*****
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
