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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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Poirot had a lengthy conversation over the wire, and came back thoughtful. He went off by himself in the afternoon, and it was not till seven o’clock that he announced that he could put it off no longer, but must break the news to the young widow. My sympathy had already gone out to her unreservedly. To be left penniless, and with the knowledge that her husband had killed himself to assure her future was a hard burden for any woman to bear. I cherished a secret hope, however, that young Black might prove capable of consoling her after her first grief had passed. He evidently admired her enormously.

 

After dinner we ran across the Opalsens in the lounge, and I introduced Poirot to them. We chatted for a few minutes, and ended by having our coffee together.

 

“On the top of the chest of drawers, monsieur.”

 

We passed first into a small square lounge hall. A door on the right of it was half open. The manager indicated it with a nod.

 

I rushed upstairs, and in a few brief words acquainted Poirot with the situation. He took any further words out of my mouth.

 

“He seemed rather annoyed, but went off at once. It was about five minutes later that I heard the sound of raised voices. I ran out into the hall, and almost collided with Mrs. Middleton. Then we heard the shot. The gun-room door was locked on the inside, and we had to go round the house to the window. Of course that took some time, and the murderer had been able to get well away. My poor uncle”—her voice faltered—“had been shot through the head. I saw at once that he was dead, and I sent Mrs. Middleton for the police straight away. I was careful to touch nothing in the room but to leave it exactly as I found it.”

 

“Ah, yes—I was going to ask you what you thought about that beard?”

 

The Scotland Yard Inspector grinned at me in a friendly fashion before addressing my companion.

 

“There’s a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see M. Poirot or you, Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do,—and with all that quite the gentleman,—I brought up ’is card.”

 

“What do you think of the case?” I asked as we left the gruesome chamber behind us.

 

Her economical spirit did not permit her to mention the whole million dollars suggested by Julius.

 

“Tommy! You’re a genius! That’s ever so much more chic. ‘No unreasonable offer refused—if pay is good.’ How’s that?”

 

“Money, money, money! I think about money morning, noon and night! I dare say it’s mercenary of me, but there it is!”

 

“It is delightful to see you, Boris Ivanovitch,” she said.

 

“Money—money! That is always the danger with you, Rita. I believe you would sell your soul for money. I believe——” He paused, then in a low, sinister voice he said slowly: “Sometimes I believe that you would sell— us!”

 

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