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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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Suzanne’s sense of humour always fails her when it comes to sending cables. She considered my suggestion in perfectly good faith.

 

I think I shall appoint you my literary executor. I’m sending you my diary. There’s nothing in it that would interest Race and his crowd, but I fancy that there are passages in it which may amuse you. Make use of it in any way you like. I suggest an article for the Daily Budget, “Criminals I have met.” I only stipulate that I shall be the central figure.

 

“Harry, you idiot. It’s you I want—and that’s all that matters.”

 

“No. I’ll have no truck with you or with any woman. Do your damnedest.”

 

Nadina laughed softly. “You need suppose nothing of the sort. I am not a fool. The diamonds are in a safe place where no one will dream of looking for them.”

 

“I want you to ascertain for me exactly how much is newspaper chatter, and how much may be said to be founded on fact? Three deaths, Monsieur Poirot—each one explicable taken by itself, but taken together surely an almost unbelievable coincidence, and all within a month of the opening of the tomb! It may be mere superstition, it may be some potent curse from the past that operates in ways undreamed of by modern science. The fact remains—three deaths! And I am afraid, Monsieur Poirot, horribly afraid. It may not yet be the end.”

 

“Certainly. The police have finished with it. But the body has been removed.”

 

“What terrible voice? Who is it, and what’s the trouble?”

 

“C’est ça. After the master and mistress, the maid. The flat should now be empty.”

 

“One moment, if you please. Who is this Captain Daniels? You have his dossier?”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me that night at the hotel in Coventry?”

 

Never, in all my life, have I seen anything to equal the blank amazement on Stonor’s face. He was thoroughly taken aback.

 

“You will pardon me, M. Stonor, but we must begin with a few formalities. Your name?”

 

“Did you know all the time that it was—the other?”

 

“Of course he did,” said Poirot contemptuously. “Even in Santiago they know enough for that. The veriest amateur of an English Mees knows it—thanks to the publicity the Bertillon system has been given in the Press. All the same, it interests me very much that there were no finger-prints. It is so amazingly simple to leave the finger-prints of some one else! And then the police are happy.” He shook his head. “I very much fear our criminal is not a man of method—either that or he was pressed for time. But we shall see.”

 

 

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