[From the journal of Captain Arthur Hastings]
It was on the second morning of our grim vigil in that strange, glittering hotel that Poirot, with a sudden and decisive air, announced that our first inquiry would be into the affairs of one Kido Kiyomi, the Deputy Director of the National Police Agency.
"Her, Poirot?" I asked, surprised. "A woman of her station? Surely not."
He turned to me, a peculiar glint in his eye. "Ah, but that is what makes her so interesting, mon ami. A woman of such ambition, to have risen so high in a world of men. It requires a will of iron, a mind of supreme calculation." He paused, tapping his finger against his temple. "She reminds me, Hastings, of a woman we once knew. A Mrs. Frederica Rice. You remember, at End House? Beautiful, enigmatic, and surrounded by a web of tragedy. One could never be quite sure if she was the victim or the spider."
I did remember. The memory sent a faint chill down my spine. I watched as my friend meticulously adjusted his tie in the mirror, his mind clearly already miles away, preparing for the subtle warfare of conversation that was to come.
We arrived at Deputy Director Kido's residence an hour later. It was not a house, in the traditional sense, but an apartment in one of those severe, modern buildings of concrete and glass. It was a cold, imposing structure that seemed to hold no warmth at all. We presented ourselves under our assumed identities, that of Monsieur Hercule Poirot and his associate, representing the Belgian Embassy on a matter of some urgency.
Kido Kiyomi herself opened the door. She was a tall, slim woman, impeccably dressed in a severe but stylish business suit. Her face was one of classical Japanese beauty, an unlined mask of professional poise. She greeted us with a slight, formal bow and led us into her living area.
My dear friend Poirot had, of course, concocted an excuse of pure genius. He explained, with a grave expression, that our embassy had received a credible, though anonymous, threat against the ambassador, and that we had been advised to consult directly and discreetly with the highest levels of the NPA to review security protocols. It was a masterstroke. It was a request she could not refuse without appearing negligent, and it flattered her importance by suggesting we had come to her, and only her.
The room we entered was a perfect reflection of its owner: minimalist, orderly, and entirely devoid of personal clutter. Every piece of furniture was sleek and modern, arranged with geometric precision. There was not so much as a speck of dust on the gleaming surfaces. It was the room of a person who exercises absolute control over their environment.
"You will take some tea?" she asked, her voice as cool and crisp as her décor.
"You are too kind, Madame," Poirot said, settling himself delicately on the edge of a severe-looking sofa.
As she prepared the tea service, I watched my friend. He was not looking at her, but at everything else. His eyes, like a cat's, darted about, taking in the room, the arrangement of the few books on a shelf, the single, abstract painting on the wall. When she handed him his cup, her hand was perfectly steady. Yet, I could not shake the feeling that her composure was a thing of immense effort, a carefully constructed fortress.
"It is a terrible business, this Kira," Poirot began, his tone one of professional sympathy. "The strain upon the police, it must be prodigious."
"It is an unprecedented crisis," she replied, her voice remaining perfectly level. "We are dedicating all available resources to the matter."
"Mais oui, one must," Poirot murmured, taking a delicate sip of his tea. "And yet, one cannot help but observe the… efficiency of it all. To remove so many of society's undesirable elements. From a purely logical standpoint, divorced from the morality, it is a feat of unparalleled organization, is it not?"
I held my breath. It was a dangerous line of questioning, a fly cast into the water to see what might bite.
Kido Kiyomi's eyes, for the first time, held a flicker of something beyond professional courtesy. It was not agreement, precisely, but a cold, intellectual appraisal. "Kira is a mass murderer," she stated, the official answer. "But it is true that he—or she—is ruthlessly effective. It is a strange and terrible paradox."
Poirot's eyes twinkled. He had his answer. There was no horror in her voice, no revulsion. Only an analyst's cold appreciation of a successful operation. His gaze then drifted to a small, framed document on a side table. It was the only item that seemed even remotely personal.
"Ah, a commendation?" he asked innocently.
I glanced over. It was not a commendation. It was a framed newspaper clipping. The headline detailed the sudden resignation and political disgrace of a rival director who had been in line for her current position.
"A reminder," she said, her voice smooth as silk, "that diligence is always rewarded."
We did not stay long after that. The conversation remained on the polite fiction of embassy security, and soon we took our leave. As we walked back to our waiting vehicle, I felt a sense of disappointment.
"Well, Poirot," I said. "That was a dead end. We learned nothing."
He stopped and looked at me, his head cocked to one side. "Nothing, Hastings? Au contraire! We have learned a great deal."
"What do you mean? She told us nothing."
"Her words, they were nothing. A wall of perfect, professional stone. But the room, Hastings! The room told us everything. A room of absolute, iron-willed control. And the newspaper clipping! She does not display a picture of her family; she displays the tombstone of her rival's career. This is a woman of ferocious, chilling ambition. She has the coldness in her heart to be Kira, that is certain." He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "But does she have the passion? The divine madness? On that, Hastings, the jury is still out."