Chapter Text
“Certainement, mon ami, this is a simpler case than I first thought. The severed ropes begin to join and the clouds of smoke to dissipate.”
Hercule Poirot was in the midst of solving a case he had accepted for entertainment. He feared that his little gray cells would eventually die, he had to keep them entertained until an even bigger case presented itself.
“I think we can rule out Lady Greenfields, after that statement she doesn't seem to be the one who stole the jewels. That woman is too beautiful to steal jewels," suggested
Hastings. “Don't you think so, Poirot?”
Poirot was a man of short stature, barely reaching 5'6"; his head was the perfect shape of an egg and he was distinguished by his peculiar mustache. He stopped walking for a moment to fix his gaze on Hastings' blue eyes.
“No, no, no, no, no, he's doing it again!”
“Doing what?”
Poirot let out a long sigh.
“You’re getting carried away again. Just because a woman is beautiful and pretty and, at worst, has reddish hair, doesn't mean she's good. We can't trust anyone. We can't rule anyone out," Poirot paused for a breath, "and his interest in this type of woman has already gotten us into trouble more than once.”
Hastings lowered his head, not knowing what to say. Poirot decided to turn around and keep walking. He could not afford to waste any more time on such deplorable matters as that.
“I don't even understand women anyway," Hastings whispered.
He saw that his friend was still walking and tried to catch up with him. They were on their way to the Mycroft & Co. building, where the affected party resided. It was an imposing, twelve-story building, resembling a hotel but being a high-end company. They handled a lot of money on a daily basis and were known for holding auctions from time to time of very expensive jewelry that Mr. Mycroft bought.
“Didn't you once tell me at Styles that you would teach me how to deal with women?” asked.
“Maybe. In that case, we'll find the time," Poirot quickened his pace.
Hastings frowned. Lately Poirot had been avoiding love-related topics. He knew that his friend had fallen in love once when he was very young, when he was still working as an officer in Belgium. Sadly that love had passed. On the other hand, Hastings was more amorous and gentlemanly. Sometimes he was guilty of getting carried away by female beauty and seduction and ended up losing focus on his main objective. Still, Hastings was hesitant. Some time ago, it was in another of the many cases he had solved with Poirot. That day they were dealing with the theft of a series of very expensive miniatures. Hastings had arrested a young couple and he still remembered the woman's words. "Why can't you leave us alone? Don't you know what it is to love a man?" Inevitably the image of Poirot flashed into his mind and he blushed. He could not forget that day. And he still doubted. What if he had feelings for Poirot? What would the Belgian detective say if he found out? Days before, and looking at very small details, he noticed that the Belgian was very fond of him. They were very close.
Hastings came back to reality to see that Poirot was well ahead of him until he was almost inside the building. He jogged a little and they arrived almost at the same time.
“You had fallen behind, mon ami," Poirot noticed the short run his friend had made to catch up. He pushed open the heavy door. “Go in.”
Hastings gave him a friendly smile and they entered the building. The first floor of Mycroft & Co. was enormous. The floor tiles were a titanium white and the walls a sky blue which, in combination, made the room quite pleasant. After talking to the receptionist and following directions, they arrived at the elevator. It was busy and Mycroft's office was on the top floor, so it was not a good idea to take the stairs. They decided to wait.
“It's been a while since the Styles case. It seems like yesterday, don't you think, mon cher?”
Hastings' heart skipped a beat. He knew that this was Poirot's usual way of speaking, but again he noticed something about him, it was as if he was speaking only to him in a different way, as if his tone betrayed that he wanted to tell him something.
“Well, yes, I do miss those times....”
They both fell silent after the captain's short answer. Poirot looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He tried to clear his mind, but the question lurked in the corner every now and then. He wanted to ask Poirot if he wished to tell him something, that he knew he had something to tell him. The elevator arrived shortly after the silence and they both entered. The cubicle was not too big and they were cramped together. Slowly, and after leaving a little space between them, Hastings decided to speak.
“Excuse me, Poirot... Don't you have something to tell me?”
“Comment?”
“Well, I don't know, about women, or their behavior, or their temperament or their way of relating to their surroundings, or their vocabulary or how they would relate to men…”
His tone of voice was lowering as his blush increased. The elevator mirror didn't help at all, he realized he was as red as scarlet. Poirot let out a loud laugh and smiled. That only made Hastings blush even more. They stepped out of the elevator and Hastings tried to keep his composure.
“I don't think I have anything to show you, Hastings!” Poirot exclaimed with a sly smile on his face.
He managed to outrun the detective.
“But Poirot! What do you mean with “I have nothing to teach you"?”
