"Then, what kind of woman are you?" He said as she packed her things and finished her food. "The Poirot kind," She nodded towards him as a sign of goodbye and dusted off her dress. "Bonne journée,"
What if Hercule Poirot had a daughter? Meet Aceline...
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"I have now looked at all of the passports and there is one that troubles me. There is a grease spot on the signature page and it obscures the first letter of the Christian name and I believe it is telling," Poirot stared at the wall as he murmured out information. "Who is it?" Bouc and Aceline gleamed in anticipation. Unbeknownst to Hercule and Bouc, Mrs. Hubbard opened the cabin door with a smirk. "Knock, knock. Excuse me but I need to talk to you," She strode into the room, her grey jacket hovering just above her ankles. "If you could please wait your turn-" Aceline tried but Mrs. Hubbard was persistent, she clicked her fingers and waited for the men to stop mumbling.
"You owe me an apology," She pointed at the men, Aceline apologized quickly in her native tongue. "Not you, them!" Mrs. Hubbard waved her off, Aceline bowed her head and sat down. "I do?" Bouc's face twisted in doubt as Aceline watched the scene unfold in subtlety. "You thought I was crazy," She shouted, her smirk more evident than before. "Pardon, madame, I do not know what you are referring-" Hercule began, his focus on the case not willing to be interrupted. "To what I am referring is the man in my room last night! You didn't believe me, but guess what, I have a surprise for you. There was a man and I can prove it. He left a button! Look!" Bouc and Aceline were in delight as they looked at the button in disbelief.
"It says 'Orient Express'." Aceline gasped, she gaped at the small brown wooden button. "It sure as heck does, and it's just like the ones Michel wears on his uniform," Mrs. Hubbard smirked, Poirot, staring at her with curious eyes. "And you found it. . .?" Her keen eyes on the button, Aceline tried using her father's method to theorize who it was.
"On the floor this morning, bright as you please- next to my big toe after I put these tootsies on the floor when I woke up," Mrs. Hubbard's accent was prominent, a very southern American accent. "And you waited until now to tell us?" Hercule's annoyed face was a very common sight, but for Aceline it was rather a rarity. "I just woke up! It's called a vacation! And I just heard about Ratchett's murder and I thought that maybe this guy did it. Ya see it all adds up. He goes into Ratchett's room, kills him, and comes out through my room, I wake up at, like, 1:15 and see him- well, I don't see him, but, I sort of feel him- and do you realize he could have strangled me in my bed or shot me or something!" She shouted, Aceline halfway to telling her that the Poirot family has never been on a proper vacation.
"The dead man's name was not Ratchett, madame, it was Bruno Cassetti. Does that mean anything to you?" Bouc corrected, her eyes showing a slight recognition. "You mean the murderer who killed that poor girl? It was national news. The whole world knows about it. So what?" She blabbered, Aceline nodding along. "May I ask where you were last night between midnight and two o'clock?" Hercule asked, a gush of wind rushing through the window.
"Oh, great, so now I'm a suspect? You know you should some detective stories and get some tips,"
"Twelve to two, madame," Hercule grumbled, his annoyance turning into anger. "I just told you! I was alone in bed around one o'clock and then a few minutes later some man walks into my room and scares the living bejesus out of me!"
"Mrs. Hubbard, would you write your signature on this paper, please?" Hercule handed her a blank notebook page, the one he'd just ripped from Aceline's notebook, making her scowl in response. "I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Hubbard took a double-take before realizing the reality of the situation. "Your signature, so I can see your handwriting,"
"I always thought the French were screwy," Mrs. Hubbard remarked as she began her signature. "We're from Belgium," The trio angrily grumbled, all of them had gone through this situation before. "Exactly,"
"Sorry to interrupt, but I'm looking for Miss Debenham," Dr. Arbuthnot, like Mrs. Hubbard, waltzed into the room with a stature that could make a statue jealous. "She is not here,"
"Have you tried her room," Bouc glared at his friend, how could he be so ignorant at a time like this. "I tried everywhere I can think of and she's gone!" Arbuthnot shouted, his hands flying about and around his head.
"Have you tried the carriages at the back of the train?" Aceline asked, Arbuthnot, shaking his head at her statement, "Of course I did. I got Michel to open the doors and she wasn't in any of them." Bouc's eyes widened, he looked back at Poirot then turned to the Doctor. "Well, she cannot be far, monsieur. It is a very small train," He shook his head, Aceline furrowing her brows. "You don't understand what I'm saying, monsieur. There was a murder on this train last night and that has implications, does it not?" Arbuthnot just finished his sentence as an ear-piercing scream gleamed through the room. "Oh my God! It's her!" His face crumpled in horror, turning to run in her direction, Aceline following. "Quickly this way!"
As they run in the direction of Mary, Greta, Hector, the Princess, and the Countess joined them. "Where is she?!" Arbuthnot screamed as he searched for her, the rest behind him pulling open cabin doors and calling Miss Debenham's name. "Try Ratchett's cabin!" MacQueen shouted over the ruckus, his words commanding the group to pounce on Ratchett's door. "It won't open!"
"Push harder!" They all tumbled into the cabin door, pushing each other by the shoulders and almost knocking over the carpet. The door snapped open, Mary shivering in her own blood. The doctor taking lead, his instincts controlling him. The lights shut off before he could touch her.
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How are you guys? I am doing great! For future reference, if you didn't know, I am using one of the 'Murder on the Orient Express' movies. If you believe some of the lines could be racist, please contact me in the comments.
