“If I’m going to cooperate with you, we must look about for some other ‘creamy’ crime,” I said with a laugh.
“You remember your remark of the other day? If you could order a crime as one orders a dinner, what would you choose?”
I fell in with his humour.
“Let me see now. Let’s review the menu. Robbery? Forgery? No, I think not. Rather too vegetarian. It must be murder—red-blooded murder—with trimmings, of course.”
“Naturally. The hors d’oeuvres.”
“Who shall the victim be—man or woman? Man, I think. Some bigwig. American millionaire. Prime Minister. Newspaper proprietor. Scene of the crime—well, what’s wrong with the good old library? Nothing like it for atmosphere. As for the weapon—well, it might be a curiously twisted dagger—or some blunt instrument—a carved stone idol—”
Poirot sighed.
“Or, of course,” I said, “there’s poison—but that’s always so technical. Or a revolver shot echoing in the night. Then there must be a beautiful girl or two—”
“With auburn hair,” murmured my friend.
“Your same old joke. One of the beautiful girls, of course, must be unjustly suspected—and there’s some misunderstanding between her and the young man. And then, of course, there must be some other suspects—an older woman—dark, dangerous type—and some friend or rival of the dead man’s—and a quiet secretary—dark horse—and a hearty man with a bluff manner—and a couple of discharged servants or gamekeepers or somethings—and a damn fool of a detective rather like Japp—and well—that’s about all.”
“That is your idea of the cream, eh?”
“I gather you don’t agree.”
Poirot looked at me sadly.
“You have made there a very pretty résumé of nearly all the detective stories that have ever been written.”
“Well,” I said. “What would you order?”
Poirot closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His voice came purringly from between his lips.
“A very simple crime. A crime with no complications. A crime of quiet domestic life…very unimpassioned—very intime.”
“How can a crime be intime?”
“Supposing,” murmured Poirot, “that four people sit down to play bridge and one, the odd man out, sits in a chair by the fire. At the end of the evening the man by the fire is found dead. One of the four, while he is dummy, has gone over and killed him, and intent on the play of the hand, the other three have not noticed. Ah, there would be a crime for you! Which of the four was it?”
“Well,” I said. “I can’t see any excitement in that!”
Poirot threw me a glance of reproof.
“No, because there are no curiously twisted daggers, no blackmail, no emerald that is the stolen eye of a god, no untraceable Eastern poisons. You have the melodramatic soul, Hastings. You would like, not one murder, but a series of murders.”
“I admit,” I said, “that a second murder in a book often cheers things up. If the murder happens in the first chapter, and you have to follow up everybody’s alibi until the last page but one—well, it does get a bit tedious.”
The telephone rang and Poirot rose to answer.
“’Allo,” he said. “’Allo. Yes, it is Hercule Poirot speaking.”
He listened for a minute or two and then I saw his face change.
His own side of the conversation was short and disjointed.
“Mais oui….”
“Yes, of course….”
“But yes, we will come….”