Thank you, Poirot

“I remember,” I cried eagerly, and then with the word “Remember” all the ghastly horror that I had temporarily forgotten came back to me. Cinderella –
I fell back with a groan.
I must have lost consciousness again for a minute or two. I awoke to find Poirot forcing some brandy between my lips.
“What is it, mon ami? But what is it – then? Tell me.” Word by word, I got the thing told, shuddering as I did so. Poirot uttered a cry.
“My friend! My friend! But what you must have suffered. And I who knew nothing of all this! But reassure yourself! All is well!”
“You will find her, you mean? But she is in South America. And by the time we get there – long before, she will be dead – and God knows how and in what horrible way she will have died.”
“No, no, you do not understand. She is safe and well. She has never been in their hands for one instant.”
“But I got a cable from Bronsen.”
“No, no, you did not. You may have got a cable from South America signed Bronsen – that is a very different matter. Tell me, has it never occurred to you that an organization of this kind, with ramifications all over the world, might easily strike at us through that little girl, Cinderella, whom you love so well?”
“No, never,” I replied.
“Well, it did to me. I said nothing to you because I did not want to upset you unnecessarily – but I took measures of my own. You wife’s letters all seem to have been written from the ranch, but in reality she has been in a place of safety devised by me for over three months.
I looked at him for a long time.
“You are sure of that?”
“Parbleu! I know it. They have tortured you with a lie.”
I turned my head aside. Poirot put his hand on my shoulder. There was something in his voice that I had never heard there before.
“You like not that I should embrace you or display the emotion. I know well. I will be very British. I will say nothing – but nothing at all. Only this – that in this last adventure of ours, the honors are all with you, and happy is the man who has such a friend as I have!”
He turned to leave the room. His hand began to slip away from my shoulder and I reached up and grabbed it. He looked at me in a little surprise.
“No, don’t go,” I said hoarsely. “Please, Poirot.”
“I will sit and stay with you then, mon ami Hastings,” he said, turning to sit in an easy chair opposite me. I had not yet let go of his hand and I pulled him to sit beside me on the sofa instead. He looked a little alarmed as I stared helplessly into his green eyes. All my energy had drained from me; I felt as if I would like to weep, sleep, scream, laugh, run around the building several times, and be wrapped in a warm embrace all at the same time. I suddenly let out a choked sob and fell helplessly forward and dropped by forehead down upon his shoulder. I heard Poirot give a little cry, something in French, and then I felt his thick hands touch my shoulders.
“Mon ami,” he said in a comforting tone. “You will be alright?”
“Yes,” I said, choking back another sob. “I’ll be alright.” I pulled back from him and wiped my eyes with my sleeve. How foolish I was being, how un-British, how - Belgian. “I really am quite alright,” I said as I saw the doubtful look in Poirot’s eyes. “I just need rest; I need to sleep.”
I turned to walk out of the room, but looked back at Poirot just before I exited. He turned the palms of his hands upward as a sort of invitation. I went to him, grasped his shoulders in a tight embrace, and wept.
“Thank you, Poirot.”