The Murder on the Links: A Hercule Poirot Mystery by Agatha Christie (English) P

Description: The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie Beloved detective Hercule Poirot made his second appearance in this tale of murder, blackmail, and forbidden love.Hercule Poirot rushes to France in response to an urgent and cryptic plea from a client. But the Belgian detective arrives just too late: the man who had summoned him is found dead on a golf course, stabbed in the back with a letter opener and wearing an ill-fitting coat with a mysterious love letter in its pocket. Strange circumstances multiply, culminating in the discovery of a second body stabbed with the same murder weapon. While the local authorities pursue the false leads suggested by the evidence, Poirot relies instead upon his famous "little grey cells" to cut through the confusion and untangle a story of blackmail, forbidden love, and a long-buried secret. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Author Biography AGATHA CHRISTIE (1890-1976) was born in Devon, England. She wrote more than seventy books and 150 short stories, as well as works for stage and screen. Her novel And Then There Were None is considered the worlds bestselling mystery novel, and her play The Mousetrap is the longest-running play in London theater history. Review "Christies books are so much more than great puzzles. Each of her novels demonstrates a profound understanding of people–how they think, feel and behave–all delivered in her crisp, elegant, addictively readable style." —The Guardian "Agatha Christie created the modern murder mystery." —The New Yorker"Christie wrote brilliantly compact, stylized and efficient mysteries. . . . The genre in its lean classic English form fit her like a cat burglars thin black glove." —John Updike Review Quote "Christie wrote brilliantly compact, stylized and efficient mysteries. . . . The genre in its lean classic English form fit her like a cat burglars thin black glove." --John Updike Excerpt from Book Chapter One A Fellow Traveller I believe that a well-known anecdote exists to the effect that a young writer, determined to make the commencement of his story forcible and original enough to catch and rivet the attention of the most blasé of editors, penned the following sentence: " Hell! said the Duchess." Strangely enough, this tale of mine opens in much the same fashion. Only the lady who gave utterance to the exclamation was not a duchess. It was a day in early June. I had been transacting some business in Paris and was returning by the morning service to London, where I was still sharing rooms with my old friend, the Belgian ex-detective, Hercule Poirot. The Calais express was singularly empty--in fact, my own compartment held only one other traveller. I had made a somewhat hurried departure from the hotel and was busy assuring myself that I had duly collected all my traps, when the train started. Up till then I had hardly noticed my companion, but I was now violently recalled to the fact of her existence. Jumping up from her seat, she let down the window and stuck her head out, withdrawing it a moment later with the brief and forcible ejaculation "Hell!" Now I am old-fashioned. A woman, I consider, should be womanly. I have no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a Billingsgate fishwoman blush! I looked up, frowning slightly, into a pretty, impudent face, surmounted by a rakish little red hat. A thick cluster of black curls hid each ear. I judged that she was little more than seventeen, but her face was covered with powder, and her lips were quite impossibly scarlet. Nothing abashed, she returned my glance, and executed an expressive grimace. "Dear me, weve shocked the kind gentleman!" she observed to an imaginary audience. "I apologize for my language! Most unladylike, and all that, but, oh, Lord, theres reason enough for it! Do you know Ive lost my only sister?" "Really?" I said politely. "How unfortunate." "He disapproves!" remarked the lady. "He disapproves utterly--of me, and my sister--which last is unfair, because he hasnt seen her!" I opened my mouth, but she forestalled me. "Say no more! Nobody loves me! I shall go into the garden and eat worms! Boohoo. I am crushed!" She buried herself behind a large comic French paper. In a minute or two I saw her eyes stealthily peeping at me over the top. In spite of myself I could not help smiling, and in a minute she had tossed the paper aside, and had burst into a merry peal of laughter. "I knew you werent such a mutt as you looked," she cried. Her laughter was so infectious that I could not help joining in, though I hardly cared for the word "mutt." "There! Now were friends!" declared the minx. "Say youre sorry about my sister--" "I am desolated!" "Thats a good boy!" "Let me finish. I was going to add that, although I am desolated, I can manage to put up with her absence very well." I made a little bow. But this most unaccountable of damsels frowned and shook her head. "Cut it out. I prefer the dignified disapproval stunt. Oh, your face! Not one of us, it said. And you were right there--though, mind you, its pretty hard to tell nowadays. Its not everyone who can distinguish between a demi and a duchess. There now, I believe Ive shocked you again! Youve been dug out of the backwoods, you have. Not that I mind that. We could do with a few more of your sort. I just hate a fellow who gets fresh. It makes me mad." She shook her head vigorously. "What are you like when youre mad?" I inquired with a smile. "A regular little devil! Dont care what I say, or what I do, either! I nearly did a chap in once. Yes, really. Hed have deserved it too." "Well," I begged, "dont get mad with me." "I