Poirots Chronicles Hercule Ch 01

*****

A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY! *****

He is here.

St. Marie-Thérèse's Orphanage sat silently in the dark night, its outbuildings huddled against the approaching storm, bricks gleaming dully in the moonlight. No owls hooted. No night animals howled. All was still save the bobbing speck of red that belonged to Jonathan Hawkins, the sole security man, taking his ten o'clock rounds and having his hourly smoke. Even the sight of him, wandering about the grounds did nothing to calm her jangled nerves nor had the large shot of whiskey that she'd imbibed minutes before.

He's here!

Sister Bernadetta stared out into the darkness, shivering from a combination of anticipation and apprehension, her hands trying to coax goosebumps back down from her smooth shell of skin. Her mind went back over his terse note:

Tonight will be our special night. Be alone at ten. S.

So it was to be tonight. Tonight, she would give her virginity to her lover and tomorrow morning, she would leave the orphanage, heading for her new life as Mrs. Stephen Rathbun. The children would be upset at her departure and the other sisters angry at the breaking of her vows but God would forgive her. God would forgive love.

Her thoughts were lost deep in fantasy until a soft knock on the door interrupted. She half-turned, muttering, "Come in."

Young Sister Evangeline stepped in, her wimple long discarded and her glossy brown hair flowing loosely over her shoulders. "I'm heading off to bed, sister. Would you be interested in some tea or are you going to bed, too?"

"No, thank you, Evangeline." She said quickly. "I'm going to go to bed in a few minutes."

Sister Evangeline started to back out but hovered in the doorway for a moment. Something was wrong. Over the past few weeks, a change had come over Bernadetta. She'd always been regarded as the strict disciplinarian at the school but lately, she had seemed to be, to find a better word for it, detached. Or maybe a better word was distracted. She would breeze down the hall without so much as a word to the other sisters and would ignore the children who crowded around her for a word of care. She offered none.

"Um, Sister Bernadetta?" She stammered, uncertainly. "Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, dear child. I am well." Sister Bernadetta turned back to her study of the darkness, allowing only the reflection of the glass to witness her wistful smile. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason." Sister Evangeline said quickly, intimidated by the woman. "I'll see you at morning mass then?"

"Yes."

"Sleep well."

"Good night, sister."

Now that the last and probably only interruption of the night was over, she prepared for his arrival. She removed her nun's outfit, carefully arranging the dress over the arm of the chair so that it would not wrinkle and carelessly tossed the thin slip into the clothes hamper. Shaking with expectation, she opened her bottom dresser drawer and pushed aside layers of clean, folded sheets to expose something long hidden: a bright red teddy, fashioned of silk and lace that had been carefully secreted there. Bernadetta lifted it by its spaghetti straps, rose to her feet and quickly slipped her naked, perfumed body into it.

Perfect.

A little lotion and a quick hair-brushing and everything was in place. Sister Bernadetta extinguished the light and laid down in the bed, her wavy black hair spread across the pillow like a blanket, her lips wet and glistening.

He's here!

She closed her eyes and waited for her lover to come.

* * * * *

R-r-r-ring!

Hercule Poirot ignored the tinny sound of the bell and instead focused his attention back on his lepidoptery collection. He had been successful in locating a Common Blue butterfly and it was taking all of his concentration skills to properly mount the new arrival. He moved the magnifying lens closer to the board, lifted the tweezers again and bent to conquer the task at hand.

R-r-r-ring!

"Sacre Bleu!"

Frustrated by the interruption, Poirot jumped to his feet, striding to the door, ready to spew vitriol on the person whose impertinence had disturbed his precious private time. Instead, he was quite flummoxed to find his dear friend, Captain Hastings, nattily dressed in tails and bow tie, his eyes shining with mirth.

"Good evening, Poirot!" Hastings brushed past him, heading into the heart of the apartment and all but ignoring the look of incredulity on the Belgian detective's face. "I've got some good news!"

"Hastings, my friend, can't you see that I'm busy?"

The captain turned, taking in his friend's state of dress, noticing that he was in his evening house wear: comfortable pants, paisley smoking jacket, undercoat and loosely-tied ascot. "What, do you have someone here? A

girl

, perhaps?"

Poirot's nostrils flared in anger. "Hastings ... "

"I knew you weren't busy, old chap!" He grinned, taking a seat in the office area and making himself as comfortable as he had every day for the last ten-odd years. "Besides, you'll forgive me when you hear my exciting news!"

