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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot.

 

“Ah!” murmured Poirot to himself. “But it is an idea, that!”

 

“I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance.”

 

“Here comes Miss Howard,” said Poirot suddenly. “She is the very person. But I am in her black books, since I cleared Mr. Inglethorp. Still, we can but try.”

 

“Yes, that is so.” I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion.

 

“Certainly we did,” said the doctor dryly. “Every conceivable thing that could be done was tried.”

 

“Eh, eh! but that is very charming of you. My grey cells are at your disposal. You have made no search yourself?”

 

I blanched. All around me I seemed to feel an atmosphere of evil, subtle and menacing. A horrible thought flashed across me. Supposing I were the next?

 

She paused for breath. Poirot beamed encouragement.

 

About half an hour later, a young woman emerged in brilliant and varied clothing. With a sigh of satisfaction, Poirot tiptoed back into the flat.

 

It was too late to hand in my roll to-day. I had to hurry home to Kensington so as not to be late for dinner. It occurred to me that there was an easy way of verifying whether some of my conclusions were correct. I asked Mr. Flemming whether there had been a camera amongst the dead man’s belongings. I knew that he had taken an interest in the case and was conversant with all the details.

 

“But, Suzanne, nothing happened here at one o’clock on the 22nd?”

 

“I’ve no doubt you will too,” he said indifferently.

 

I jumped at the chance. London! The place for things to happen.

 

All this because Guy Pagett came into my bedroom this morning with a telegram in his hand and a face as long as a mute at a funeral.

 

 

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