A Letter to Hercule Poirot

My entry into Belle's October 2024 Writing Prompt Challenge. A fictional letter, written by a fictional character to an existing fictional character from any published novel. I chose my recipient to this fictional letter to be Agatha Christie's famous detective: Hercules Poirot.

Contextual Intro for the reader

Years after the Murder on the Orient Express, detective Hercules Poirot receives a letter from a stranger, a foreign woman. She brings new revelations on the case, that will affect Poirot's state of mind forever!

“Murder on the Orient Express” is a detective fiction first published around 1933 by the queen of mystery, Agatha Christie. The murder of a man with a doubtful past, Mr. Ratchet (formerly known as Cassetti) happens on a stranded train. Detective Hercules Poirot traveled on that same train. This fictional letter, written by an unknown woman, is addressed to the detective.

Let's get on with it!

Tokyo, Japan. 15 January 1935.

Dear Monsieur Poirot,

First, I would like to congratulate you on solving the crime mystery on the Orient Express train. But at this moment, you are more surprised to receive a letter from a stranger in Japan, aren't you? No, we have never met in person, nor am I related to any of your former cases. You don't know me, but I do know you.

Over the years, I grew fascinated by the way you solved all those difficult cases. No matter where I went, there was always a news article about the famous detective who settled in London. It appears crime has always followed you. All your holidays are tainted with a murder case to solve. What a pitiful destiny, if I may say so. Were you a stranger to love by choice or by destiny?

つみ (Tsumi) That which is blameworthy and brings about bad karma; entangled in the net of wrong-doing; sin, crime.

Isn't it curious that you never helped the poor? Every single case you took, involved a character of the corrupted high society. Always wanting more than they can hold, as if it would help in the afterlife. That insatiable greed to have it all and leave nothing for the rest of us. A Japanese word comes to mind, "tsumi". It is what haunts them until the day their life circle completes.

猿も木から落ちる (Saru mo ki kara ochiru) "Even monkeys fall from trees"

You must be proud of your brilliant career in a foreign land. What an impeccable track record in crime solving! But, you see, here in Japan, we have a proverb. It suits you quite well. Knowing you, it may feel like an offense. Owing to my admiration, I offer my sincere apologies if it hurts your sensibilities. You see, nobody is perfect and anyone can make a mistake, even in what they are good at.

Yes, that is indeed you. And me? I am a dying stranger thousands of miles away. I must tell you, Monsieur Poirot. When you finish this letter, you will realize that there is an imperfection in your track record. Eyesore, I like that word. And I know eyesores disturb your existence. Given the present circumstances, I am compelled to reveal this imperfection.

Are you growing impatient? I will lead you to that eyesore, the blotch in the —until now— unblemished tapestry of your successes.

After all those years, I fulfilled the dream of seeing you in flesh and bone at the Tokatlian Hotel in Istanbul. You were shorter than I imagined. The reason you have no recollection of me is that I sat at the table behind you. Is the scent of my perfume appealing to you? I bought it that morning with that evening in mind. The adrenaline of a victorious outcome exhilarated me, despite being close enough to my ruin.

I became nervous at first, being so close to you and yet willing to be invisible. Invisible describes my existence. In a sense, it was the key to my success. It was then that I felt renewed interest in giving you a taste of defeat. Even though I wouldn't be able to savor it until the end of my days.

Alone at my table, I enjoyed some delicious Turkish treats while thinking about what was to come. I sipped from my cup of Turkish coffee; its flavor reminded me of the endless chain of bitter moments in my life. But before I fell prey to my past, I overheard you referring to Mr. Cassetti—at the other end of the saloon—as an animal. I guess that, for someone with as delicate manners as you, anybody could be an animal.

It's ironic, isn't it? It was a rare, bittersweet moment. Sweet? You will have to live with that blemish in your record, yet bitter due to my pitiful circumstances. I guess it is “Tsumi” catching up with me as well. But I digress...

