There are very few things in life that are truly once in a lifetime experiences. If you had picked up the New York Times on August 6, 1975 you would have experienced one of them. “Hercule Poirot Is Dead; Famed Belgian Detective.” It would have been the first time you had ever seen the Times honor a fictional person with an obituary, let alone on the front page. It would be the last time you would see it as well.
The date of Poirot’s death is August 6th 1975. That’s the date “his death was confirmed by Dodd, Mead, Dame Agatha’s publishers.”
The date of death is October 15th, 1975. That’s the date they “put out Curtain, the novel that chronicles his last days.”
The date of death is sometime in 1940. That’s when Agatha Christie locked Curtain, Poirot’s last case, in a vault with the promise that it wouldn’t be opened until her death, and then, knowing full well how her most famous detective would die, went on writing cases for Poirot for decades.
The date of death is never. Poirot was just in a cinema near you, his mustache more voluptuous then ever. A sequel has been promised. Perhaps Kenneth Brannagh will play Poirot for decades until he too sends the detective off with his own version of Curtain. And still… Poirot will live on. He will outlive us all.