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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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“But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?”

 

“Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp’s own dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, this!” With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. “It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once—but that is not to the point.”

 

“On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?”

 

“Well, no one exactly told me,” I confessed. “But he is arrested.”

 

“Thank you, Manning, that will do,” said Poirot pleasantly.

 

In spite of myself I laughed immoderately. Poirot nodded in a satisfied manner.

 

“Mon ami—I know human nature. Throw together a boy young Renauld and a beautiful girl like Mademoiselle Marthe, and the result is almost inevitable. Then, the quarrel! It was money or a woman and, remembering Léonie’s description of the lad’s anger, I decided on the latter. So I made my guess—and I was right.”

 

On the 28th day of November, the blow fell. The woman who came daily to clean and cook for the Beroldys was surprised to find the door of the apartment standing wide open. Hearing faint moans issuing from the bedroom, she went in. A terrible sight met her eyes. Madame Beroldy lay on the floor, bound hand and foot, uttering feeble moans, having managed to free her mouth from a gag. On the bed was Monsieur Beroldy, lying in a pool of blood, with a knife driven through his heart.

 

“Mais, oui! I got my 500 francs! Is he not a splendid fellow? I call him Giraud!”

 

“Well,” I begged, “don’t get mad with me.”

 

“Clever,” murmured Poirot appreciatively. He stood aside from the door. “Good evening, madame. I will detain your friend from New York whilst you make your getaway.”

 

“Just in time. Our fine gentleman was off to catch the boat train to the Continong. Well, gentlemen, that’s about all we can do here. It’s a bad business, but straightforward enough. One of these Italian vendetta things, as likely as not.”

 

“True,” said Poirot, rather crestfallen. “It was not one of my most striking triumphs.”

 

“Madame!” Poirot sprang gallantly to his feet and hastened towards her. “I cannot tell you how I regret to derange you in this way. But what will you? Les affaires—they know no mercy.”

 

“I thought you had washed your hands of the case?”

 

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