Today, the fourth floor common room was not, in fact, the fourth floor common room. It was, rather, the scene of a murder.
The deceased -- a rather unfortunate looking stuffed animal -- lay just there, behind the sofa.
The police were stumped. The police, they saw and they observed, but they did not use the little grey cells, mon amiThe police
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He hadn't expected to walk into a crime scene. "Is something going on here?"
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Poirot's eyes were kindly, as though he knew that Bruce was concealing something -- not murder! Merely something unfortunate. Confession was good for the soul.
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Poirot's English was spotty, now and again, but the message was clear nonetheless.
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"... And I'm not baring my chest. I haven't done it for no good reason at a welcome picnic and I'm not doing it for you."
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"Tell me," Poirot said, taking a seat and hoping to seem the nonthreatening, silly little man that too many mistook him for being. "The police, they say you have no alibi for the murder. They say you were alone all evening, though your maid does not recall you being at home. Is this still the story you wish to keep?"
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Poirot watched the young man's face carefully, to see if his face would betray any emotions.
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