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“You know, I’m starting to think you’re bad luck,” Bouc said, surveying the hotel room Poirot had gotten them (well, himself; Bouc had simply tagged along) with a connoisseur’s eye.
Poirot looked up from unpacking his ties and said, “Eh?” in a tone suggesting both bewilderment and faint hurt.
“Two times I invited you along for a holiday,” Bouc said, because he had a strong case and he knew it. There weren’t any mysteries here, just simple, hard facts “Twice! And both times we ended up with dead bodies and all kinds of unpleasantness. Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence.”
Poirot cocked his head and said, “Eh. Bad luck, coincidence, it is more or less the same, is it not?” which was an excellent point, actually.
Bouc decided not to worry about it. Logic and reason were Poirot’s strengths, after all, not his. “It’s a pattern.”
Poirot pursed his lips.
“It is,” Bouc insisted. “God’s sake, I almost ended up in jail.”
“Ah,” Poirot said. “But that was because you had stolen something, was it not? It did not have anything to do with me. Or with these ‘dead bodies’. Thieves go to jail.”
Thieves might, but people like Bouc didn’t: the family lawyers had been good for that much, at least. “I think it had a little something to do with you. And I would never steal from anyone alive. They might find out,” he added, when Poirot arched an eyebrow at him. “It would be very unpleasant.”
“Ah, oui,” Poirot said. “Very sensible. You are to be commended.”
For coming clean, Bouc assumed; Poirot certainly wouldn’t find anything virtuous in Bouc thinking outside the box in order to gain his independence. “Thank you.”
“As to your so-called ‘theory’ about my holidays, well.” Poirot shrugged. “It is pure foolishness, of course.”
“I think it rather makes sense, actually,” Bouc said.
Poirot looked at him. “So, then, you do not wish to travel with me anymore? Henceforth, if I see you, I should make haste to walk into the other direction and pretend I do not see?”
“Oh,” Bouc said. He did not much like the sound of that. Poirot was his friend. One of the few who never asked him for money or favors or anything at all. Bouc wasn’t always sure what Poirot got out of their relationship, but he assumed there must be something. Other than great sex. “No, of course not, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then, I admit, I am stumped.” Poirot made a helpless gesture.
Bouc wasn’t entirely sure himself where he had been going with this. He supposed that he had wanted a little sympathy. A little indulgence, so to speak. Taking the necklace had been a mistake, but it hadn’t done any actual harm. And while Bouc accepted that Poirot was perhaps upset with him for having given in to temptation – well. Bouc wouldn’t be who he was if he were able to resist temptation. Poirot couldn’t hold it against Bouc that he was who he was. He had never done so before, after all, and now seemed a very bad time to start.
“Well, I - ” he started. “I suppose perhaps it would be a good idea to spend some time together in London. At home, so to speak.”
“Ah.” Poirot’s expression brightened. Bouc felt a stab of guilt. “A small vacation á la maison. Yes. Very good.”
“Exactly,” Bouc said. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, if anything, but Poirot seemed happy and Bouc felt that he had gotten out some words that had conveyed information of some sort, so great work all around. “We can simply stay in bed – I mean, sleep late,” he amended. “Have lavish but symmetrical breakfasts. I’ll eat any eggs that don’t meet your exacting standards. It will be great.”
“Oui. Yes, very good. This, I can do,” Poirot said. Bouc wondered what it was Poirot thought he couldn’t do. The list of things Poirot was incapable of seemed very short, as far as Bouc knew. Possibly even non-existent. “Three days here, just the two of us. No cases. No mysteries. Bien.”
“We might make it a week,” Bouc said.
“Let us not get ahead of ourselves, hm?” Poirot said.
“Absolutely. Whatever you say.” Bouc felt he deserved something fun and simple for almost having ended up in prison, and this should do very nicely.
Poirot nodded, as close to happy as he ever looked. “Now, only let me put my clothes away and we can – ah.” Poirot stared at the open closet.
“What?” Bouc asked, as if he didn’t bloody know. He walked to where he could look at the closet’s contents from a safe distance and true enough. “Oh, come on. Again?”
“I trust that you will not take this as encouragement to further pursue your théorie ridicule,” Poirot said, peering at the corpse.
Bouc sighed. “I’ll go fetch a doctor, shall I?”