Hercule

Mesdames et messieurs,’ said Ugo Encave. ‘I am certain there can be no question as to why we are gathered here tonight.’

Solid and glossy as a crow, Encave frowned at the hallucinatory, overwrought filigree decorating La Suite Presidential at Hotel du Roi, the most famous room in Paris. The unofficial headquarters of France’s Golden Circle.

He faced a tight semi-circle of six gilt-coated chairs, all but one occupied. Encave cast a searing gaze across each of the men and women seated in front of him. 

Helene Confit, the renowned chef-owner of six Michelin-starred restaurants. 

Arnaud Chaud, actor, heart-breaker, rake-hell. 

Cecily Chardonne, doe-eyed, faun-lovely chanteuse, queen of the hit parade. 

Etienne Gavroche, the controversy-baiting philosopher whose work on gender and race regularly sparked riots in universities across the country. 

Garret Haines, an American actor who couldn’t catch a break in his own country. France, however, wholeheartedly embraced his tough-guy cool, welcoming him as one of their own, as cowboy hero Le Stetson.

Each of the five coloured or paled under the heat of Encave’s stare. Only Haines dared to lock eyes with the black-clad detective. 

‘Cute game you’re playing, pal,’ Haines snarled. ‘Bringing us back to the scene of the crime, leaving an empty chair. We all know what—who we’ve lost.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ugo Encave stood easily at parade rest, his spine straight, his chin raised. ‘As La Circle D’Or, you are the darlings of the Paris social scene. No party is complete without you, no premiere worth noting in the review pages of Le Monde. A gilded life. And then Basil Blanc was so brutally murdered.’ 

Basil’s empty chair stood like an accusation. His death had shaken the entire nation, a dark reminder of the impermanence of fame. The hunt for the killer of the most influential film director in all of France was the only topic of conversation, the subject of every headline.

‘So you know,’ Cecily said, her violet eyes suddenly on Encave. ‘That’s why we’re here, isn’t it, back in the clubhouse? You’ve solved the murder.’

‘I? No. But my little grey friend—perhaps.’ 

A fluttering sound from the top of an armoire in the corner of the stateroom. A small bird flew out from its hiding place, circled the ceiling and dropped, soft as a leaf, onto Encave’s shoulders. An African Grey parrot, neat, pert, preternaturally watchful and aware of his surroundings and the people around him. 

The reaction of the five was sudden and visceral. Confit covered her mouth, failing to stifle a shriek. Chaud bolted to his feet, fists clenched. Gavroche flinched backwards, his chair-leg scraping the oak floor with a tone as harsh and abrupt as Helene’s scream. 

‘No,’ Cecily whispered. ‘Not that. Not that—thing.’

‘What did you think?’ Ugo Encave glared at the singer, who wilted like a paper rose under the heat of his disdain. ‘All France demands justice for the loss of their favourite son. No other detective had the slightest idea. No human detective, that is. Finally, the authorities saw sense and hired the world’s greatest sleuth. Hercule here is a different breed. He sees through our weaknesses, our failings, to reveal the sordid, obvious truth of the matter.’ 

‘This is absurd!’ Chaud took a step towards Encave. ‘You think one of us had a hand in this filthy business!’

‘Moi? I think nothing. Hercule, though? He investigates, observes, reasons, then deduces. Oui, Monsieur Chaud. The killer is amongst us in this horrible overdecorated room, and tonight they will be revealed.’ 

‘Impossible!’ Shaking, furious, Helene Confit jabbed a finger at the bird, calm and quiet on Encave’s shoulder. ‘You have nothing, no motive, no proof, no—’

Hercule tilted his fine-feathered head, and set his unblinking gaze on the chef.

‘Kwaaark,’ he said. ‘Chirp chuk.’ 

Confit went very still. ‘What? How—how could you know that?’

‘Brrip. Kwark cluck.’ 

‘No. No, that’s not true, it’s—‘ She lurched towards Haines, clutching at his shoulder. ‘Gary, tell them. It didn’t happen that way!’ 

Haines shrugged her off. ‘No way, babe, you don’t get to pin this on me. I was nowhere near here on the night of the crime.’

‘Buk chark. KWAAARK.’

Haines went white under the coppery mask of his fake tan. ’You can’t prove that.’ 

Hercule shook his head and dug at a loose feather under his left wing. He let out a soft, feline rumble.

‘Ok. Ok, maybe I was, but that still doesn’t mean anything. Sure, Basil and I had our differences, but murder? You want a motive?’ He spun, eyes ablaze. ‘Look at Etienne. Look at what happens when Basil trades you in for a younger model—’

Gavroche launched himself at the American. ‘A lie! We both knew he drove you into jealous rages! You couldn’t bear him losing interest! As if he could ever prefer you to me! He had far more taste than that! You’re just a washed-up cowboy without any bullets in his gun!’ The two men crashed into a brutal embrace, swiping and spitting like cats.

‘B-KAAAAW.’ The room snapped to silence at the sound of Hercule’s call. He looked around, his head rotating through 180 degrees, to make sure everyone was paying attention. Hercule fluffed himself up, paddled his little claws on Encave’s shoulder, then took off again. He circled lazily, teasingly, then dove—

and settled onto the perfect coiffure of Cecily Chardonne. 

‘Chawwwk buk.’ His tone was almost gentle. ‘C-cawww.’

Cecily’s perfect face crumpled, tears spilling from those famous violet eyes. 

‘Yes. Yes, alright. It’s true. I—I simply couldn’t bear it any more. We were such friends once, a golden circle against the world. But Basil was poison, setting us against each other, making us fight for his attention, his influence.’ She took a deep shaky breath. ‘His love.’ 

Hercule hopped off her head, perching on the nearest chair back. He waited, still as a wood carving, as the trembling girl found the nerve to finally tell the truth. 

‘I confess, Monsieur Parrot. I dripped cyanide into Basil’s third martini of the afternoon. A death befitting his standards.’

The door to the Suite Presidential opened. Two gendarmes awaited, one holding handcuffs. 

‘Do your duty, gentlemen,’ Encave said softly. 

There seemed little to say or do after the policemen ushered Cecily, grey-faced but serene, out of the Suite. The tattered remnants of the Circle slipped away, unable to look at each other, knowing that a golden age had ended in pitiful tragedy. 

They were all innocent of murder, but guilty of so much more. 

Soon, only Hercule and Encave were left, looking sadly at the six chairs scattered around the floor.

‘B-kaaar,’ said Hercule. ‘Chuk quaark. Buk buk.’

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ said Ugo Encave.