The Flawless Crime | ✔️ 🥈 [2021 Ambys Runner-Up]

The Flawless Crime

"Ladies... And a gentleman." Hercule Poirot swallowed a generous mouthful of verdant liquor.

He scrutinized the three people present. "Shall we not all sit down?" He gestured around the salon, its walls a distempered salmon-pink. Stern-eyed family reproductions hung upon them.

The dandified little detective in his neat attire strolled across the room.

His patent leather shoes squeaked on the rich wooden parquet. Poirot limped away to the minibar equipped with various bottles of gin and vermouth.

"Listen, M. Poirot. I hired you to investigate the case of my late husband's murder, not to get us all inebriated." Mrs Ottilia Ridgey huffed, fiddling with the ends of the foulard around her neck.

"Yes, quite-quite. We have to decide on it, do we not? Rest assured, I am the best. This is a little something to set up the mood, so to speak." Poirot fetched a bottle of absinthe and three sparkly clean glasses.

"I have already had some." Mrs Ridgey waved off the sight with an impatient hand and slumped over in an old grandfather chair.

Poirot proceeded to fill the glasses to the brim. He then handed them over to Miss Eleanor Cunningham and Mr Paul Hastings.

The former gulped, fisting her housemaid uniform. She still downed the glass, bracing herself for what was to come.

The latter accepted the offer with trembling fingers; he then sipped a cautious sip.

"Rest assured, I am the best." Hercule Poirot repeated, rubbed his nose, and then bowed his egg-shaped head.

The detective's cat-like green eyes twinkled in the semi-darkness with amusement as he rose to his feet.

"Coniine, a poisonous alkaloid." Poirot shook an eloquent forefinger. "And it was my task to put myself in reverse gear, so to speak. Go back and discover who slipped the drug into Mr Ridgey's beverage."

He glanced upon Mrs Otilia Ridgey's hands.

Beautiful, but with long curving nails — predatory beaks.

Whereupon he said, his eyes still on the woman: "Was it Mrs Ridgey, his spouse? A jealous, petulant woman, who wouldn't let go of anything that they think was their property? You and Mr Ridgey led a cat-and-dog life."

"How dare you!" Her big blue eyes were two mountain lakes under the sparkling midday sunlight. The pallor of her face intensified.

"I spoke nothing but the truth, my dear." Poirot spread out his hands. "Yet fear not. Shouting, threatening, disagreement. It can all be simple... Means of letting off steam. Agreement is a killer of excitement. "

"I loved that rag-and-bone man despite everything, you know." Mrs Ridgey's chin quivered yet still jutted forth. She cast an infuriated glance in Miss Eleanor Cunningham's direction.

Poirot followed suite.

"Was it Miss Eleanor Cunningham? The household maid? Young. Primitive. Radiant, passionate, self-assured. A fey on top of the world. I am not cocksure of everything. But she could have been the one to slip the poison into Mr Ridgey's drink of preference."

Miss Cunningham's clear intelligent brown eyes looked at him with defiance.

"You maintained a dalliance with Mr Ridgey, did you not? And Mrs Ridgey knew of it?" Hercule Poirot strolled out towards the window. "Yes, I can see it now. You have charm. The sweetness of manner that deceives people. A frail, helpless look that appeals to man's chivalry. Were you that magnetic and unfortunate? Or a mere cold, calculating planner? A scheming grabber drowning in her ambition?"

"Not dalliance. It happened once. That was all." Miss Eleanor muttered, rubbing her stomach as it rumbled in unpleasant tones. "He felt alone. And I wanted him. I had no reason to wish him harm."

"Ah. There we are. And you always get what you want, do you not? Petulant child! A girl can be terribly sincere, frighteningly single-minded in love." Poirot's fingers caressed his stiff, military moustache.

"And I turned a blind eye to it. I thought he didn't... He couldn't care a button about her." Mrs Ridgey whispered, staring at the late Mr Ridgey's portrait.

"Or was it Mr Paul Hastings, hmm? A stockbroker? A trusted household friend? Was he in a financial jam? Did he need Mr Ridgey's money and only his death might have saved him from debt?" Poirot lifted both of his arms in resignation. "I should hardly think so. The man does not have the guts."

"Hullo! Now l-listen here, Poirot..." Mr Paul stammered, one of his boney hands clutching at his throat with exasperation.

"So, then, according to you, none of us had done it?" Mrs Ottilia chortled, raising both of her finely marked dark brows.

"Ah..." Poirot smiled. "I am afraid my narrative has not been entirely frank. You see, I am the one who committed the murder. With coniine. I've become quite an expert on poisons myself, I have to say. Perhaps I started making them because I liked toying with the idea of being on the other side. Of being able to kill someone, one day."

"Wh-wh-at are you... Say... What are you d-driving at, man?" Mr Paul Hastings wiped his sweaty forehead with a lacey handkerchief.

"Ah, mon ami. That slight stagger in your gait, you see. That! A fascinating moment. That: is the first sign of the poison working."

"You will never get away with this... Poirot!" Mrs Ottilia gargled and spat. Her square shoulders started towards the door in a mannish walk.

Miss Eleanor attempted the same. She moved like a doe — like a stricken thing, before collapsing onto the expensive, lush carpet.

"Oh, but I do not intend to. You see, I am dying anyway. I have only ever wanted to commit a flawless crime." Poirot closed his eyes with determination.

He had been feeling old for quite a while but this!

This lent him a sensation of rejuvenation, keenness!

No one would ever suspect him. He would die soon, alongside the others.

Two days later, when the police found the bodies, not the slightest shade of doubt fell upon the greatest detective that had ever lived.

Monsieur Hercule Poirot.