Jimmy stumbled around his pitch black bedroom in search of something. He had been searching for hours, and in his mind's eye he could see it.. just out of reach. 'Where could it be?', he thought. Those were his last thoughts as he stumbled into a horizontal position, with only a slight concussive interruption of his movement.

Trips over a shoe and starts yelling at it. but he gets back up and proceeds.

Of course, because Jimmy's glasses had fallen off during his tumble he couldn't tell that the shoe was actually a stray dog. Rather than get up, Jimmy decided to have a brief lie down - all that searching had made him tired. Snuggling up against the dog, which he still took for a shoe, Jimmy closed his eyes and drifted off. However, forty winks soon doubled, then tripled, and in the blink of an eye Jimmy had slept through the night.



[This message has been edited by Tracer (edited February 02, 2003).]

Jimmy awoke to the repeated poking of a cane. Sitting up, he looked around and took in his room, which was bustling around him; detectives pored over every surface, canine units sniffed random objects, and a queer looking foriegn man continued to prod him with an ivory cane. Topping off the relative insanity was miles of police tape, which seemed to be holding the bedroom together.

"Excuse me, sir, but could you please stop that?" Jimmy asked between a yawn as he brushed away the cane.

"So, inspecteur, it appears that your corpse is not a corpse at all!" proclaimed the poker, stroking his pomaded moustache.

"Nonsense, Poirot, he's just experiencing post-traumatic muscle spasms," said the Inspector, a constable from Scotland Yard, who spoke with the institution's famous accent.

"Inspecteur! I am outraged! Hercule Poirot never makes an erreur!" screamed Herclue Poirot, the famous foriegn private eye.

"Fine, Poirot, fine, but let me ask you this: if the crime scene isn't here, then where is it?"

Poirot stiffened, and began pacing the small room, which was made even more cramped by the presence of a veritable platoon of policemen. As he walked, Poirot accidentally smacked many officers, conducting with his cane an orchestra only he could hear.

"Poirot will tell you where the murdeur has been committed, Hastings," said Poirot, clobbering a stooped over forensics detective.

Jimmy yawned again. "I'm going to make some toast," he said as he ducked out of the room. Between the raving Hercule Poirot and the busy policemen, nobody noticed.

[This message has been edited by Tracer (edited February 02, 2003).]

Poirot searched the whole room but there were no sign of a murder. Hope was dim untill a small,torn piece of blood stained cloth caught his eye's attention. The cloth which was at the window, looked similar to the one he found at a murder scene which took place in a farm 2 miles west of here. The corpse was shot 11 times in the body, the same murder technic the murderer used for 4 other victims. Poirot has been trailing this murderer for months and he would not risk any more lives. He has to solve this case, and solve it fast. As he was examining the windowsill thoroughly, he realised that there were also muddy footstains. He immediately alerts the inspector. 'The river!' said the inspector with a rather alarming tone. The officers immediately rushed to their vehicles outside and zoomed to the river not far from there. Poor Jimmy was taken to the Yard for questioning. He might give more clues as to what happened last night. As for now, the officers concern is to head for the river.