AGATHA CHRISTIE CRIME COLLECTION: THE CLOCKS / THIRD GIRL / MURDER IN THE MEWSHamlyn, London, 1971
SBN 6007 66 209
beletria, detektívky
544 s., angličtina
hmotnosť: 591 g
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The Clocks
The typing agency had sent Sheila Webb with instructions to let herself into the house, which would not be locked, if Miss Pebmarsh had not returned home by the three o’clock appointment time. Miss Pebmarsh was not back by three o'clock so Sheila went in. There was something odd about the room in which she had been told to wait; there seemed to be a profusion of clocks; and a glance was enough to show that some of them were wildly in error — by the same amount of time. Even more strange, the room was not, after all, quite unoccupied. Sprawled on the floor beyond the sofa was the figure of a man. He turned out to be quite as dead as the dark moist patch on the front of his suit suggested he might be. . . .
Third Girl
Hercule Poirot was relatively immune to surprise at the strange behaviour of his fellows. Nevertheless, he confessed to mild astonishment when a young lady called in the hope of consulting him . . . about a murder she might have committed.
In every other murder case in which Poirot had been involved the murderer had been the person least in doubt concerning the identity of the perpetrator. But more outrageous than the hour of his visitor's intrusion was her behaviour. After a brief and hesitant attempt to explain her reasons she changed her mind about discussing the matter and blundered from the room. “You're too old,” she told Poirot.
Inevitably Poirot felt challenged to get to the bottom of this strange business. His quest led him into a new and sometimes baffling world in which not only the women dressed colourfully and wore their hair long.
Murder in the Mews
Although many people must have heard the shot that killed Mrs. Allen, there were far too many explosions that night for a single shot from a small pistol to attract much attention. So it was not until November the sixth that the suicide was discovered. Or was it suicide? No suicide note was to be found — and the fatal wound was at odds with the position in which the pistol was found; and, if the door had really been locked from the inside, where was the key of the room? Strangely, although a possible motive for suicide emerges there seems to be none for Mrs. Allen's murder. Fortunately, Hercule Poirot is at Japp’s elbow to ensure that the jumbled facts become sorted out to establish the pattern of events as they really occurred on the fatal night. Admirers of Poirot will find here three other examples of the master’s technique in the short cases which complete this volume:
The Incredible Theft. The disappearance of important State papers, whose loss could imperil the country's security, presents a problem made more delicate by the strange circumstances of the case. The theft occurs at the home of a Cabinet Minister who could be the next P.M.; and a lady who is widely known as an almost-certain professional free-lance spy is his house-guest at the time.
Dead Man's Mirror. A closed room mystery of a different sort, and with the kind of unexpected solution that has made Hercule Poirot and his creator famous.
Triangle at Rhodes.
Poirot at his most streamlined: a murder is committed, but in the presence of seven others — one of whom must be the murderer. Since oné of them happens to be Poirot himself the eventual separation of innocent and guilty is just as certain ... as their identities turn out to be surprising.
POIROT paused at the doorway of the Wedderburn Gallery to inspect a picture which depicted three aggressive-looking cows with vastly elongated bodies overshadowed by a colossal and complicated design of windmills. The two seemed to have nothing to do with each other or the very curious purple colouring.
‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ said a soft purring voice.
A middle-aged man who at first sight seemed to have shown a smile which exhibited an almost excessive number of beautiful white teeth, was at his elbow.
‘Such freshness.’
He had large white plump hands which he waved as though he was using them in an arabesque.
‘Clever exhibition. Closed last week. Claude Raphael show opened the day before yesterday. It’s going to do well. Very well indeed.’
‘Ah,’ said Poirot and was led through grey velvet curtains into a long room.
Poirot made a few cautious if doubtful remarks. The plump man took him in hand in a practised manner. Here was someone, he obviously felt, who must not be frightened away. He was a very experienced man in the art of salesmanship. You felt at once that you were welcome to be in his gallery all day if you liked without making a purchase. Sheerly, solely looking at these delightful pictures— though when you entered the gallery you might not have thought that they were delightful. But by the time you went out you were convinced that delightful was exactly the word to describe them. After receiving some useful artistic instruction, and making a few of the amateur’s stock remarks such as T rather like that one,’ Mr. Boscombe responded encouragingly by some such phrase as:
‘Now that’s very interesting that you should say that. It shows, if I may say so, great perspicacity. Of course you know it isn’t the ordinary reaction. Most~people prefer something—well, shall I say slightly obvious like that’—he pointed to a blue and green striped effect arranged in one corner of the canvas—‘but this, yes, you’ve spotted the quality of the thing. I’d say myself—of course it’s only my personal opinion—that that’s one of Raphael’s masterpieces.’ Poirot and he looked together with both their heads on one side at an orange lop-sided diamond with two human eyes depending from it by what looked like a spidery thread. Pleasant relations established and time obviously being infinite, Poirot remarked:
‘I think a Miss Frances Cary works for you, does she not?’
‘Ah yes. Frances. Clever girl that. Very artistic and very competent too. Just come back from Portugal where she’s been arranging an art show for us. Very successful. Quite a good artist herself, but not I should say really creative, if you understand me. She is better on the business side. I think she recognises that herself.’
‘I understand that she is a good patron of the arts?’
‘Oh yes. She’s interested \nLesJeunes. Encourages talent, persuaded me to give a show for a little group of young artists last spring. It was quite successful—the Press noticed it—all in a small way, you understand. Yes, she has her protégés.’
‘I am, you understand, somewhat old-fashioned. Some of these young men—vraimenlV Poirot’s hands went up.
‘Ah,’ said Mr. Boscombe indulgently, ‘you mustn’t go by their appearance. It’s just a fashion, you know. Beards and jeans or brocades and hair. Just a passing phase.’
‘David someone,’ said Poirot. T forget his last name. Miss Cary seemed to think highly of him.’
‘Sure you don’t mean Peter Cardiff? He’s her present protégé. Mind you, I’m not quite so sure about him as she is. He’s really not so much avant garde as he is—well, positively reactionary. Quite— quite—Burne-Jones sometimes! Still, one never knows. You do get these reactions. She acts as his model occasionally.’
‘David Baker—that was the name I was trying to remember,’ said Poirot.
‘He is not bad,’ said Mr. Boscombe, without enthusiasm. ‘Not much originality, in my opinion. He was one of the group of artists I mentioned, but he didn’t make any particular impression. A good painter, mind, but not striking. Derivative!’
Poirot went home. Miss Lemon presented him with letters to sign, and departed with them duly signed. George served him with an omelette fines herbes garnished, as you might say, with a discreetly sympathetic manner. After lunch as Poirot was settling himself in his square-backed armchair with his coffee at his elbow, the telephone rang.
