By Agatha Christie
During this vintage Hercule Poirot secret from the Queen of Crime, a kindly widow is bludgeoned to dying. Is her lodger to blame? Or is he being framed? both manner, the condemned man's time is operating out.
"The plot is ideal and the characters are wonderful." (San Francisco Chronicle)
Well, it's no ask yourself. The plot--suspicion for an aged woman's homicide falls on her mysterious lodger--is from Agatha Christie. the glorious personality occurs to be the world's most renowned sleuth, Hercule Poirot.
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Additional info for Mrs. McGinty's Dead (Hercule Poirot, Book 28)
It had all been far too beautiful, too gorgeously complex and inexorable--until an artist had inexplicably failed to die, and dropped a spanner into the clockworks. Still, it wasn't a total loss. Parts of the machine were still turning nicely, and since they were dependent only on his own actions, they would continue to run. From here on out, he would abandon the complex, and keep things simple, and brutal. The clock across the way told him it was time for sleep: He had a seven o'clock appointment, a full day of meetings, and a trip to St Albans to arrange.
Estelle squealed with excitement when the wind caught us. She exclaimed at the houses that turned into sheds and then doll-houses, the horses receding to the size of dogs and then figurines, a motorcar becoming a toy, and a man on a bicycle who became little more than a crawling beetle. We rode the wind up and up over the town, then Javitz pulled us into a wide circle and aimed back the way we had come, roaring lower and lower. The houses, animals, and figures grew again as he prepared to buzz over the Ross rooftop--and then I glimpsed the man on the bicycle, only he was not simply a man, he was a man with a constabulary helmet, and he was standing on the Ross walkway craning up at us.
One clever man stood, straightening his neck-tie with manicured fingers. He reached out to give the silver pen a minuscule adjustment, returning it to symmetry with the edge of the desk, then walked across the silken carpet to the door. There he surveyed the mirror that hung on the wall, leaning forward to touch the white streak--really quite handsome--over the right temple before settling his freshly brushed hat over it. He firmed the tie again, and reached for the handle. The other man, too, tugged at his tie, grateful for it.
Mrs. McGinty's Dead (Hercule Poirot, Book 28) by Agatha Christie