That night, you and your Wagons Lit friend, Mr. Bouc boarded the Orient Express. And I did too! After the horrid event, you figured out that Mrs. Mary Debenham was not telling the truth. And that obnoxious Colonel Arbuthnot pretending as well not to know her. In fact, I made their acquaintance some months before the incident.

Twelve passengers conspiring to commit murder on the Orient Express is astonishing! A true feat!. To that day, it was unheard of that a noble mob would take a stab at the evil body of Cassetti. You did reveal that they were all acquainted with young Mrs. Deisy Armstrong. An innocent soul, born with silver spoons, passed away in tragic circumstances. In the end, Cassetti got what he deserved for killing young Mrs. Armstrong. All those years unpunished made him grow more secure in himself. You see, I was very much acquainted with him. Are your little gray cells getting excited? Are you feeling the urge to reassess what happened then? Or even better, amend the white lie you all agreed upon that night.

長所は短所 (Chōsho wa tansho) "One's strength is his weakness"

I am sure you remember your first conclusion. But, the humanity in you betrayed your instincts. Yes, you and your friend, Mr. Bouc decided to offer the police the presumably false explanation. To right a wrong? Or to protect the victims of the Armstrong drama? Their collective killing of Cassetti (Ratchett) would bring scandal and ruin their reputation.

That was a beautiful night indeed, but the massive snowfall complicated everything. Indeed, the killer had not eluded all of you, fleeing through the window. There were no footprints in the snow leading out that window, remember? Those were elsewhere, but the snow covered them. I didn't get to know all the details until a few days later, when I bought a newspaper in a nearby town. After all, I almost froze to death that evening. But I survived and managed to board a ship to my motherland, Japan.

That particular cold night of 1930, our destinies converged on that stranded wagon. And yet, I managed to elude you all. Still curious? Benevolence is an odd word.

Do you remember those you protected? They claimed they saw a woman wearing a kimono walking down the train's hallway the night of the murder. And when everybody had made up their story, the mystery of the kimono seemed forgotten. Did you feel ashamed when the kimono appeared on nothing less than your luggage? Poirot with a kimono—what a scandal! I couldn't help but tuck it there after I changed dresses. That night's venture into the harsh, cold forest almost put an end to my existence.

苦あれば楽あり (Ku areba raku ari) - There are hardships and also there are pleasures.

In the end, the conclusion was somewhat correct. They did stab Ratchett, a well deserved death for a criminal like him. But how do I know so much about him? I am enjoying this immensely, even though it represents my last breaths in this unfair world.

Ratchett was an animal indeed, but he lacked intelligence. His low instincts got the best of him. In retrospect, partnering with him to get at the Armstrong family was not a good idea. How things went that night was not what I intended. After I returned from the corner shop, Mrs. Armstrong had already left this world. Ratchett had done it, and I swore to avenge her death.

The gang of twelve had not actually committed the murder. I, the woman in the red kimono, had done the deed. I brought justice to a grave mistake in my past. Would you have done the same for me, Monsieur Poirot? Like you did with them? Or would you have turned the poor Japanese woman over to the police? A certain terrible destiny, sooner rather than later, and in a foreign jail.

My time in this world is coming to an end. Did you ever wonder why Princess Dragomiroff requested “her” handkerchief back? The handkerchief with the “H” you found in Ratchett's compartment. Despite your abhorrence for her, you let your affinity for the wealthy get the best of you as well.

And now, I am that blemish in your perfect track record. Your instincts betrayed you (yes, I wish to remind you that). Else you would have tried to get to the bottom of the matter. In the end, I won. I fooled the best detective in the Western world.

I am afraid that, by the time you read this, I will be long gone. Not gone, as the great escape from the stranded train wagon. Gone, because in a few minutes, I will seal this letter, and that will be the end of it—the end of me. My last breath on earth!

Good bye,

Haruki Hattori (the woman in the red kimono)

Thanks for hosting this interesting, unofficial October 2024 Writing Prompt challenge, Belle!

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