Agatha Christie by The Case Book Of Hercule Poirot

Author:The Case Book Of Hercule Poirot [Poirot, The Case Book Of Hercule]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-10-31T21:34:25+00:00

I realized that Valentine Chantry had been poisoned, I watched her husband without taking my eyes offhim. And so, you see, I actually saw him slip the packet of stropanthin in Douglas Gold's coat pocket...'

He added with a grim expression on his face:

'I am a good witness. My name is well known. The moment the police heard my story they realized that it put an entirely different complexion on the matter.'

'AA then?' demanded Pamela, fascinated.

'Eh b/eh, then they asked Commander Chantry a few questions. He tried to bluster it out, but he is not really clever, he soon broke down.'

'So Douglas Gold was set at liberty?' .

'Yes.'

'And - Marorie Gold?'

Poirot's face grew stero.

'I warned her,' he said. 'Yes, I warned her ... Up on the file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/ABHI/My%20Documents/The%20Case%20Boo k%20Of%20Hercule%20Poirot.txt (187 of 362)8/6/2007 9:53:50 PM

Mount of the Prophet... It was the only chance of averting the crime. I as good as told her that I suspected her. She understood. But she believed herself too clever... I told her m leave the island if she valued her life. She chose - to remain...'

Hercule Poirot gave the house a steady appraising glance. His eyes wandered a moment to its surroundings, the shops, the big factory building on the right, the blocks of cheap mansion flats opposite.

Then once more his eyes returned to Northway House, relic of an earlier age- an age of space and leisure, when green fields had surrounded its well-bred arrogance. Now it was an anachronism submerged and forgotten in the hectic sea of modem London and not one man in fifty could have told you where it stood.

Furthermore, very few people could have told you to whon it belonged, though its owner's name would have been recog-nized as one of the world's richest men. But money can quench publicity as well as flaunt it. Benedict Farley, that eccentric millionaire, chose not to advertise his choice of residence. He himself was rarely seen, seldom making a public appearance. From time to time, he appeared at board meetings, his lean figure, beaked nose, and rasping voice easily dominating the assembled directors. Apart from that, he was just a well-known figure of legend.

There were his strange meannesses, his incredible generosities, as well as more personal details -

his famous patchwork dressing- gown, now reputed to be twenty-eight years old, his invariable diet of cabbage soup and caviare, his hatred of cats. All these things the public knew.

Hercule Poirot knew them also. It was all he did know of the man he was about to visit. The letter which was in his coat pocket told him little more.

After surveying this melancholy landmark of a past age for a minute or two in silence, he walked up the steps to the front door and pressed the bell, glancing as he did so at the neat wrist-watch which had at last replaced ap. old favourite - the large turnip-faced watch of earlier days. Yes, it was exactly nine-thirty. As ever, Hercule Poirot was exact to the minute.. The dOOr opened after just the right interval.

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