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About the Author: David Gibb is a freelance writer and editor living in New Hampshire.
I was paging through my racing form on the couch when I could suddenly feel Poirot’s piercing little eyes upon me. He sat at his desk with his palms resting on the perfectly round protrusion of his midsection and his fingers peaked in thought. He looked especially egg-shaped, and was wearing a dreadfully garish vest that made it look like he belonged in an Easter basket.
“Do you know, what is the significance of today, Hastings?” he asked with a quiet smile.
“Sure enough. My cousin Larry has a piece of a horse in the Kensington Stakes this afternoon. There was a soaking rain all through the night, and if his trainer’s right, Larry’s about to make a tidy sum.”
“Your cousin should hope that it’s his piece that crosses the finish line first, eh?” he shot back dryly.
“He’s been looking for the right horse for three years—missed out on Sansovino, you know. Almost killed him.”
“As long as I have been in your company, mon ami, I have become too familiar with the habits of your idle English gentlemen. When Hercule Poirot asks you ‘What is the significance of today?’ he cannot possibly be considering horses or gambling or anything that should be happening in Kensington.”
“You just don’t appreciate sport, Poirot. You don’t understand the pride a man feels when he knows he’s been part of bringing a great horse from the farm to the track.”
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