Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

Mr. Hercule Poirot, the famous detective, relaxed in his couch and wondered what to do next. He folded his hands together - each finger of one hand touching its counterpart of the other - and he frowned slightly as he thought hard.

He had finished setting up the Christmas tree - a cheap plastic affair. Plastic trees caused less of a mess, were always easier to set up and even cost less over time. The last consideration was particularly important. He had drastically cut down on his number of cases and had to watch his budget. Although he was a genius at solving complicated mystery cases, his financial acumen had always been sadly lacking and did not translate into a fat bank balance - like it seemed to do for that Inspector Japp!

The lights worked like a charm - as usual, an inevitable outcome of his meticulous planning. The tree held under it a single large package. He reached for his glass of brandy. As he sipped it, he murmured approvingly:

"Exquis! Just the way it should be."

The taste was quite agreeable. He gazed around the room - everything about the room was quite agreeable. All its furniture pieces were neatly arranged - his desk, his bookshelves, his books, and the table lamp, everything. The fireplace radiated just the right amount of heat that it was supposed to, and it sent a warm feeling all through him. Every object was shaped square and looked perfectly symmetric in all respects, with the exception of his head which was oval and a bit asymmetric. The room was all neat and shiny, without a spec of dust and without the slightest hint of disorder.

Just the way he liked it.

Yet something did not feel quite right. He looked around the room again and this time his gaze stopped at the beautiful Christmas tree. The lights were working perfectly. The combination of colors was lovely; the blinking of the little dots of color was synchronized to microseconds.

But there was something wrong.

He stared fixedly at the single package lying under it. He knew exactly what the package contained. He stared at its gift wrap, with the label and its neatly-written name - his very own name in his very own handwriting on his very own gift to himself.

He wished he had a way to not know what the gift was. His gaze shifted to the shiny grandfather clock on the wall.

* * *

Suddenly, the clock did not appear to look all that shiny anymore. The walls looked grimy, too. Mr. Hercule Poirot realized that things had changed a bit since his peak days. Except that he was as alone now as he had always been.

Mr. Hercule Poirot had remained a lifelong bachelor, of course. He had often wondered what life would have been like, had he not remained alone - had he gotten married - had he not been forced to seek solace in the company of strangers - in the company of foolish inspectors and in encounters with not so foolish criminals - in the company of the all-technical-jargon forensic experts, and not-so-technical witnesses. He could probably have done without so much knowledge - the machinations of those petty criminals as well as those of the evil masters.

But he had devoted his life to crime - and remained a bachelor forever.

Not that there had been too many prospective ladies, for sure. His formidable reputation as "the" detective always preceded him and the short-stature man was always dwarfed by the looming figure of the master detective. Although in his bones he felt as British as they came, the British ladies had never treated him like one of their own. He had always been that peculiar Belgian who solved all those murder cases. Mr. Hercule Poirot had lighted no fires in those buxom British bosoms. Their idea of a sexy knight in shining armor was just not him. He felt a bit hurt.

And it did not much help that murder and mayhem followed him everywhere he went. While most people liked to read of the gory stuff - few ladies wished to experience it up close - and even fewer wanted to live it first hand - on a day in and day out basis. He could not really blame them, to be honest.

Mr. Hercule Poirot felt a pang of anger. Life just wasn’t fair!

He, Hercule Poirot, had always been a mere curiosity to them. Poirot, the famous detective - the famous weird little detective - was little else. Nothing more than a weird caricature of a curiosity!

Why could they not see through his veneer?! Inside, he was like anybody else and wanted the same simple things in life. Why was that so difficult to understand?!

Instead of beauty the beast was his reward, death and crime would follow him everywhere - and sometimes he felt so sick of it!

He had few visitors now-a-days, except for the janitor, an avid fan, who would occasionally drop by to fix the plumbing problems. But Mr. Hercule Poirot had no use for such people - there was nothing orderly or methodical about that clumsy fellow and Mr. Poirot hated disorder.

