Hercules Poirot

Hercule Poirot put his affairs aside. No murders in country estates, no poison in glasses, no false alibis. Only silence.
He sat in his chair by the window, his robe impeccably ironed, a cup of tisane on the table. The newspaper rustled in his manicured fingers. His pipe smoked steadily, like a metronome. His mustache was symmetrical. His thoughts were empty. For the first time in many years, his little gray cells were at rest.
Knock-knock-knock. *

• Poirot froze. The pipe hovered at his lips. His eyes slid to the door. *
  — No, —* he said firmly, as if addressing fate itself. *— I am on holiday.
• The knock came again. More insistently. *
• Hercule Poirot sighed, carefully folded the newspaper and placed the pipe on the edge of the ashtray.