Though I was relatively inactive at the Ball, I conversed casually and was able to enjoy myself; that was until I ran into the detective Sherlock Holmes again!! I found myself in quite a spot, arguing back and forth with the man, and I scarce think what the party goers thought of us (perhaps, even, un couple romantique!) Yet though he was clearly angry at me, and I at him, we had an opportunity to reconcile and, though there was not much we could discuss in the location, we decided on meeting at a particular cafe the next day.

Having solved the case of the Messieurs Hendrisckson and Morena, I was eager to go through a new mystery. I contacted mons bienfaiteur and I asked him which case of those I had received he wished me to solve. Luckily he chose one that I found most intriguing myself. It is a case in Boston, Massachusetts, and admittedly on description it seems a relatively simple case of observation, but there is some intrigue; the call was from a psychoanalyst who claimed her patient confessed to some murders, but sadly it was in a drunken rage and he would not give such a confession before the police; nor can she, for she is bound by the promise of confidentialité. Hercule Poirot takes all his work seriously. Besides, this man has done great work for me, and I am keen to return the favor.

After deciding upon the case, I met the man Holmes in the restaurant, and I found our discussion to be quite amiable. We agreed that our circumstances indicate that someone was playing a malicious ruse on us and that it was better for us therefore to join forces. He likewise expressed his own interest in my case. Delighted was I at his willingness to forgive my past indiscretions! He asked if he could join me to Boston,  and I said as long as he could meet me in the train station I would agree.

Yet once again, with much frustration Holmes and I are separated once again; only this time it is without explanation. I waited in the Grand Central, waited and observed and waited, but he was nowhere to be found! And trains, they do not wait for the casual social encounter. If I had to be on time – and perish the day when Poirot is not on time! – I had to leave and immédiatement! As pleasantly modern as the new train ride was, I could not help but wonder if I should be insulted at Holmes’ rude disregard, or be frightened for something that may have happened to him. Fearful, I decided the only way to ease my mind was – quelle ironie – was to contemplate this potential tueur en série.

The client is a psychoanalyst person who wanted me to investigate a man that in confidentialité she calls “BB”. She says that this man is technically homeless but he lives on some sort of living arrangement that she calls a coop (like he is a chicken, I suppose?) inhabited by some political intellectual friends that are preferable to animals (appropriate, then, as they live in a coop). He has been seeing the psychoanalyst for his anger issues, but in the course of his therapy this BB confessed to many bloody murders. Nevertheless they have much reason to believe that this man is in reality psychotic and possibly with some sort of dark past that his psychosis is attempting to hide.

He contacted me in figuring out whether or not I was able to investigate and verify that this man suffers from delusion or whether he is a serial killer. Because I typically prefer solving conventional breaches of law rather than speculating about a man’s general innocence or guilt – that is poor practice for the little gray cells – I hesitated, but this Administrator was very keen that I should investigate. C’est la vie! I am here in Boston.

I will give you details about this man soon, but do tell me your theories.

Poirot