Fix You

              Hercule Poirot bowed his head. His eyes stung, threatening tears. He could not look any more.

               “Mr. Poirot?” said a sad, gentle voice.

The detective looked up. “Oui, Mademoiselle Brighton?”

The young woman reached out her hand and placed it on his arm. “I, I understand, you know, that you did all you could.”

Poirot shook his head. “Non, non!” he said angrily. “No I did not. I should have saved her!”

Miss Brighton squeezed his arm gently. She did not know what to say, so she said nothing. She glanced down at the face of the young girl who lay dead on the mortuary table. She reached out her hand and pulled the cover over her face. Poirot glanced up at her.

“Merci, Mademoiselle,” he said with a tired smile.

“Why don’t you go home, Mr. Poirot? Some rest would do you good.”

He let out a heavy sigh. “I think,” he said slowly, “That perhaps I will.”

They walked together to the door. Miss Brighton leant down and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“Please, Mr. Poirot, don’t blame yourself. There was nothing anybody could do to stop this.”

He looked at her, his deep, tired eyes looking straight into hers. “But Poirot, Mademoiselle, he is not ‘anybody.’”

He turned before she could say another word, and headed out into the dark, rainy night. Miss Brighton stood watching after him from the door to the mortuary, tears streaming down her gentle cheeks.

Poirot did not wish to call a cab, even though the wind blew hard and the heavy rain soaked through his greatcoat. His tired legs and arms ached, partly due to his arthritis, partly due to the fact that he had been awake for just under 24 hours. It was a horrible, horrible business. The poor child… his mind and heart rebelled against his feeble attempts to convince himself that what Miss Brighton had said was really true, that there was nothing anybody could have done to stop it. But he knew she was wrong, he, Hercule Poirot, the greatest detective in the world, should have been able to stop it.

He shivered as a taxi sped buy and splashed him. He was thankful that he was nearly to his home. He would take a cup of tea and go to bed. But he knew, oh how well he knew, that he would not sleep. The guilt and grief which mingled themselves in his chest and stomach would make certain of that. As he approached the large apartment building he looked up at the countless windows. He was very surprised to see that the window to his flat was lit with a warm, yellowy glow. His companion Arthur Hastings was not a late night sort of fellow. As he entered the elevator which would take him to the floor on which was his flat, he thought to himself that Hastings must have left the light on by mistake. It was not a wild assumption, for Hastings was often a rather careless and forgetful kind of person.

Poirot fumbled with his keys for a moment then entered the little flat. He stopped in the hall and took of his coat and hat, hanging them on their respective pegs. He paused a moment, leaning his shoulder up against the wall and closing his eyes. He ran over the day’s occurrences in his mind. As he stood there, a tall, thin, gentle looking man in a dressing gown over his pajamas walked out of the study and turned to look at him.

“Poirot,” the man said in a soft voice.

The detective’s eyes shot open. He looked with a little confusion at his comrade. “Hastings? Why are you still awake? It is nearly three o’clock.”

Hastings smiled kindly and a little sadly. “When I… heard the news, I decided I would wait up for you.”

“It is in the press already?” Poirot asked dejectedly.

“Oh, oh no,” Hastings said quickly. “Japp phoned me, he, well, he said you were pretty cut up about it.”

“Cut up, mon ami? Poirot, he is absolutely devastated. I should have saved her, Hastings!”

Hastings went up to his friend and put his hand on his shoulder. “You’re soaked to the bone. Come into the study and sit down, old man, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Poirot went into the study and Hastings momentarily disappeared into the kitchen. As Poirot sat down in his chair he could feel his body begin to relax. The fire in the grate sent out a blazing warmth that fairly reached into the sinew of his bones. He pulled his chair closer to the fire and rubbed his eyes with his thick fingers. A moment later Hastings returned to the study and held out a cup of tea to Poirot.

“There you are, old chap,” he tried to say cheerfully. “I put in a drop of something to warm you inside.”

Poirot murmured a word of thanks but did not look up. Hastings stood looking at him for a moment, wringing his hands, unsure of what to do. He sat slowly down on the sofa and reached out his pale, lean hand and rested it gently on his friends forearm.

“Poirot… my friend,” he said slowly, smiling a little. “I–if there’s anything I can do… to help you… you know I’ll do it, don’t you?”

Poirot raised his tearful eyes to the caring, honest face of his companion. He reached over his big hand and placed it atop Hastings’, giving it a gentle pat. “This I always know, mon ami,” he said with a sad smile. “Merci.”