Poirot appeared behind him and gently touched his leg with his cane. Hastings almost jumped with fright.
“But you were in love with a woman, surely you have something, some advice to give me?”
“I was in love, oui. Once. But that love withered. I had to let it wither. Later no one was there.”
They walked slowly to the door of Mycroft's office.
“And now? Is there anyone?” Hastings asked again.
Poirot gave him a lopsided smile.
“Maybe there is, maybe there is.”
Hastings knew the conversation was not over.
After the meeting with Mycroft, Poirot's thoughts became even clearer. There was still one last piece left, one last person they needed to question. Then the mystery of the stolen jewels would be solved.
“Where do we go now?” asked Hastings.
“To Mrs. Meadows' house, bien sûr," replied the detective. “We are about to solve the mystery.”
Mrs. Meadows' house was not far from there. After a five-minute walk, they had arrived. Mrs. Meadows' apartment was not too big and she spent most days alone. The neighbors suspected that men sometimes came in there because of the male voices that could be heard.
“She doesn't have a very good reputation," Hastings warned “We'd better be careful with this young lady, Poirot.”
“Don't worry, mon ami. I have everything under control. But you have to be very careful and try not to seduce Mrs. Meadows.”
Hastings' eyes widened like saucers.
“Seduce!” He went mad! “I don't know how to do such things!”
Poirot looked up and moved very close to his friend. Hastings noticed how little distance there was between their faces. On closer inspection, Poirot's gaze was divided between his eyes and his lips, as if he were studying him. Inevitably he reddened. That was one of the many signals he received. But he did nothing more. He stepped back a little and adjusted his tie.
“You're capable of it, Hastings. Believe me.”
He turned and Hastings spent a few moments trying to compose himself and analyze the situation. Seduction! At what point had he thought it was a good idea? Before he could complain, Poirot knocked on the door and a couple of seconds later young Mrs. Meadows appeared. She was a tall young woman, with sophisticated features, large red lips and blonde hair. Her silhouette was well marked by her dress.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle," Poirot took off his hat. “I am Hercule Poirot, private detective. This is Captain Hastings. We are here to talk to you about the theft of the Mycroft & Co. jewels.”
“Hercule Carrot?” she asked, confused.
“Non, non... Poirot. The correct name is Poirot," he corrected.
“Ah, Poirot..." Mrs. Meadows repeated “Of course, come in.”
The two men entered the living room of the apartment and Poirot spoke to Hastings alone for a moment in a low, almost inescapable tone.
“You must talk to Mrs. Meadows while I investigate the rest of the apartment, mon ami. I need to look for clues in even the smallest, darkest recess.”
Hastings nodded.
“What if I need your help?”
“Oh, I'll be listening to everything anyway, you needn't worry about that.”
Poirot walked away and Hastings sighed. He knew something wasn't going to be right.
“If I may, mademoiselle, I would like to use the restroom.”
“The first door in the corridor, turn right," Mrs. Meadows said. “You can't miss.”
Poirot bowed his head in his usual gentlemanly manner and disappeared down the corridor. Hastings and Mrs. Meadows were left alone.
“And tell me, Captain Hastings, what do you need to know?” he asked.
Hastings tried to concentrate on the mission. It didn't help at all with the mixed feelings he had. The woman in front of him was incredible and he was afraid to fall back on Poirot's warning. But it was too complicated. He could feel the woman's gaze boring into his eyes, penetrating. Even if he tried to avert his gaze, she was still there.
“I, uh... Well... I don't... I have... I don't know what I have... I mean... I'm confused…”
Hastings looked at the floor of the house. Poirot listened intently from across the bathroom.
“Mon Dieu," he thought, "He's doing it again.”
But it was not at all what Poirot thought. It was Mrs. Meadows who was trying to seduce Hastings. She cornered the captain against the wall and kept no distance. Hastings' eyes were riveted on Mrs. Meadows' red lips. He was trying to think how he was going to get out of that situation. Worst of all, the young woman seemed to be the one in control of the situation.
“Have you been good lately, Captain Hastings?” asked Mrs. Meadows.
He did not answer for his own good. He refused to make things more difficult for himself. When he saw Mrs. Meadows begin to take off her dress he decided to speak.
“You see, I don't think it is necessary to go to these lengths, Mrs. Meadows; we can settle this with words... I ask you heartily to put your clothes back on.”
Poirot's heart leapt and he hurried to search the bathroom cupboards. There was nothing unusual. Then he stood up and looked at the shower tray. He frowned and looked closely. There was something odd.
