My dear fellow members of the Agatha Christie fan club, as club President, I speak to you today in a time of intense sadness for our organization. It has now been two weeks since our newest member, my dear friend Fred, has died, and unfortunately, the police are no closer to cracking his case. His death remains an enigma, no matter how many times I visit his grave, no matter how many times I unearth his casket, and no matter how many times I interrogate him. What could explain his death? Heart attack? Stroke? The multiple gunshot wounds to his head and torso? Like you all, I still find myself confused by his demise; it is a puzzle worthy of Ms. Christie herself.
I still recall that fateful day when Fred and I met on the train to work. He just happened to sit beside me and pull out Murder on the Orient Express. I jumped up – “I am President of the Agatha Christie Fan Club,” I shouted, “You should become a member!” He smiled and said he just picked up this book, and wasn’t sure he had time, but I could tell he was very interested, so I explained to him my favorite part of the book – the exciting ending. At that point, he gave me his copy to donate to our group. Wow!
Our friendship grew. Each morning I would bring another Christie book from my collection, and hand him the book and tell him about the exciting ending. I tried to help him see the world like a true Agatha Christie fan. For example, Fred would often bring his breakfast on the train. As we all know, food poisoning is the most common of Dame Agatha’s murder tools. So, in case anyone was trying to re-enact the evil scheme featured in 4.50 From Paddington, I would snatch away from him items in which arsenic might be hidden and taste his food for traces of cyanide. At some point, he stopped bringing food altogether. Perhaps he knew someone was on his trail!
He soon started showing up on the train in disguise, a smart choice to avoid his stalker. Fred would sit in different parts of the train and wear sunglasses, or a fake mustache. While his stalker might have been confused, I would use my knowledge of the disguises used in novels like The Chocolate Box and The Lost Mind to find him like the great Hercule Poirot. I would demonstrate how he could more effectively hide by stuffing him into the overhead compartment or locking him in the bathroom.
Over time, I started to see him less often on the train. I did sometimes notice him jogging to work alongside the track, briefcase in hand. Staying one step ahead of your enemy is hard, so I was proud to see Fred commit himself to physical fitness. But concerned he would miss my reminders about our meetings, I deduced where he lived using a complicated forensic technique that would have impressed even Monsieur Poirot: I followed him home with my car on one of his evening commute jogs. After that, I would visit him in the evenings and use my horn to blast out secret Morse code messages about the next club meeting time, which I know everyone will recognize as a plot device from Murder Ahoy!
I hoped that with this encouragement, Fred would finally make it to his first club meeting, but it turned out that he was too weak from his diet and exercise program to get out of bed. I tried to cheer him up by visiting him and reading him a range of works from our library, including excerpts from my personal collection of unsent love letters to Ms. Christie. But one critical evening, he excused himself as I was reading And Then There Were None to him from the Polish language edition and went into the bedroom. That was when I heard the loud barrage of gunfire. I flung open the door only in time to see him and the machine gun he was holding fall to the floor. “What happened? Who did this?” I cried. He looked at me one last time and then he died. Don’t worry, Fred, as the motto of every Christie Fan Club goes, “You cannot escape our watchful eyes.” So I promise that we’ll find your mysterious murderer. But until then, I think we can all feel comfortable knowing that Fred will be with us in spirit. And in body, too; stop by his remains in the back of the room in case you want to confirm anything from the post mortem report!
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Max Kesselheim is a student at The Roxbury Latin School in Boston, Massachusetts. He has previously written for The Hill.