Poirot sighed, taking his seat and pushing the delicate butterfly aside, covering it in its tiny glass case and placing the lid back on his collection. "What is it,

mon

ami

?"

"I have tickets for Joceline Tarrant."

Poirot's face remained impassive and unchanged compared to the unbridled frivolity that brightened the captain's features. "Yes. And who is this Joceline Tarrant?"

"You've never heard of Joceline Tarrant?" Hastings sat back, rubbing his chin in disbelief. "She's absolutely brilliant!"

"I know of no Joceline Tarrant, Hastings." Poirot fought the urge to quickly usher the captain out but forced himself to remain calm, convincing himself that the visit would only last a little longer.

"Well, it's just as well that I'm here. Go and get dressed, Poirot. Tonight, you will sit at the feet of an angel." Hastings grinned at the tickets that he held aloft. "Tonight, you will hear the incredible voice of Joceline Tarrant."

Poirot rubbed his temples, avoiding his friend's gaze. He really was not in the mood for this. Not tonight. He just wanted the companionable solitude of a book and his favorite radio program. "I am afraid that I cannot accompany you tonight."

"What? You have to!"

"No, my dear Hastings, I do not

have

to do anything."

"Poirot, you can't say no. Not tonight. You don't realize what you'll be missing."

"Yes, I do, Hastings. I shall be missing the vocal stylings of Joceline Tarrant."

"And you'll be missing the most fantastic show you've ever seen." Hastings stood, approaching the desk. "Come on, old chap. I know that your tuxedo is clean and pressed. I saw Miss Lemon bring it in yesterday." Hastings smiled, patting Poirot's hand. "Please?"

And so, an hour later, Hercule Poirot, immaculately turned out in one of his best tuxedos, found himself at a front row table at Club Tropic, impatiently awaiting the debut of Miss Joceline Tarrant. "I cannot believe that I let you talk me into coming here, Hastings."

"You won't be disappointed when you see her. She's a marvel!" Just then, the stage lights dimmed, blue lights filtering through cigar and cigarette smoke and bathing the stage in magic. "Here she is now."

Poirot turned his attention to the stage, his eyes searching the smoky darkness. A blue spotlight snapped on, targeting a woman in a sequin-laden dress, her partially-exposed back to the audience. She was not overly tall but the dress hugged her ample curves, sloping over a nicely rounded ass and hinting at long legs beneath. Her arms were raised above her head, clad in sequined gloves, the fingers unencumbered and moving freely.

The strains of Cole Porter split the air as she turned and Poirot gasped. She was what they called 'coloured'. Her creamy chocolate skin seemed to sparkle in the light, her shoulder-length glossy black hair wavy and playing a poignant counterpoint to the sparkling dewdrop earrings that swayed from her earlobes. His eyes traveled down her flawlessly shaved armpits to her beautiful breasts that strained against the material and continued down to her shoes, her small well-formed toes pressing against thin leather straps.

"Mon Dieu."

He breathed, unable to comprehend the beauty that was swaying just inches in front of him. Her deep brown eyes swept over the crowd, catching eyes here and there and her straight white teeth illuminated her already remarkable features. She sang two more Cole Porter tunes, then segued to Artie Shaw, Ella Fitzgerald and ended the set with Duke Ellington. Everyone in the packed room stood and applauded when the last set finished and she disappeared in a cloud of smoke, followed by her band mates.

"I say!" Hastings breathed, sipping his drink. "She's the cat's meow, all right."

"On that, we definitely agree, Hastings. Might there be a chance that we could have her join us,

mon

ami

?"

Hastings' handsome smile stretched from ear to ear. "I'll see what I can do." With the jaunty gait of the British air force ex-captain that he was, he went in search of the mysterious beauty.

Poirot gave his friend a nod of appreciation and took out his cigar case, extracted a cigar and lit it, drawing the smoke in and trying to relax his nerves. Never before had he been so affected by a woman. Normally, he responded to women as he had been trained to, like they were the daughters of Eve, placed upon the Earth to give life and beauty. He had come close to engaging the thought of marriage but there was always something that kept him from making that final commitment. He had shared holding hands and stolen kisses but he'd never touched flesh nor consummated a relationship, something that seemed unseemly to him.

