Pondside Noir

Plumage and Circumstance

The Vignette Gazette Edition #70 | Flummoxed, Teetotaler, Waltz

Scene from “Plumage and Circumstance,” where Quackule Poirot recovers a swapped charge card with aplomb and a raised wing. Illustration generated with Gemini.

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His charge card was denied. Captain Drake Hastings — a dapper but dim-witted Mallard — stared at the shopkeeper in the top-of-the-grain boutique. He looked utterly flummoxed.

“I say, Poirot,” Hastings quacked. “There must be fowl play! I just topped up my account after a lucky break at the pond-races. Dragonflies, you know. This is a calamity!”

Quackule Poirot sighed, his plump, pear-shaped plumage impeccably groomed. He adjusted his pince-nez, eyeing his friend with pity. “Mon ami, you have the heart of a lion. But the ordre et méthode? That of a dizzy dragonfly. You are, how you say, a sitting duck for such sordid schemes.”

The shopkeeper, a silver-scaled Swan with a judgmental neck, hissed icily. “Perhaps Monsieur spent his pittance on… fermented pond-nectar?”

“Poppycock!” Hastings sputtered, plumage puffing with indignation. “I am a teetotaler! I haven’t touched a drop stronger than distilled pondwater since the nesting season of ’22.”

Poirot stepped forward, his waddle measured, magnificent, and methodical.

“Calm yourself, Hastings. The solution, it is most simple. Tell me, mon ami, did you not yesterday attend the Charity Waltz for Distressed Ducklings?”

“Why, yes,” Hastings quacked. “I danced all night with a charming Wood Duck on the lily pads.”

“Mais oui!” Poirot tapped beak with a feathered wing-tip. “While you performed your clumsy paddle-dance, you did not notice the ‘Magpie of Mayfair,’ nibbling at your pocket. The card, it was was swapped for a counterfeit. I, mon ami, saw the thief depart and simply… retrieved it. I have already alerted Inspector Japp — a worthy bird, though he possesses the investigative instincts of a lead-weighted decoy.”

Poirot flourished the real card from his wing. “The little grey cells, Hastings — they never fail to quack the case.”

Hastings: “I say, our thanks go to Lynn L. Alexander for the devilishly clever prompt, to the editors for letting us ruffle a few feathers, and to Michael John Scott for steering the good ship Fiction Shorts with a steady wing.”

Poirot: “Mais oui. Without them, there is no mystery, no motive, no mischief. Only silence — and tepid pondwater.”

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