Part Two:
Monsieur Hercule Poirot
Tuesday Morning

Belgian Private Detective Hercule Poirot sat in a small park on the outskirts of London. His usual, cheery, self-confident manor was tinged today with a little bit of sadness. His eyes were glazed; he appeared to be lost in thought. The building he was staring at was not very tall and wide, with earth-brown bricks and red-curtained windows.

He slowly walked inside gazing at the rooms as if following an old routine. At last he came to the elevator. Rising noisily, but still in a haze. He reached the fifth floor and tottered off to the back of the hallway. After a short walk, he reached the largest room.

——

This is the third of a long series of my Ficlets. See the sequels by me for the rest of the story.

Inspired by Agatha Christie