“I'm sure you like it here, Captain Hastings…”
“I don't want to... I'm just asking you to leave me alone, Mrs. Meadows…”
Poirot began to sweat. His friend was in deep trouble. He tapped once on the shower tray. It sounded hollow. He knocked a second time and then he saw it: there was a small opening on the right side. He opened the hatch and looked closely. It seemed to be connected to the outside, to the adjoining street.
“I've got it..." he said to himself, "Now I can't hide here anymore. I have to help Hastings.”
Mrs. Meadows' red lips rested intently on Captain Hastings'. The poor man tried to pull away, but it was impossible. The woman had a great deal of strength. He wished with all his might to get away, never to have got into that quagmire. Poirot threw open the bathroom door, startling them both.
“Stay away from Hastings!” Poirot ordered.
Mrs. Meadows was distracted for an instant and Hastings managed to escape, leaving the house, exhausted. Poirot stared at the scene in disbelief. It was horrible. But one small, telling detail was the key to it all. He smiled to himself and left the room.
Hastings rushed down the stairs like a soul and sat down on the stairs to the second floor, exhausted. He was trying to take in what had just happened. Had he been forced to do that against his will? Of course they had. It had been horrible. Poirot hurried down the stairs and found him there, emotionally affected.
“Are you all right, mon ami?” Poirot asked, sitting down beside him “I heard what happened.”
“No," groaned Hastings. “It was dreadful. I've had a very bad time. I... I'm confused, and that lady didn't help me at all.”
“I think we should go home and rest," said Poirot. “I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have left you alone.”
Hastings was trembling. Of course he had heard what Poirot had said, but he was paralyzed with fear that it might happen again. Poirot took his hand and Hastings finally raised his head. He blushed slightly and they both stood up.
“Now women scare me." said Hastings.
Poirot let out a loud laugh and that characteristic laugh made Hastings smile. They both returned home.
“I have solved the mystery, Hastings," Poirot announced. “There is only one more thing I shall need to do; between tonight and tomorrow the jewels will be returned to their rightful owner.”
“Did you find them at Mrs. Meadows' house?”
“Ah, oui, précisément," replied the detective.
He held out a cup of hot chocolate to Hastings.
“Before I left the house, I noticed the scene that had just unfolded in the living room.”
“Don't remind me of that part, please," Hastings asked.
Poirot nodded.
“The jewels were purposely pinned to Mrs. Meadows' dress," he explained. “To catch our attention.”
Hastings said nothing. Poirot reached into one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out other jewelry. Hastings's mouth dropped open.
“The jewels! You got them back!”
“Not yet, mon cher!” Poirot explained. “But tonight we will get them back. These jewels are a replica of Mr. Mycroft's. What we'll do is sneak into his house tonight and make the switch. That way we'll get the real jewels back.”
But something didn't add up for Hastings. Poirot noticed this and came very close to him to explain his plan better.
“You see, I have discovered that under the shower tray there is a secret trapdoor that leads directly to the street. It seems that this is where the men used to enter Mrs. Meadows' house. I imagine you know the purpose.”
Hastings was silent and Poirot looked at him questioningly. Both eyes met.
“I'm sorry, it's just that after this morning's scene I don't know how to feel," he explained. “Right now I don't even know if I should feel anything good or just not feel.”
“I see..." Poirot sat down in the next seat.
He didn't know how to start talking. It was difficult for him to talk about it without even mentioning that he had feelings for him.
“I know there's something inside that little head of yours that's going round and round and round, and it won't stop, and if you try to stop, it starts up again," Poirot gestured dramatically. Don't think I haven't noticed.”
“Do you?”
“Mon dieu, Hastings. I am Hercule Poirot. How could I not notice the simplest things!”
Hastings blushed. It could not be true. He could not think that Poirot had noticed his behavior. He froze and trembled, not knowing what to say.
“Are them a good person for you?” Poirot asked, interested.
“He’s good! He's the most incredible person I've ever met! He's intelligent, kind, polite, very creative, and fair! He's...! It's just... Perfect.”
He couldn't contain his joy. He had finally said it out loud and he was very proud to have opened up like that. Poirot looked at him with a smile.
“I see," he murmured.
Hastings was smiling with excitement. At that moment he had felt like kissing his friend, but he restrained himself. He couldn't afford such a mistake.
“I don't even know what his reaction would be if he found out about this.”
“You're trembling, Hastings," Poirot said. “You should take a breath and try to look at it from a different perspective.”
“Breathe! Calm down!” Hastings rose from his chair, excited. “For God's sake, Poirot! It's impossible! He's...!”
He suddenly fell silent and wanted to die at that moment. He had revealed the gender of the person.
