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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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“Of course I have often heard of you and your colleague, M. Poirot. You have done some wonderful things together, haven’t you? It was very clever of my husband to get you so promptly. Now, will you ask me questions? That is the easiest way, isn’t it, of getting to know all you want to about this dreadful affair?”

 

“Ex-actly,” said Japp soothingly. “But there are just one or two little points I’d like your opinion about all the same. Captain Hastings, here, he knows me, and he’ll go on up to the house and tell them you’re coming.”

 

I sat down and wrote a minute and lengthy account to Poirot. I was able to add various further items of information before I posted the letter.

 

“No, I suppose it will be in the evening papers. Without doubt the police are in charge.”

 

“Mr. Havering will be here in a moment,” I explained. “He has been detained by the Inspector. I have come down with him from London to look into the case. Perhaps you can tell me briefly what occurred last night?”

 

But Jack Renauld had no consideration for the feelings of the wretched Grosíer. He waved him aside, and replied quietly:

 

“We will leave things as they are as much as possible,” he explained. “It pleases the examining magistrate. Eh bien, do you notice anything else?”

 

“You think that?” she whispered. “You think that I love Jack Renauld?”

 

“But yes, it is better so. Before, there was at all events a clear theory as to how and by whose hands he met his death. Now that is all gone. We are in darkness. A hundred conflicting points confuse and worry us. That is well. That is excellent. Out of confusion comes forth order. But if you find order to start with, if a crime seems simple and above-board, eh bien, méfiez vous! It is, how do you say it?—cooked! The great criminal is simple—but very few criminals are great. In trying to cover up their tracks, they invariably betray themselves. Ah, mon ami, I would that some day I could meet a really great criminal—one who commits his crime, and then—does nothing! Even I, Hercule Poirot, might fail to catch such a one.”

 

Poirot walked to the end of the room, absentmindedly straightened a chair, and then said thoughtfully.

 

“You are. You shall go to Beira if I have to take you there myself and throw you on to the boat. What do you think I’m made of? Do you think I’ll wake up night after night, fearing they’ve got you? One can’t go on counting on miracles happening. You must go back to England, Anne—and—and marry and be happy.”

 

“Think back, Anne. Did you ever hear Pagett’s own account of that night on the Kilmorden?”

 

It seems that all along she’s been on the track of “The Man in the Brown Suit.” Apparently she didn’t spot him on the Kilmorden—in fact, she hardly had the chance, but she’s now very busy cabling home: “How I journeyed out with the Murderer,” and inventing highly fictitious stories of “What he said to me,” etc. I know how these things are done. I do them myself, in my Reminiscences when Pagett will let me. And of course one of Nasby’s efficient staff will brighten up the details still more, so that when it appears in the Daily Budget Rayburn won’t recognize himself.

 

There is a touch of the “boy upon the burning deck” about Pagett.

 

Last week I had the brilliant idea of sending him off to Florence. He talked about Florence and how much he wanted to go there.

 

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