But now ... this beautiful woman stirred feelings in him that he'd never encountered, feelings that reached past his immaculate exterior and threatened to cause chaos within. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hastings approaching with the woman and his mouth suddenly dried up. He wanted to reach for his crème de menthe but he was afraid that he would spill it in his anxious state. He uncrossed his legs and sat up a little taller, keeping his eyes averted.

"Poirot?" He looked up and stood immediately, his legs quivering like pudding. "May I introduce to you Miss Joceline Tarrant."

Joceline Tarrant was definitely a beauty. The shy smile she offered traveled to her dark eyes, giving her a sultry look that she unabashedly cast upon Poirot. She raised her hand and he took it, pressing a long kiss to her soft knuckles.

"Hercule Poirot, at your service,

mademoiselle

." He clicked his heels together as he lingered over her hand, lifting his eyes to hers. "Would you sit with us?"

"Uh, no,

monsieur

." She said nervously. "I cannot stay."

"Pish-posh!" Hastings exclaimed, pulling a chair out and standing behind it. "Sit and have a drink with us. We promise not to keep you overlong."

"Well, all right." Joceline accepted the seat, watching as both men sat after her and Poirot motioned for the waiter.

"I must say, Miss Tarrant, I had not heard of you before this evening but I have thoroughly enjoyed myself. Your interpretation of Cole Porter ...

c'est

magnifique

!"

"Thank you,

Monsieur

Poirot, but I do not do it alone. My band is instrumental in my success."

Hastings guffawed at her statement. "That's a great joke! Instrumental in your success ... that's just perfect!"

Poirot threw a look of consternation towards his excited friend and turned his attention back to Joceline as the waiter approached. "What would you like?"

"A glass of champagne, please."

The waiter's uncomfortable glance traveled from Poirot to Joceline to Hastings and back to the detective. "Uh, yes, miss."

Satisfied, Poirot again turned to her. "What brings you to the Club Tropico?"

"Just a quick stop. I'm heading to Paris next week to join my friend, Josephine Baker. She's offered me a chance to sing in her show."

"Ah, Miss Josephine Baker." Hastings smiled knowingly. "Another extraordinary young woman."

Joceline returned his smile. "That she is. I feel so lucky to have a chance to sing for her."

"It is not luck,

mademoiselle

. It is talent."

"Thank you,

monsieur

. You are too kind."

"It is not kindness,

mademoiselle

. I merely speak the truth."

None of the table's occupants noticed that the club owner, Harold Messing, was approaching the table, his hands fisted tightly together, but Joceline caught sight of him. She stood immediately, prompting both Poirot and Hastings to rise hastily. "

Monsieur

Poirot?"

"Yes. I am Hercule Poirot."

The beefy man introduced himself, extending his hand and shaking with the detective and with Hastings. "You ordered a glass of champagne for Miss Tarrant?"

"

Oui

. The waiter, he just took the order ... "

"Well, there's a problem."

"A problem?"

"Poirot ... "

Poirot felt anger curdling his innards, sensing the acute embarrassment that Joceline was obviously feeling. He ignored Hastings' gentle warning, his Belgian ire seeking a ready outlet. "A problem,

monsieur

? We have no ...

problem

here."

"Well, there is a problem. We don't serve

her

kind in the main guest room."

The beauty of George Gershwin's music could not pierce the veil of silence that fell over the table and its occupants. Poirot fumed, his anger reaching to the core of his very being. "I don't believe I understand you,

monsieur

. You do not serve women?"

"We do not serve 'coloureds' in the main room, Mr. Poirot. Her

kind

has

its

own room in the back."

Seeing the anger in both men, Joceline spoke up, seeking to avoid confrontation. "

Monsieur

Poirot, Captain Hastings, thank you for the drink any way, but I must go."

"No, Miss Tarrant, don't leave on his account."

Joceline leaned close to Poirot, whispering, "If I don't leave, he might not pay us and my band needs the money." She placed her hand in his, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "Thank you just the same,

monsieur

. I shall count this a lucky day to have met the great Hercule Poirot."

"And I to have met you,

Mademoiselle

Tarrant." He pressed another lingering kiss to her hand, slipping his card into her palm. "Please do not hesitate to call upon me if my services are required."

"

Merci.