And things had sure changed.

Things had indeed changed quite a bit since those peak days of working the little grey cells in earnest. Ever since inspector Japp had retired and gone into condominium business with his son as the partner, nobody of any significance ever bothered to stop by. Nobody knew him these days - except for some very old folks, and their ranks were thinning day by day.

Things had never been the same since the day he had bid adieu to his old friend - Colonel Hastings.

Mr. Hercule Poirot suddenly felt a lump in his throat. He tried to choke it back. They did not make men like Hastings any more. His ever faithful companion was on the verge of turning seventy five and he still appeared to have a lot of mileage left in him when he had been so suddenly taken away. If only he had not taken the wrong turn coming out of the tube and not stumbled upon those punks - the unemployed Pakistani youngsters who tried to mug him - the punks who had no way of knowing what kind of person Hastings was - the kind that never submits to mugging - not because he cares for the money, but because he cares for his honor.

If only he had taken a different route. If only he had stopped for his evening coffee at his usual stop and had stuck with his usual crowd instead of walking ahead alone on that fateful day.

If only…

If only he were still alive - then he, Hercule Poirot, would not be left without a companion on this night before the day of all days.

Mr. Hercule Poirot’s vision clouded - as if he were suddenly enveloped by a mist.

"I will see you, mon ami, I won’t be too far behind…" he had murmured as he had bent down to take one last look at the now expressionless face of his faithful companion of so many years. The face looked quite different in death - it looked rigid and impersonal, with none of the softness which used to grace it when alive - when he would look back at Mr. Poirot with warmth, with intimacy, the look that was saturated with the purest of friendship, and the best of kindness that ever was! Mr. Hercule Poirot, who was not given to getting emotional, brushed away a tear drop at the corner of one eye.

* * *

Mr. Hercule Poirot’s reveries were rudely interrupted by a loud knock on his door.

"Open up! It’s me - your landlord!"

Mr. Hercule Poirot looked at the brown face without the slightest hint of recognition.

"Mon ami, do I know you?!"

"Sure you do - and you are running three months behind on your rent."

"Sir, you are surely mistaken! Mrs. Price takes care of such matters and I assure you she is highly efficient."

The man was unimpressed.

"Look, you try pulling this stuff on somebody else - I am too old for this crap and I do not go for buffoonery. You have three more days to cough up the rent - or out you go!"

"Sir, like I told you, there is some mistake!"

"Sure, and I am Santa Claus! Little wonder your wife kicked you out!"

After some more unintelligible talk, Mr. Hercule Poirot finally was able to persuade the stranger to leave. He slumped back in the couch. As he did so, he thought he caught sight of a brown face in a mirror opposite him - it looked familiar. He stared at the illusion for a second - there must be some explanation. He blinked with determination and just like he expected, the face was gone and he could see his own reflection again - his own face looking back at him

Mr. Hercule Poirot shook his head - perhaps the brandy did not suit him after all.

But the loneliness was killing him. It was so depressing!

If only that phone would ring. He would talk to anybody...just about anybody!!! If only that phone would ring!

* * *

Ring, ring, ......!

Mr. Poirot came awake with a start. It almost appeared as if somebody had heard his prayers. Mr. Hercule Poirot stared at the phone - as if he were still in the dream.

The phone kept ringing. This was no dream.

At once, Mr. Hercule Poirot breathed a sigh of relief. None of the bad things had really happened. It had all been just a dream. It had just been yet another episode of his dozing off. He wondered what could be causing the bad dreams. Probably something he had been eating, or drinking.

And Hastings was not dead, after all!

A rush of delight filled him up. This must be Hastings calling - probably he got delayed on his way from the tube. Dear old chap! Running a tad slow, of course! At his age, it was fully understandable.

The voice on the other end sounded strangely foreign.

"Hello, sir!”

"This is Hercule Poirot! May I help you?"

"Mr. Beej, this is Jim calling. Do you subscribe to the Dish Network?"