Hercule Poirot sat at the breakfast table, his right hand gently cradling a cup of hot chocolate. The wisps of steam seemed to add a touch of ceremony to his beloved sweet treat. A devout lover of desserts, he found himself particularly enchanted by the cream-filled Swiss roll before him. It paired perfectly with his hot chocolate, leaving him utterly satisfied. He thought with pride that this treasure had taken visits to four different shops to uncover. The Danish bakery, in particular, was a gem—far superior to the overrated so-called “French patisserie” next door.

Content with his indulgence, Poirot allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation, though perhaps too much so. Recently, he had completed what he considered a significant literary accomplishment—a critical review of the works of great detective novelists. In it, he boldly critiqued Edgar Allan Poe and Wilkie Collins while elevating two lesser-known American writers to newfound prominence. He praised where praise was due and offered sharp criticism where it was warranted. Even though he spotted a few typographical errors in the galley proofs, he was pleased with the overall result.

As he basked in the glow of this achievement, an unsettling void crept in. His literary mission was complete, and now he found himself at a loss for what to do next. Continue writing? He shook his head. To him, once something was done, there was no need to repeat it. That had always been his credo. In truth, he was dreadfully bored.

Just then, the door creaked open, and George entered, his impeccably trained demeanor as unflappable as ever, a blend of deference and quiet humility.

“Sir,” George began with a subtle cough, his voice low, “there’s a young lady here to see you.”

Poirot raised an eyebrow, his tone slightly reproachful. “George, I believe I made it clear—I do not receive visitors in the morning.”

“Yes, sir, I’m aware,” George replied evenly. The mutual understanding between master and valet suggested this situation might be out of the ordinary.

Poirot considered for a moment and asked, “Is she attractive?”

George hesitated slightly before replying, “In my humble opinion, not particularly. But that may depend on one’s taste.”

Poirot nodded, his gaze sharpening. “Did she mention why she’s here?”

Lowering his head slightly, George answered with a hint of apology, “She said... she might have committed murder.”

Poirot’s eyebrows shot up, his expression shifting to one of keen interest. “Might? She’s unsure whether she committed murder?”

“Indeed, sir. Her words were tinged with uncertainty.”

“How fascinating,” Poirot murmured. “Show her in—five minutes.”

George gave a small bow and exited the room.

Poirot drained the last sip of his hot chocolate, rose from his seat, and walked to the fireplace. He adjusted his mustache meticulously in the mirror, ensuring every hair was in place. Satisfied that his appearance was impeccable, he returned to his chair to await the visitor.

When George escorted the “young lady” into the room, Poirot felt an immediate pang of disappointment. The woman, likely in her early twenties, was far from the “sorrowful beauty” he had imagined. She wore an oversized sweater paired with a short skirt and knee-high boots, giving her a disheveled, careless look. Her sparse, unkempt hair hung limply over her shoulders, its color indeterminate, as if it had just been plucked from a puddle.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” Poirot sighed inwardly. “These young women! A little grooming, a proper haircut, and some thoughtful styling, and she might not be entirely hopeless. But as she is now…”

Suppressing his disappointment, Poirot maintained his usual politeness. He rose, shook the woman’s hand, and invited her to sit.

“You wished to see me?” Poirot asked gently.

“Uh, yes…” The woman’s voice wavered with uncertainty.

“George tells me you believe you might have committed murder?” Poirot prompted.

She nodded, though her expression remained clouded with doubt.

“But,” Poirot said softly, “there should be no ambiguity in such matters. Murder is a rather definitive act. Surely you would know whether you had done it or not.”

The woman hesitated, then finally spoke. “I’m not sure how to explain… I thought coming to you might help, but now… it just feels so difficult…”

Sensing her unease, Poirot attempted to reassure her. “Please, there’s no need to be nervous. Sit down and take your time.”

But she suddenly shook her head, her eyes growing even more troubled. “No, no, I can’t… I thought I could, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m sorry—I have to leave.”

She stood abruptly, and as she turned to go, she muttered under her breath, “I’m really sorry, but… you’re just too old.”

Poirot froze, stunned, as the door slammed shut behind her. He stared after her retreating figure, his mouth twitching slightly before he murmured to himself, “What an outrageous insult…”