“A man? -Poirot asked. Ah, I understand everything…”
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean…”
“Why are you apologizing? There's nothing wrong with it. There are a thousand and one ways to love…”
“But maybe he doesn't think the same way…”
Poirot got up from his chair and went to the door. He had to fetch some things from Miss Lemon's office. He paused before leaving.
“I assure you, Hastings, that person thinks the same as you do.”
He left the room and Hastings slumped into the armchair. He let out a long sigh. Poirot listened behind the door. If his suspicions were true, Hastings was in love with him. Poirot's feelings for his friend were also blooming slowly, but he kept them so well bottled up inside him that they might come out suddenly at any moment.
“That look fascinates me... It's as if he had hypnotized me before. It seems that being with him is my destiny, it's a blessing," Hastings whispered. “Those black eyes…”
Poirot stopped listening and walked noiselessly to Miss Lemon's office. Normally he listened to conversations to solve mysteries and read all sorts of letters and documents that came his way as long as it was to solve the mystery. But this was different. He already knew who Hastings was in love with and his heart was beating faster and faster. He entered the office and closed the door behind him. He leaned back for a few seconds to take it all in and think about what to do. He was not like Hastings and he was planning to tell her how he felt, but he couldn't find the time or the place.
He searched through several of the drawers for the tools he needed and a map of the city's buildings. Miss Lemon's file was like a small library full of information in large doses. He carried everything into the living room and laid it all out on the table. Hastings looked at him curiously.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Come here and you will see.”
Poirot is not the type to give all the details at once. Hastings being his best friend, he wanted to share with him all the details of that night's operation.
“The idea I have is to make the switch. We have to sneak into Mrs. Meadows' house any way we can and exchange her real jewelry for this fake jewelry," he held it up with two fingers. “The only difference between them is the weight. The fake ones weigh slightly less than the real ones.”
“She won't notice that we've switched them?”
“It's practically impossible. There is no difference to the naked eye, the appearance is the same.”
Hastings sat down in one of the chairs at the lounge table next to Poirot. He looked carefully at the plans of the city and the building Poirot had brought with him.
“How?”
Poirot smiled.
“I thought you might ask," he replied. “The trap door in the bathroom that leads directly to the street is open. If we slip through there, it will be impossible to detect us. We just have to be very stealthy when searching his house.”
“I understand. I suggest sneaking in late at night, around four or five o'clock. You know, in case there's someone in your house and…”
“Don't worry, I know what you mean," Poirot interrupted. “It's a thorny subject.”
He looked at Hastings, as if expecting him to say more about his feelings, but the Captain just looked away and nodded.
They did not mention the subject again until dinnertime. Poirot had prepared roast chicken and chocolate cake for dessert.
“I never understood the concept of romantic dinners, Hastings. A candlelight dinner? The worst that can happen is that the tablecloth ends up on fire.”
“I don't think it's that bad... There's no need for candles either. If it's food prepared at home and the other person enjoys the food then it's nice...”
He fell silent as he realized that what he and Poirot did every day was practically a romantic dinner.
“You’re right.”
Poirot smiled and cleared the table. Hastings went to bed very early that day. Poirot would see to it that he was awakened when it was time to go to Mrs. Meadows' house.
The Belgian was writing in his notebook. He was making very large notes, writing single words. The case of Mr. Mycroft's jewelry was almost solved. All they had to do was to make the switch. But she still suspected that Hastings was in love with him. He endlessly scribbled things here and there until he had had enough and threw the pencil across the room. Were his feelings growing? He didn't even know if he could stop them. Angrily, he crawled into bed. The notebook remained closed on the living room table.
He was angry with himself for a long time. Then he slept peacefully until at 4:00 am his alarm clock went off under his pillow. He carefully turned it off, got out of bed and woke up. He looked over at Hastings. He was still asleep and he doubted whether he should wake him.
“I'm sorry to have to wake him up, but without him I can't carry out the mission," Poirot thought.
He went to his side of the bed and moved him slowly to wake him up as gently as possible. Seeing that Hastings did not react to that, he decided to approach his ear to tell him to wake up.
“Hastings, wake up. We have work to do.”
Hastings stirred in his bed slowly and turned his head. Poirot did not move from his place and his lips were very close to Hastings'.
“Is it time?” asked Hastings, slowly opening his eyes.
His eyes met Poirot's. Neither of them moved at first. And Poirot, spellbound, moved forward a little, closing the distance.
“Poirot..." whispered Hastings.
Then the Belgian opened his eyes wide and quickly separated from Hastings, breaking all the magic. He blushed quickly. Hastings did the same. Their hearts were beating fast. They both wanted to kiss, they had the urge to do so. But neither made the first move.
