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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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“Where’s this young lady I’ve been hearing such a lot about?”

 

The other two assented, and, after making arrangements for meeting on the morrow, the great lawyer took his leave.

 

“Now will you believe I’m in earnest? Get out, both of you, and do as I say—or I’ll shoot!”

 

The German was seated once more behind the table. He motioned to Tommy to sit down opposite to him.

 

“Well, how about it? You’re out for adventure. How would you like to work for me? All quite unofficial, you know. Expenses paid, and a moderate screw?”

 

We sat there for some time in silence. Then descended once more, but diverging slightly from the path. Sometimes it was a rough scramble and once we came to a sharp slope or rock that was almost sheer.

 

It was too dark to recognize anybody. All I could see was that he was tall, and a European, not a native. I took to my heels and ran. I heard him pounding behind. I ran quicker, keeping my eyes fixed on the white stones that showed me where to step, for there was no moon that night.

 

“Good,” I approved. “You keep an eye on Sir Eustace and Pagett, and I take on Chichester. But what about Colonel Race?”

 

“Harry Rayburn, alias Harry Lucas—that’s his real name, you know. He’s given us all the slip once more, but we’re bound to rope him in soon.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Pagett,” I broke in, “I’m sure I quite agree with all you’re saying about Sir Eustace. But why did you go to Marlow?”

 

I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of the little man! Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder as a restorer of conjugal happiness!

 

“Ah, you did not notice the postmark! And yet you affirm so confidently that it came from Styles. It might, in fact, have been any postmark?”

 

I don’t know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there, with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of relief at encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection with the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:

 

“Yes, time is an advantage if—if—there has been foul play.”

 

“No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he first entered his mother’s room on the fatal night? It was because, whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle Cynthia’s room was unbolted.”

 

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