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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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Gently he picked away the fragments of broken glass. Suddenly his face changed to one of utter stupefaction.

 

“It is that you have the strength of a bull when you are roused, Hastings! Eh bien, and do you think you have behaved well to your old friend? I show you the girl’s photograph and you recognize it, but you never say a word.”

 

“Why, Poirot, it was you who remarked on that! The story of the masked men, the ‘secret,’ the papers!”

 

“Mes enfants,” he said, “for the moment we have no time for sentiment. There is work ahead of us. Mademoiselle, were you able to do what I asked you?”

 

“I see,” I said slowly, as the meaning of Poirot’s remarks bore in upon me. “That letter was written to Jack Renauld—not to his father. He caught up the wrong overcoat in his haste and agitation.”

 

“They’re coming back,” I called softly. I had seen the blur moving out from the opposite shore.

 

“That’s it! Where the murder took place. But perhaps you wouldn’t like——”

 

“I am not pining for society, I assure you,” he replied coldly.

 

It was a marvellous sight, the great chasm and the rushing waters below, and the veil of mist and spray in front of us that parted every now and then for one brief minute to show the cataract of water and then closed up again in its impenetrable mystery. That, to my mind, has always been the fascination of the Falls—their elusive quality. You always think you’re going to see—and you never do.

 

“Perhaps you will come into my back room? We have many specialties there?”

 

It was a curious journey. The Scotland Yard men crowded together. Maps of Northern France were spread out, and eager forefingers traced the lines of roads and villages. Each man had his own pet theory. Poirot showed none of his usual loquacity, but sat staring in front of him, with an expression on his face that reminded me of a puzzled child. I talked to Norman, whom I found quite an amusing fellow. On arriving at Dover Poirot’s behaviour moved me to intense amusement. The little man, as he went on board the boat, clutched desperately at my arm. The wind was blowing lustily.

 

“The chauffeur, momentarily taken aback, jammed on the brakes. The Prime Minister put his head out of the window. Instantly a shot rang out—then another. The first one grazed his cheek, the second, fortunately, went wide. The chauffeur, now realizing the danger, instantly forged straight ahead, scattering the band of men.”

 

“There is no other circumstance that you have omitted, milord?”

 

For a moment she hesitated, as though in doubt whether to trust me or not, then she bowed her head in assent with a little smile.

 

“What’s the matter?” said the doctor, appearing in pyjamas.

 

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