Here, amid various chairs and tables covered – as if to keep the dust away – in red velvet. Poirot stood by the covered window, stroking his perfectly sculpted, huge moustaches in deep thought. Memories, like a cool breeze on a cozy summer night, bought a small tear to his eye.

This was Poirot’s old office. In the old days of his Private Detective business, he had spent years here. As he stood remembering, his assistant of old, Arthur Hastings, stride into the office. “M. Poirot,â€? he said, “how are you?â€?

“Hullo, Hastings…I will be with you in a moment,â€? replied the detective.

—-—-——-

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

Inspired by Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot novels.