shant. I like you--did the first moment I set eyes on you. But you looked so disapproving that I never thought we should make friends." "Well, we have. Tell me something about yourself." "Im an actress. No--not the kind youre thinking of. Ive been on the boards since I was a kid of six--tumbling." "I beg your pardon," I said, puzzled. "Havent you ever seen child acrobats?" "Oh, I understand!" "Im American born, but Ive spent most of my life in England. Weve got a new show now--" "We?" "My sister and I. Sort of song and dance, and a bit of patter, and a dash of the old business thrown in. Its quite a new idea, and it hits them every time. Theres going to be money in it--" My new acquaintance leaned forward, and discoursed volubly, a great many of her terms being quite unintelligible to me. Yet I found myself evincing an increasing interest in her. She seemed such a curious mixture of child and woman. Though perfectly worldly-wise, and able, as she expressed it, to take care of herself, there was yet something curiously ingenuous in her single-minded attitude towards life, and her wholehearted determination to "make good." We passed through Amiens. The name awakened many memories. My companion seemed to have an intuitive knowledge of what was in my mind. "Thinking of the War?" I nodded. "You were through it, I suppose?" "Pretty well. I was wounded once, and after the Somme they invalided me out altogether. Im a sort of private secretary now to an MP." "My! Thats brainy!" "No, it isnt. Theres really awfully little to do. Usually a couple of hours every day sees me through. Its dull work too. In fact, I dont know what I should do if I hadnt got something to fall back upon." "Dont say you collect bugs!" "No. I share rooms with a very interesting man. Hes a Belgian--an ex-detective. Hes set up as a private detective in London, and hes doing extraordinarily well. Hes really a very marvellous little man. Time and again he has proved to be right where the official police have failed." My companion listened with widening eyes. "Isnt that interesting now? I just adore crime. I go to all the mysteries on the movies. And when theres a murder on I just devour the papers." "Do you remember the Styles Case?" I asked. "Let me see, was that the old lady who was poisoned? Somewhere down in Essex?" I nodded. "That was Poirots first big case. Undoubtedly, but for him the murderer would have escaped scot-free. It was a most wonderful bit of detective work." Warming to my subject, I ran over the heads of the affair, working up to the triumphant and unexpected dénouement. The girl listened spellbound. In fact, we were so absorbed that the train drew into Calais station before we realized it. I secured a couple of porters, and we alighted on the platform. My companion held out her hand. "Good-bye, and Ill mind my language better in future." "Oh, but surely youll let me look after you on the boat?" "Maynt be on the boat. Ive got to see whether that sister of mine got aboard after all anywhere. But thanks, all the same." "Oh, but were going to meet again, surely? Arent you even going to tell me your name?" I cried, as she turned away. She looked over her shoulder. "Cinderella," she said, and laughed. But little did I think when and how I should see Cinderella again. * Two * An Appeal for Help It was five minutes past nine when I entered our joint sitting room for breakfast on the following morning. My friend Poirot, exact to the minute as usual, was just tapping the shell of his second egg. He beamed upon me as I entered. "You have slept well, yes? You have recovered from the crossing so terrible? It is a marvel, almost you are exact this morning. Pardon, but your tie is not symmetrical. Permit that I rearrange him." Elsewhere, I have described Hercule Poirot. An extraordinary little man! Height, five feet four inches, egg-shaped head carried a little to one side, eyes that shone green when he was excited, stiff military moustache, air of dignity immense! He was neat and dandified in appearance. For neatness of any kind he had an absolute passion. To see an ornament set crookedly, or a speck of dust, or a slight disarray in ones attire, was torture to the little man until he could ease his feelings by remedying the matter. "Order" and "Method" were his gods. He had a certain disdain for tangible evidence, such as footprints and cigarette ash, and would maintain that, taken by themselves, they would never enable a detective to solve a problem. Then he would tap his egg-shaped head with absurd complacency, and remark with great satisfaction: "The true work, it is done from within. The little grey cells--remember always the little grey cells, mon ami." I slipped into my seat, and remarked idly, in answer to Poirots greeting, that an hours sea passage from Calais to Dover could hardly be dignified by the epithet "terrible." "Anything interesting come by the post?" I asked. Poirot shook his head with a dissatisfied air. "I have not yet examined my letters, but nothing of interest arrives nowadays. The great criminals, the criminals of method, they do not exist." Details ISBN0525565086 Author Agatha Christie Short Title MURDER ON THE LINKS Pages 240 Language English ISBN-10 0525565086 ISBN-13 9780525565086 Format Paperback DEWEY FIC Year 2019 Publication Date 2019-04-30 Subtitle A Hercule Poirot Mystery Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2019-04-30 NZ Release Date 2019-04-30 US Release Date 2019-04-30 UK Release Date 2019-04-30 Place of Publication New York Publisher Random House USA Inc Series Hercule Poirot Imprint Vintage Books Series Number 2 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:124327810;

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