*****
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!
*****
Poirot put on his pajamas and slid into bed, his mind buzzing with his encounter with Joceline. Oh, she was so beautiful! And the way she looked when he kissed her: eyes closed, nostrils gently flaring. And her mouth was so soft and her tongue so gentle. "Oh, Lina." His hand slid across his chest, just as hers had done not thirty minutes earlier, targeting his nipples. She had whispered how much she'd like to run her fingers through his silky chest hair and he had melted at the thought. Now, he imagined her mouth on his nipples, her tongue teasing the tiny nubs.
His cock hardened painfully against his pajama bottoms and he unbuttoned the pants, allowing himself to spring free. He wasn't well-endowed but he was proud of his 6½ inches and its girth and his hand gripped it at the base, giving it a long strong upwards as he imagined that it was her tiny hand instead. A low groan slipped from his throat and he stroked again, squeezing the pre-cum out and coating the head with it.
A deep tingle ran the length of his prick, making his toes curl and he hissed in pleasure, tightening his fist and stroking a little faster. The fat mushroom head bounced against his fingers, slick with his juices and he drew his hand upward, giving it a hard squeeze before stroking down again. He felt his release building, hot and sweet, coiling around the base of his spine and drawing him tight like a piano wire. He couldn't breathe; the sensation was so strong that he could only whimper stroke for stroke, breathless with anticipation.
"Ah,
mon amour
. Lina!" His cock jerked in his palm and thick strings of semen pulsed across his stomach, each accompanied by a short moan. After the fourth, he took a deep breath and let go. Just then, a knock rang on his door and the agitated voice of Glynnis sounded from the other side.
"Mr. Poirot?"
"Uh, yes?"
"There's a telephone call for you from Scotland Yard. ‘e said it's urgent."
"Give to me one minute." He dashed into the bathroom and hurriedly cleaned his cum from his belly and hands, threw on his robe and slippers and opened the door. Glynnis gave a short curtsy, a kerchief around volumes of her red hair. "Where is the phone?"
"Just in ‘ere, sir." She led him into a small study and Poirot snatched up the phone. "Hello?"
"You're a hard man to find, Poirot. Having fun with the tony set?"
"Good evening, Chief Inspector Japp. How can I help you?"
"We've got another dead one. This time, it's Sister Evangeline. Almost the same as Sister Bernadetta. There are signs of sexual intercourse but she died from smothering."
"Anything missing?"
"Yes, but Sister Lilia won't say. She said that she'll only talk to you."
"I was under the impression that I offended her during my last visit … "
"Ah, yes." Japp laughed at that. He would never have imagined that Hercule Poirot could offend anyone. "She told us about that. Very loudly, I might add. But she insisted that we were still officers and that she wanted to speak with the
great
detective."
"All right, Japp. Hastings and I will see you at the orphanage tomorrow."
"Thanks, Poirot."
Poirot hung the receiver back on its cradle and turned to thank Glynnis, pausing when he realized that he was alone. He shrugged, sighed and left the study, heading back down the hallway to his room. On the way, he took a fork in the corridor and went the wrong way, heading past Joceline's room. He knew it was her room because her lovely gown had been hung outside for the maids to fluff and package for travel. Poirot stepped in front of the portal, raising his hand to knock and stopping when he heard voices inside.
"What's the problem? I just don't understand." The answering voice was deep and muffled and Poirot couldn't hear what was said. "Then why did you ask me here?" Another response, short and sweet. "That's not fair! That's not fair at all! What did you expect from me?" This time, the response was louder, but the words were still unintelligible. "All these years, I've never asked you for a thing! Not money, not a thing! And now you accuse me of being here for that?" A few more words. "No, just leave. We will be leaving in the morning any way. You can pay us then."
He heard the creaking of the floor as someone approached the door and Poirot hightailed it into a dark recess of the hallway, watching as a tall figure stepped out and headed the opposite direction. Joceline came to the doorway, quickly glancing both ways down the hall. Poirot fought the urge to gasp as her eyes fell upon him and he got the impression that she saw him. Hanging her head, she shut the door and the light under her door was extinguished.
Poirot stood in the shadows, his eyes watering as he battled with his conscience. He wouldn't have felt any different about her had he not heard the conversation but now, now that he'd heard it, his detective instincts exploded into wakefulness, leaving his emotions far behind. What did the lovely singer Joceline Tarrant have to hide and to whom was she speaking?
The heart of Hercule Poirot shrunk back into hibernation, the Belgian silently cursing himself as the realization sunk in that he had allowed his passion to override his intellect.
Never again
, he said to himself as he retreated to his room.
Never again.
*****
" … and I thought that the way she vocally phrased the song was just wonderful! Didn't you think so, Poirot?"
The detective scowled, desperately trying to ignore his associate's words. Hastings was in a rare mood this morning, liberally heaping his plate with soft scrambled eggs, kippers and fried potatoes. He had seen Joceline across the room, chatting with guests and was still as smitten with her as he had been the first time he'd seen her.
For once, Hastings quit speaking, realizing that his friend had remained silent the entire length of his conversation. "What's wrong, old chap?"
"Nothing, Hastings." Poirot forced himself into motion, setting the steel lid aside and gazing in at half-jelled eggs. His stomach turned. "Are the eggs good?"
"Don't try to change the subject, Poirot. I haven't been friends with you for all these years not to realize when someone's changing the subject." Hastings moved closer to his friend, the intensity of his voice dropping. "And I know that the way you felt about Miss Tarrant last night is definitely different than how you feel now." He set his plate down. "So what happened?"
