the road together, regrettably concluding that maybe she was becoming a bit too uppity these days. Despite all his irritating little ways, Poirot had made her a very rich woman and the scales were beginning to tip decidedly in his favour. A new idea began to form in her mind and brought a smile to her lips. Was it beyond the realms of possibility that an elderly, busybody spinster could die of suspected arsenic poisoning at a village fete?
‘Jane,’ she said, smiling at her old friend benignly, ‘Are you free tomorrow. I want to come and visit you concerning a matter of the utmost importance?’