They Came To Baghdad

 

Captain Crosbie came out of the bank with the pleased air of one who has cashed a cheque and has discovered that there is just a little more in his account than he thought there was. Captain Crosbie often looked pleased with himself. He was that kind of man. In figure he was short and stocky, with rather a red face and a bristling military moustache. He strutted a little when he walked. His clothes were, perhaps, just a trifle loud, and he was fond of a good story. He was popular among other men. A cheerful man, commonplace but kindly, unmarried. Nothing remarkable about him. There are heaps of Crosbies in the East. The street into which Captain Crosbie emerged was called Bank Street for the excellent reason that most of the banks in the city were situated in it. Inside the bank it was cool and dark and rather musty. The predominant sound was of large quantities of typewriters clicking in the background. Outside in Bank Street it was sunny and full of swirling dust and the noises were terrific and varied. There was the persistent honking of motor horns, the cries of vendors of various wares. There were hot disputes between small groups of people who seemed ready to murder each other but were really fast friends; men, boys and children were selling every type of tree, sweetmeats, oranges and bananas, bath towels, combs, razor blades and other assorted merchandise carried rapidly through the streets on trays. There was also a perpetual and ever renewed sound of throat clearing and spitting, and above it the thin melancholy wail of men conducting donkeys and horses amongst the stream of motors and pedestrians shouting, ‘Balek–Balek!’ .

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Book Title:  They Came To Baghdad
Total Pages: 201                                          
Posted By: Shakil Ilyas                                                

The Secret Adversary

 

IT was 2 p.m. on the afternoon of May 7, 1915.  The Lusitania had been struck by two torpedoes in succession and was sinking rapidly, while the boats were being launched with all possible speed. The women and children were being lined up awaiting their turn. Some still clung desperately to husbands and fathers; others clutched their children closely to their breasts. One girl stood alone, slightly apart from the rest. She was quite young, not more than eighteen.  She did not seem afraid, and her grave, steadfast eyes looked straight ahead."I beg your pardon."A man's voice beside her made her start and turn.  She had noticed the speaker more than once amongst the first-class passengers. There had been a hint of mystery about him which had appealed to her imagination.  He spoke to no one. If anyone spoke to him he was quick to rebuff the overture. Also he had a nervous way of looking over his shoulder with a swift, suspicious glance. She noticed now that he was greatly agitated.  There were beads of perspiration on his brow.  He was evidently in a state of overmastering fear. And yet he did not strike her as the kind of man who would be afraid to meet death! "Yes?"  Her grave eyes met his inquiringly.

He stood looking at her with a kind of desperate irresolution. "It must be!" he muttered to himself.  "Yes--it is the only way." Then aloud he said abruptly:  "You are an American?"

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Book Title:  The Secret Adversary - Agatha Christie
Total Pages: 254                                          
Posted By: Shakil Ilyas                                                

Poirot's Early Cases

Pure chance led my friend Hercule Poirot, formerly chief of the Belgian force, to be connected with the Styles Case. His success brought him notoriety, and he decided to devote himself to the solving of problems in crime. Having been wounded on the Somme and invalided out of the Army, I finally took up my quarters with him in London. Since I have a first-hand knowledge of most of his cases, it has been suggested to me that I select some of the most interesting and place them on record. In doing so, I feel that I cannot do better than begin with that strange tangle which aroused such widespread public interest at the time. I refer to the affair at the Victory Ball.

Although perhaps it is not so fully demonstrative of Poirot’s peculiar methods as some of the more obscure cases, its sensational features, the well-known people involved, and the tremendous publicity given it by the Press, make it stand out as a cause célèbre and I have long felt that it is only fitting that Poirot’s connection with the solution should be given to the world.

It was a fine morning in spring, and we were sitting in Poirot’s rooms. My little friend, neat and dapper as ever, his egg-shaped head tilted on one side, was delicately applying a new pomade to his moustache. A certain harmless vanity was a characteristic of Poirot’s and fell into line with his general love of order and method. The Daily Newsmonger, which I had been reading, had slipped to the floor, and I was deep in a brown study when Poirot’s voice recalled me.

‘Of what are you thinking so deeply, mon ami?’ ‘To tell you the truth,’ I replied, ‘I was puzzling over this unaccountable affair at the Victory Ball. The papers are full of it.’ I tapped the sheet with my finger as I spoke. ‘Yes?’

‘The more one reads of it, the more shrouded in mystery the whole thing becomes!’ I warmed to my subject. ‘Who killed Lord Cronshaw? Was Coco Courtenay’s death on the same night a mere coincidence? Was it an accident? Or did she deliberately take an overdose of cocaine?’ I stopped, and then added dramatically: ‘These are the questions I ask myself.’ Poirot, somewhat to my annoyance, did not play up. He was peering into the glass, and merely murmured: ‘Decidedly, this new pomade, it is a marvel for the moustaches!’ Catching my eye, however, he added hastily: ‘Quite so—and how do you reply to your questions?’