“What's the matter?” Hastings asked. He uncovered himself and folded his legs.
“It's four o'clock in the morning. We have to give Mrs. Meadows a change. Get dressed and then, in the parlor, we'll remember the plan.”
Hastings nodded and Poirot left the room. As soon as he closed the door behind him, Poirot stamped his foot on the floor, angry that he had been unable to take the initiative when he had had a golden opportunity. Hastings, on the other hand, sank his head between his knees and was ashamed of himself for not having taken the opportunity to show Poirot his feelings.
He dressed and left the room. He did not see Poirot and thought perhaps he was in the bathroom or the kitchen. Poirot was in Miss Lemon's office looking for a couple of sheets of paper in the file.
"The truth is that Hastings and I are on this case together. We have no help from anyone else. Miss Lemon is in Cornwall visiting her cousin and Chief Inspector Japp is in Glasgow on business. We have to do our best so that they don't have to worry about anything." Poirot thought.
He continued searching. Miss Lemon hated to have things in her office and file cluttered. Hastings had done it on one occasion and it was sheer chaos.
Hastings scanned the room with his eyes. Everything seemed to be in order until he first saw a dropped pencil and then Poirot's notebook. He crept closer and paused. Would he open it, would Poirot see him, what would be inside?
“I hope that by looking a little at what he writes nothing will happen?” he said to himself.
He opened the notebook and found on many of the pages details about the cases he had worked on, important clues, outlines about the suspects and various crossings out. Rarely did he find a drawing. And if he did find one, it was because it consisted of a very simple significant detail.
He made his way to the last pages. The contents of the pages sounded a little more familiar.
“This is from today," he thought, "Yes, it definitely is. Here it puts the names of all the suspects and the most important details."
He remembered that the first time he saw him using a notebook was at Styles, when they both faced their first case. He remembered and longed for those times, even though he knew they weren't coming back. Sometimes he got sentimental thinking about them, but Poirot had taught er to treasure those memories. He turned a couple of pages and his heart began to race. He saw that one edge was torn and looked at it carefully. He followed the tear to the end of the notebook and, heart racing, turned it over and read what he had written.
"What...?" he thought, quizzical.
On the page were written words in no particular order. That was not like Poirot at all. There were words like "feelings, affection, closeness, impulse, emotion". Then he saw his name written and blushed.
He suddenly closed the notebook with a thud and sat down in the armchair. It didn't take him long to tie things up, he was very nervous, almost trembling. Did Poirot...? No, it was impossible...
He shook his head from side to side, trying to forget the very idea that Poirot had feelings for him. It was impossible... And yet, the idea kept coming back into his head over and over again. He couldn't help it. Thinking realistically it wasn't so far-fetched. He reddened again at the thought of such foolishness.
“What fell, Hastings?” Poirot suddenly entered the room, making Hastings jump from his seat. “I could have sworn I heard something...”
“It's nothing!” Hastings rose quickly from his chair. Poirot had the stealth of a cat. “I think I'll go to the bedroom and get ready.”
“But we have to go over the plan," The Belgian laid a wad of paper on the table. “You haven't forgotten our main mission, have you?”
“Of course, the case," Hastings turned and sat down at the living room table.
Poirot sat down next to him. They were very close, almost brushing against each other. Poirot was explaining to Hastings the steps they would take. The friction between the two was almost involuntary and, poor Hastings, he practically jumped in his seat every time it happened. He couldn't speak, afraid Poirot would detect the nerves in his voice. It was impossible.
“You seem nervous, Hastings," said Poirot. “Are you all right?
“Yes, everything is all right. It's just that I'm afraid that something might go wrong or we'll wake her up by making noise or something," Hastings lied.
But the Belgian was not satisfied with that answer. He knew there was more to it.
“Are you hiding things from me, Hastings?” Poirot asked. “I know there is something else.”
Hastings looked away and tried his best not to blush. It was impossible and Poirot relaxed his expression.
“Is it because of cet homme, mon ami?“ he asked again.
Hastings merely nodded wordlessly.
“Ah, I see..." Poirot smiled and Hastings felt heaven as he looked at him. “Don't worry. I'm sure that sooner or later that young man will reciprocate.”
Poirot's comment did not help him at all, Hastings reddened even more.
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you, Poirot....”
“Then let us carry out the mission. If we think of several things at the same time and find a distraction, then everything will go wrong. All in good time, Hastings. If you concentrate on this now, then there will be time to think about the other.”
Hastings nodded slowly and Poirot got up. He went to the bedroom and was about to curse himself for having said that when he himself was thinking of a thousand things at the same time. Hastings was thoughtful, what had he meant by that?