" Her husky thanks reverberated in his ears, long after she'd left the table. When he came back to himself minutes later, he turned to club owner Messing, arising and grabbing his gloves as he dismissed him with an angry look.

"Come, Hastings." Poirot's beady eyes burned with intense hatred. "It is time to take our leave."

* * * * *

A creak awoke her. She was a bit confused at first but then realized that she'd fallen asleep waiting for him. A shiver coursed through her body and she began to breathe more heavily, her heart thumping in her chest.

"Are you here?"

"Yes." Came his answer. "Close your eyes, my beautiful girl." She did as he requested, not objecting when he looped a swath of dark cloth around her head, covering her eyes. His hot breath burned where it touched her neck. "Have you been waiting for me?"

"Yes." Her voice sounded foreign, even to her own ears. She felt like a schoolgirl, on her first assignation. Nervous and unsure. "Do you like my nightie?"

"Oh, yes." His hands traced the silk-limned outlines of her lush body, moving over her heavy breasts and wide hips, dipping between her fleshy thighs to rub her soft mound, drawing a deep moan from her. "It's very naughty."

"I ... I thought you'd like it." She gasped softly, arching toward his touch.

"You are so beautiful, my sweet Bernadetta. You are pleasing to my eyes."

A rush of pleasure infused her skin with blood and she squirmed under his control, loving the heaviness of his hand. His lips pressed against hers and his tongue thrust inside, scouring her mouth. She quivered uncontrollably as his mouth and hands began a concerted assault of her untried body, lips and tongue searching her neck and collarbones and his hands roaming over her aching nipples and brushing against her awakened slit. Two of his fingers worked past the cotton and satin panel and slid into her pussy, making her body arch in response. Bernadetta had never felt anything like this before. Even though she'd masturbated, his fingers felt so different; an invader subjugating new territory and she completely surrendered without knowing what the consequences would be.

"Oh, yes, my love!" She bit back a groan as she came, her pussy squirting juices onto the pristine sheets. Her breath caught in her throat as spears of pleasure rippled through her body. She was recovering when she felt him crawl on top of her, straddling her body. "Yes." She whispered to him. "Yes."

His body covered hers, his heat permeating the sheer fabric of the teddy. Her hands moved across his strong shoulders and arms and weaved through the thick hair on his chest while she inhaled his heady musk. His teeth nipped at her ears, drawing the attention from her sodden slit. She felt his thick cock head rubbing against her fat nether lips, steadily pressing inward as it split them and gently moved inside.

"Oh!" His broad tool slid upward, scraping the sides of her muscles until she was trembling with want and the mushroom head pushed against her hymen. He broke through it without warning and she yelped in pain, clenching around his prick until his movements caused her to forget the momentary discomfort. She could feel how deep inside her that he was and she rejoiced in the breaching. She was no longer a virgin, no longer a bride of God. She was soon to be Stephen's bride.

"Yes!" The word rushed out of her mouth with the first of his most powerful thrusts. She leaned backwards, enjoying his sensual attack, gasping at the feel of his hands on her sensitive breasts. His cock moved in and out of her hole, not pausing in its quest for her cum and receiving a healthy portion as she came and came again.

Finally, she heard his voice again, soft and close to her ear. "I'm going to cum inside you, my sweet Bernadetta. I'm going to make you a mother."

"Oh, yes!" She almost squealed in glee. Her life's wish was about to be fulfilled. He was going to make her a wife and a mother. She couldn't ask for more. Her hips splayed further to accept his thrusts and her mouth opened to his, welcoming his intrusion. When his hands encircled her throat, she thought nothing of it. But then ... the pressure, the pain. "Stop."

He didn't seem to hear what she was saying. His thumbs pressed harder at the base of her throat, cutting off her respiration. She thought to thrash but his body had hers pinned, his rock hard prick ruthlessly splitting her open. A cry of desperation erupted and was quickly exterminated in her throat and her hands arose, searching for purchase on his shoulders or chest and finding none. As the dark edges of the scarf began to fade into gray, then to white and nothingness, she felt him stiffen with release, tripping her own and filling her womb with seed that would never find fertile ground. A great sigh and a last breath escaped from her unresponsive body.

And so Sister Bernadetta of the St. Marie-Thérèse Orphanage found her greatest orgasm just as the light died in her eyes. She would not become Mrs. Stephen Rathbun this day. She would only find the marriage of sex and death and neither would console her soul.