The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie (classic book list .txt) ๐

Description
The Murder on the Links is Agatha Christieโs second Poirot novel, featuring the brilliant Belgian detective and his sidekick, Captain Hastings.
In this characteristic whodunit, Poirot is summoned to a seaside town in northern France by a desperate letter from a rich businessman, who fears that he is being stalked. Poirot arrives to find the businessman already dead, his body lying facedown in an open grave on a golf course, a knife in his backโthe victim of a mysterious murder. Over the coming days Poirot clashes wits with an arrogant Parisian detective, Giraud, while Hastings finds himself pining after a beautiful but shadowy American expatriate known to him only as โCinderella.โ Together, Poirot and Hastings unravel the intricate web of mystery and deceit behind the murder.
Christie based this mystery after a real-life French murder case, and itโs believed that this is the first detective novel to use the phrase โthe scene of the crime.โ
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- Author: Agatha Christie
Read book online ยซThe Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie (classic book list .txt) ๐ยป. Author - Agatha Christie
He beamed upon me as I entered.
โYou have slept well, yes? You have recovered from the crossing so terrible? It is a marvel, almost you are exact this morning. Pardon, but your tie is not symmetrical. Permit that I rearrange him.โ
Elsewhere, I have described Hercule Poirot. An extraordinary little man! Height, five feet four inches, egg-shaped head carried a little to one side, eyes that shone green when he was excited, stiff military moustache, air of dignity immense! He was neat and dandified in appearance. For neatness of any kind, he had an absolute passion. To see an ornament set crooked, or a speck of dust, or a slight disarray in oneโs attire, was torture to the little man until he could ease his feelings by remedying the matter. โOrderโ and โMethodโ were his gods. He had a certain disdain for tangible evidence, such as footprints and cigarette ash, and would maintain that, taken by themselves, they would never enable a detective to solve a problem. Then he would tap his egg-shaped head with absurd complacency, and remark with great satisfaction: โThe true work, it is done from within. The little grey cellsโ โremember always the little grey cells, mon ami!โ
I slipped into my seat, and remarked idly, in answer to Poirotโs greeting, that an hourโs sea passage from Calais to Dover could hardly be dignified by the epithet โterrible.โ
Poirot waved his egg-spoon in vigorous refutation of my remark.
โDu tout! If for an hour one experiences sensations and emotions of the most terrible, one has lived many hours! Does not one of your English poets say that time is counted, not by hours, but by heartbeats?โ
โI fancy Browning was referring to something more romantic than sea sickness, though.โ
โBecause he was an Englishman, an Islander to whom la Manche was nothing. Oh, you English! With nous autres it is different. Figure to yourself that a lady of my acquaintance at the beginning of the war fled to Ostend. There she had a terrible crisis of the nerves. Impossible to escape further except by crossing the sea! And she had a horrorโ โmais une horreur!โ โof the sea! What was she to do? Daily les Boches were drawing nearer. Imagine to yourself the terrible situation!โ
โWhat did she do?โ I inquired curiously.
โFortunately her husband was homme pratique. He was also very calm, the crises of the nerves, they affected him not. Il lโa emportรฉe simplement! Naturally when she reached England she was prostrate, but she still breathed.โ
Poirot shook his head seriously. I composed my face as best I could.
Suddenly he stiffened and pointed a dramatic finger at the toast rack.
โAh, par exemple, cโest trop fort!โ he cried.
โWhat is it?โ
โThis piece of toast. You remark him not?โ He whipped the offender out of the rack, and held it up for me to examine.
โIs it square? No. Is it a triangle? Again no. Is it even round? No. Is it of any shape remotely pleasing to the eye? What symmetry have we here? None.โ
โItโs cut from a cottage loaf,โ I explained soothingly.
Poirot threw me a withering glance.
โWhat an intelligence has my friend Hastings!โ he exclaimed sarcastically. โComprehend you not that I have forbidden such a loafโ โa loaf haphazard and shapeless, that no baker should permit himself to bake!โ
I endeavoured to distract his mind.
โAnything interesting come by the post?โ
Poirot shook his head with a dissatisfied air.
โI have not yet examined my letters, but nothing of interest arrives nowadays. The great criminals, the criminals of method, they do not exist. The cases I have been employed upon lately were banal to the last degree. In verity I am reduced to recovering lost lapdogs for fashionable ladies! The last problem that presented any interest was that intricate little affair of the Yardly diamond, and that wasโ โhow many months ago, my friend?โ
He shook his head despondently, and I roared with laughter.
โCheer up, Poirot, the luck will change. Open your letters. For all you know, there may be a great case looming on the horizon.โ
Poirot smiled, and taking up the neat little letter opener with which he opened his correspondence he slit the tops of the several envelopes that lay by his plate.
โA bill. Another bill. It is that I grow extravagant in my old age. Aha! a note from Japp.โ
โYes?โ pricked up my ears. The Scotland Yard Inspector had more than once introduced us to an interesting case.
โHe merely thanks me (in his fashion) for a little point in the Aberystwyth Case on which I was able to set him right. I am delighted to have been of service to him.โ
โHow does he thank you?โ I asked curiously, for I knew my Japp.
โHe is kind enough to say that I am a wonderful sport for my age, and that he was glad to have had the chance of letting me in on the case.โ
This was so typical of Japp, that I could not forbear a chuckle. Poirot continued to read his correspondence placidly.
โA suggestion that I should give a lecture to our local boy scouts. The Countess of Forfanock will be obliged if I will call and see her. Another lapdog without doubt! And now for the last. Ahโ โโ
I looked up, quick to notice the change of tone. Poirot was reading attentively. In a minute he tossed the sheet over to me.
โThis is out of the ordinary, mon ami. Read for yourself.โ
The letter was written on a foreign type of paper, in a bold characteristic hand:
โVilla Geneviรจve
Merlinville-sur-Mer
France
โDear Sir,
โI am in need of the services of a detective and, for reasons which I will give you later, do not wish to call in the official police. I have heard of you from several quarters, and all reports go to show that you are not only a man of decided ability, but one who also knows how to be
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