Don’t come back again, Mac, he says. We don’t want you here.
I walked all the way home that night because I was too excited to ride. And things weren’t clear yet though I knew I had somethings to do.
And then she was up, my aunt, sitting in her chair, looking at me. And things weren’t clear so I went to bed without even telling her hello and she kept sitting there.
But after Friday it’s Saturday so today I bought the knife. I saw it in the window of a pawnshop when I was walking and just when I saw it I knew I would need it. It wasn’t a bread knife but all the same it was a peach. It had a leather holster and both sides of it was sharp and a pointed tip. So I bought it. I paid five dollars and worth it.
And then it was late and time for supper and I put it under my shirt so’s I could feel it bumping against me while I walked, like a little head over sand.
I went into the Automat because I was hungry then and had my favorite: beefsteak pie, side of sauerkraut, baked beans and afterward cherry pie. But not coffee. I don’t like coffee.
And after that I found another movie house where they shown that same movie and seen it twice more. And it was better this time because of my very own knife bumping my chest and twice as exciting. When it come time to shout I held on tight and put my hands over my mouth and this time it was so quiet no one heard it though, because I couldn’t made me shake.
And this time I knew the old lady in it must be the mother-in-law. I knew before they are all bad because of those jokes and they hate you like a girl in another movie I seen said. But this movie showed me how bad they really was.
So it was pretty clear all right and it would of worked out except for that long walk from the subway to the apartment afterwards. It’s six blocks and dark because it was so late and all the people’s lights were off because they was in bed. And there she was walking all alone a block ahead of me. She had on high heels that were noisy and she was going pretty fast, looking from side to side but not behind. And when I got closer I knew she was too young to be anybody’s mother-in-law. And I knew that.
But then she had a blonde ponytail and things got mixed up again. I guess she heard my footsteps because she looked around and began to walk faster and then she began to run. And I run then and she looked around and screamed. The scream was better than that whole movie and better than anything. It made me shout. And then I just couldn’t help it with the knife already in my hand.
And then later somebody must have called them because I was still walking around later that night and they pulled up in a shiny car. All the way downtown they didn’t listen to me good, not like this anyway, and the detective later wouldn’t listen either unless they ask you a question.
But I seen a picture once in the Daily Mirror of a guy that killed a girl and it was on the front page. And I read what he said. And I would like to say the same thing to you fellas now so you can write it down and put my picture in the front page like you done his.
Just put that I tell the parents I’m very sorry what I done and I don’t know what come over me. Everything went black. And that’s what he said, the other guy.
And I guess there isn’t anything more to say except I guess all the guys down at the shipping office will be reading this tomorrow, and Mr. Munson, because it will all be on the front page. My picture.
So I would like you to put that I say hello to all of them and I don’t hold no grudges. And put that I’m sorry I done it, and I feel fine.
Agatha Christie
Hercule Poirot in Hell[2]
Hercule Poirot, swaying to and fro in the tube train, thrown now against one body, now against another, thought to himself that there were too many people in the world! Certainly there were too many people in the underground world of London at this particular moment — 6:30 p.m. of the evening.
Hemmed in and pressed around by strangers — and on the whole, he thought distastefully, a plain and uninteresting lot of strangers. Humanity seen thus en masse was not attractive. How seldom did one see a face sparkling with intelligence, how seldom a femme bien mise!
And what was this passion that attacked women for knitting under the most unpropitious conditions? A woman did not look her best knitting; the absorption, the glassy eyes, the restless busy fingers! One needed the agility of a wildcat and the will power of a Napoleon to manage to knit in a crowded tube, but women managed it.
No repose, thought Poirot, no feminine grace! His elderly soul revolted from the stress and hurry of the modern world. All these young women who surrounded him — so alike, so devoid of charm, so lacking in rich, alluring femininity! He demanded a more flamboyant appeal. Ah, to see a femme du monde, chic, spirituelle — a woman with ample curves, a worn-an ridiculously and extravagantly dressed! Once there had been such women. But now — now—
The train stopped at a station; people surged out, forcing Poirot back onto the points of knitting needles; surged in, squeezing him into even more sardine-like proximity with his fellow passengers.
The train started off again with a jerk, Poirot was thrown against a stout woman with knobby parcels, said, “Pardon!” bounced off again into a long angular man whose attaché case caught him in the small of the back. He said, “Pardon!” again. He felt his mustaches becoming limp and uncurled. Quel enfer! Fortunately the next station was his.
It was also the station for about a hundred and fifty other people, since it happened to be Piccadilly Circus. Like a great tidal wave they flowed out onto the platform. Presently Poirot was again jammed tightly on an escalator, being carried upward toward the surface of the earth.
Up, thought Poirot, from the Infernal Regions…
At that moment a voice cried his name. Startled, he raised his eyes. On the opposite escalator, the one descending, his unbelieving eyes saw a vision from the past. A woman of full and flamboyant form; her luxuriant henna-red hair crowned with a small plastron of straw to-which was attached a positive platoon of brilliantly feathered little birds. Exotic-looking furs dripped from her shoulders.
Her crimson mouth opened wide, her rich foreign voice echoed resoundingly.
“It is!" she screamed. "But it is! Mon cher Hercule Poirot! We must meet again! I insist!”
But Fate itself is not more inexorable than the behavior of two escalators moving in opposite directions. Steadily, remorselessly, Hercule Poirot was borne upward, and the Countess Vera Rossakoff was borne downward.
Twisting himself sideways, leaning over the balustrade, Poirot cried despairingly, “Chère Madame, where then can I find you?”
Her reply came to him faintly from the depths. It was unexpected, yet seemed at the moment strangely apposite.
“In Hell.”
Hercule Poirot blinked. He blinked again. Suddenly he rocked on his feet. Unawares he had reached the top — and had neglected to step off properly.
The crowd spread out round him. A little to one side a dense crowd was pressing onto the downward escalator. Should he join them? Had that been the Countess’s meaning? No doubt that traveling in the bowels of the earth at the rush hour was hell. If that had been the Countess’s meaning, he could not agree with her more.
Resolutely Poirot crossed over, sandwiched himself into the descending crowd, and was borne back into the depths. At the foot of the escalator there was no sign of the Countess. Poirot was left with a choice of blue, amber, and other lights to follow.
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