The Ultimate Crime

‘It’s impossible.  She couldn’t have done it.’  Captain Hastings put down his coffee cup.    Hercule Poirot placed his cup precisely in the centre of its saucer.  ‘What makes you think that, mon ami?’    ‘She has always been neat and methodical.  This was so sloppy, not her style at all.’  He leaned forward.  ‘And she was nowhere around.’    Hercule Poirot nodded.  ‘We must exercise the little grey cells. Let us consider your first  point.  You are sometimes methodical.’  He tapped his own chest.  ‘Hercule Poirot is always methodical.  But it is different for a woman.’    He paused.  ‘Think of Miss Lemon.  She has been my secretary for some years. She has her system, which is sometimes hard to realise.  She is neat - women often are neat - but not methodical.’  He shook his head.  ‘No, my friend.  Men are methodical; women assuredly are not.’    ‘But she has style…’ Captain Hastings put in.    ‘What is style, my friend?  To some it is a mode of dress, a fashion which changes with the seasons.  Or it can be a manner of behaviour.’     ‘That’s what I meant.’     ‘Ah, but many things can change a woman’s style of behaviour.  The weather, the daily news, or…’ He placed his cup and saucer on the coffee tray.  ‘…l’amour.’    ‘Love!’  Hastings’s eyebrows shot up.  ‘You can’t mean… Not her.  Well, that’s hardly a reason…’    ‘Ah, the most potent to any woman, mon ami.  When she feels l’amour she forgets the routine.  It is the cause of many a tragedy.  No, my friend, never forget the power of love.  It has ruined many lives.’     ‘Hmm.’  Hastings picked up his cup and put it on the tray. ‘Surely not in this case.’    Hercule Poirot shrugged eloquently.  ‘We must consider every aspect.’    ‘ But she wasn’t around.’     ‘That is correct, my friend.  She has been absent for an hour.’     ‘Then how -?’      ‘It is not impossible.  She did commit this crime.’ He sighed.  ‘Yes, it was Miss Lemon who made this execrable coffee.  She used cheap instant coffee from the supermarket and put it in a vacuum jug, before going off to meet her amoureux.’     Hercule Poirot shuddered and stood up. ‘Come, my friend.  We will go to the cafe and buy a cup of real coffee.’ Janice Robinson