Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories: A Hercule Poirot Collection with Foreword by Charles Todd (Hercule Poirot Mysteries)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
At last, a single volume that gathers together all of the short stories featuring Agatha Christie's most famous creation: Hercule Poirot. The dapper, mustache-twirling little Belgian with the egg-shaped head and curious mannerisms has solved some of the most puzzling crimes of the century—and, in his own humble opinion, is "probably the greatest detective in the world."
In this complete collection of stories, ranging from short tales to novellas, Poirot faces violent murders, poisonings, kidnappings, and thefts—all solved with his characteristic panache. Only Agatha Christie could have devised cases worthy of Hercule Poirot's skill and "little gray cells."
thought. “I wish I could be more helpful to you,” said Mrs. Clayton. “I seem to be able to tell you so little.” “About the present—yes. What about the past, madame?” “The past?” “Yes. Have there not been incidents?” She flushed. “You mean that dreadful little man who shot himself. It wasn’t my fault, M. Poirot. Indeed it wasn’t.” “It was not precisely of that incident that I was thinking.” “That ridiculous duel? But Italians do fight duels. I was so thankful the man wasn’t killed.” “It
of arsenic poisoning—you could prove that she was not poisoned by arsenic. But there are other poisons—the vegetable alkaloids. After a year, I doubt if you’d find any traces of them even if they had been used. And I know what these official analyst people are like. They might return a noncommittal verdict saying that there was nothing to show what caused death—and then the tongues would wag faster than ever!” Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: “Who in your opinion is
hotel they saw her encounter a police official in full uniform. Elsie caught her breath. “You don’t think—anything’s gone wrong?” Harold reassured her quickly. “Oh, no, no, nothing of that kind.” But he himself knew a sudden pang of fear. He said: “Your mother’s been wonderful!” “I know. Mother is a great fighter. She’ll never sit down under defeat.” Elsie shivered. “But it is all horrible, isn’t it?” “Now, don’t dwell on it. It’s all over and done with.” Elsie said in a low voice: “I
murmured: “Yes, he is magnificent—magnificent. He is the young Bull—yes, one might say the Bull dedicated to Poseidon . . . A perfect specimen of healthy manhood.” “Looks fit enough, doesn’t he?” Frobisher sighed. His shrewd little eyes stole sideways, considering Hercule Poirot. Presently he said: “I know who you are, you know.” “Ah that, it is no secret!” Poirot waved a royal hand. He was not incognito, the gesture seemed to say. He was travelling as Himself. After a minute or two
errand. This evening the two men had arrived punctually at eight. During dinner they had talked of indifferent matters—politics, the weather, and the theatrical world. When Graves had placed the port upon the table and brought in the coffee his master told him that he might have the evening off. “Was that a usual proceeding of his when he had guests?” asked the inspector. “No, sir; it wasn’t. That’s what made me think it must be some business of a very unusual kind that he was going to discuss