AGATHA CHRISTIE CRIME COLLECTION: THE MURDER ON THE LINKS / A POCKET FULL OF RYE / DESTINATION UNKNOWNHamlyn, London, 1969
SBN 600766 000
beletria, detektívky
512 s., angličtina
hmotnosť: 581 g
tvrdá väzba s prebalom
stav: dobrý
0,50 € DAROVANÉ
*kamag* in **O2**
The Murder on the Links
The summons was urgent, if rather unspecific. The writer wanted the services of a detective (of Hercule Poirot, no less) because he was in daily fear of his life on account of a secret he held. Below the signature, P. T. Renauld, was a hastily scrawled and barely legible line of writing: "For God's sake, come!" It all seemed highly dramatic; melodramatic, almost. But, of course, Poirot would go, even though it would mean an inconveniently hurried departure for France. Poirot would probably have answered the call even if the man had not been a millionaire; even if he had not said “name your own fee”. As it happened, there was no need for Poirot to concern himself with a diplomatic approach to this delicate aspect of the affair. Because he found, on arrival, that M. Renauld had ceased to have personal need of Poirot's services. He was already quite, quite dead. He had been found a few hours earlier lying, face downwards, in a newly dug grave.
A Pocket Full of Rye
Mr. Fortescue, old Mr. Fortescue that is, was far from universally loved. He had expertly kept within the law to achieve something more than a moderate success for Consolidated Investments. In his prime he must have been physically impressive. Now, he was large, bald, and dead. Dead in his own sanctum at Consolidated Investments Trust, after drinking a cup of rather special and fussily-brewed tea. That it was a case of poisoning there could be no doubt, but poisoning by whom? Surely the polished and super-efficient private secretary who officiated at the tea-making ritual was the most unlikely of suspects. But then, there were a number of unlikely things about the Fortescue case.
Why, in heaven's name, should the dead man have had a handful of rye in his jacket pocket? Before Miss Marple could answer that and other questions death was to flutter around the Fortescue household again, and again.
Destination Unknown
It was a strange proposition. Would she take on the identity of a woman who was not quite dead, but who very soon would be? Jessop did not minimize the dangers involved; in fact the slim chance of her coming out of the adventure alive was part of the bait which he offered.
The woman that Hilary was being asked to impersonate lay in a Casablanca hospital, and was dying fast; and Jessop was desperately anxious to get on the trail of her missing husband by any means which might come to hand. A nuclear scientist with Thomas Betterton’s knowledge and of such potential value to them was too important a quarry for one woman's life to seem of very much significance — if she was so bent on suicide then she might as well die usefully!
Crookedness in the racing world she knew about—now, it seemed, she was to encounter crookedness in the financial world. Though for all that, it seemed that her father-in-law whom she had not yet met, was, as far as the law was concerned, a pillar of rectitude. All these people who went about boasting of ‘smart work’ were the same— technically they always managed to be within the law. Yet it seemed to her that her Lance, whom she loved, and who had admittedly strayed outside the ringed fence in earlier days, had an honesty that these successful practitioners of the crooked lacked.
T don’t mean,’ said Lance, ‘that he’s a swindler—not anything like that. But he knows how to put over a fast one.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Pat, T feel I hate people who put over fast ones.’ She added: ‘You’re fond of him.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Lance considered it for a moment, and then said in a surprised kind of voice:
‘Do you know, darling, I believe I am.’
Pat laughed. He turned his head to look at her. His eyes narrowed. What a darling she was! He loved her. The whole thing was worth it for her sake.
‘In a way, you know,’ he said, ‘it’s Hell going back. City life. Home on the 5.18. It’s not my kind of life. I’m far more at home among the down and outs. But one’s got to settle down sometime, I suppose. And with you to hold my hand the process may even be quite a pleasant one. And since the old boy has come round, one ought to take advantage of it. I must say I was surprised when I got his letter. . .. Percival, of all people, blotting his copybook. Percival, the good little boy. Mind you, Percy was always sly. Yes, he was always sly.’
‘I don’t think,’ said Patricia Fortescue, ‘that I’m going to like your brother Percival.’
‘Don’t let me put you against him. Percy and I never got on—that’s all there is to it. I blued my pocket money, he saved his. I had disreputable but entertaining friends, Percy made what’s called “worth while contacts.” Poles apart we were, he and I. I always thought him a poor fish, and he—sometimes, you know, I think he almost hated me. I don’t know why exactly. . ..’
T think I can see why.’
‘Can you, darling? You’re so brainy. You know I’ve always wondered—it’s a fantastic thing to say—but ’
‘Well? Say it.’
‘I’ve wondered if it wasn’t Percival who was behind that cheque business—you know, when the old man kicked me out—and was he mad that he’d given me a share in the firm and so he couldn’t disinherit me! Because the queer thing was that I never forged that cheque— though of course nobody would believe that after that time I swiped funds out of the till and put it on a horse. I was dead sure I could put it back, and anyway it was my own cash in a manner of speaking. But that cheque business—no. I don’t know why I’ve got the ridiculous idea that Percival did that—but I have, somehow.’
‘But it wouldn’t have done him any good? It was paid into your account.’
‘I know. So it doesn’t make sense, does it?’
Pat turned sharply towards him.
‘You mean—he did it to get you chucked out of the firm?’
‘I wondered. Oh well—it’s a rotten thing to say. Forget it. I wonder what old Percy will say when he sees the Prodigal returned. Those pale, boiled gooseberry eyes of his will pop right out of his head!’
‘Does he know you are coming?’
T shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know a damned thing! The old man’s got rather a funny sense of humour, you know.’
‘But what has your brother done to upset your father so much?’ ‘That’s what I’d like to know. Something must have made the old man livid. Writing off to me the way he did.’
‘When was it you got his first letter?’
‘Must be four—no five months ago. A cagey letter, but a distinct holding out of the olive branch. “Your elder brother has proved himself unsatisfactory in many ways.” “You seem to have sown your wild oats and settled down.” “I can promise you that it will be well worth your while financially.” “Shall welcome you and your wife.” You know, darling, I think my marrying you had a lot to do with it. The old boy was impressed that I’d married into a class above me.’ Pat laughed.
‘What? Into the aristocratic riff-raff?’
He grinned. ‘That’s right. But riff-raff didn’t register and aristocracy did. You should see Percival’s wife.' She’s the kind who says “Pass the preserves, please” and talks about a postage stamp.’