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Book Title:  Poirot's Early Cases - Agatha Christie 
Total Pages: 162
 Posted By: Shakil Ilyas                                                

Parker Pyne Detective

I have gained in a novel fashion. It is all so simple. Unhappiness can be classified under five main heads --no more, I assure you. Once you know the cause of a malady, the remedy should not be impossible."I stand in the place of the doctor. The doctor first diagnoses the patient's disorder, then he proceeds to recommend a course of treatment. There are cases where no treatment can be of any avail. If that is so, I say frankly that I can do nothing. But I assure you, Mrs. Packington, that if I undertake a case, the cure is practically guaranteed."

Could it be so? Was this nonsense, or could it, perhaps, be true? Mrs. Packington gazed at him hopefully."Shall we diagnose your case?" said Mr. Parker Pyne, smiling. He leaned back in his chair and brought the tips of his fingers together. "The trouble concerns your husband. You have had, on the whole, a happy married life. Your husband has, I think, prospered. I think there is a young lady concerned in the case--perhaps a young lady in your husband's office."

"A typist," said Mrs. Packington. "A nasty made-up little minx, all lipstick and silk stockings and curls." The words rushed from her. Mr. Parker Pyne nodded in a-soothing manner. "There is no real harm in it--that is your husband's phrase, I have no doubt." "His very words." "Why, therefore, should he not enjoy a pure friendship with this young lady, and be able to bring a little brightness, a little pleasure, into her dull existence? Poor child, she has so little fun. Those, I imagine, are his sentiments." Mrs. Packington nodded with vigor. "Humbug--all humbug! He takes her on the river--I'm fond of going

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Book Title:  Parker Pyne Detective - Agatha Christie
Total Pages: 299                                          
Posted By: Shakil Ilyas                                                

Murder On The Orient Express

 

It was five o’clock on a winter’s morning in Syria. Alongside the platform at Aleppo stood the train grandly designated in railway guides as the Taurus Express. It consisted of a kitchen and dining-car, a sleeping-car and two local coaches.By the step leading up into the sleeping car stood a young French lieutenant, resplendent in uniform conversing, with a small man muffled up to the ears of whom nothing was visible but a pink-tipped nose and the two points of an upward-curled moustache.It was freezingly cold, and this job of seeing off a distinguished stranger was not one to be envied, but Lieutenant Dubosc performed his part manfully. Graceful phrases fell from his lips in polished French. Not that he knew what it was all about. There had been rumours, of course, as there always were in such cases. The General’s—his General’s temper had grown worse and worse. And then there had come this Belgian stranger—all the way from England, it seemed. There had been a week—a week of curious tensity. And then certain things had happened. A very distinguished officer had committed suicide, another had suddenly resigned, anxious faces had suddenly lost their anxiety, certain military precautions were relaxed. And the General, Lieutenant Dubosc’s own particular General, had suddenly looked ten years younger. Dubosc had overheard part of a conversation between him and the strange. “You have saved us, mon cher,” said the General emotionally, his great white moustache trembling as he spoke. “You have saved the honour of the French Army—you have averted much bloodshed! How can I thank you for acceding to my request? To have come so far—” To which the stranger (by name M. Hercule Poirot) had made a fitting reply including the phrase—“But indeed, do I not remember that once you saved my life?” And then the General had made another fitting reply to that, disclaiming any merit for that past service; and with more mention of France, of Belgium, of glory, of honour and of such kindred things they had embraced each other heartily and the conversation had ended

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Book Title:  Murder On The Orient Express - By (Agatha Christie)
Total Pages: 211                                          
Posted By: Shakil Ilyas                                                

Lord Edgware Dies - Agatha Christie

 

The memory of the public is short. Already the intense interest and excitement aroused by the murder of George Alfred St Vincent Marsh, fourth Baron Edgware, is a thing past and forgotten. Newer sensations have taken its place. My friend, Hercule Poirot, was never openly mentioned in connection with the case. This, I  may say, was entirely in accordance with his own wishes. He did not choose to appear in  it. The credit went elsewhere—and that is how he wished it to be. Moreover, from Poirot’s  own peculiar private point of view, the case was one of his failures. He always swears that  it was the chance remark of a stranger in the street that put him on the right track.  However that may be, it was his genius that discovered the truth of the affair. But for  Hercule Poirot I doubt if the crime would have been brought home to its perpetrator.  I feel therefore that the time has come for me to set down all I know of the affair in black  and white. I know the ins and outs of the case thoroughly and I may also mention that I  shall be fulfilling the wishes of a very fascinating lady in so doing.  I have often recalled that day in Poirot’s prim neat little sitting-room when, striding up and down a particular strip of carpet, my little friend gave us his masterly and astounding  résumé of the case. I am going to begin my narrative where he did on that occasion—at a  London theatre in June of last year.  Carlotta Adams was quite the rage in London at that moment. The year before she had  given a couple of matinees which had been a wild success. This year she had had a three  weeks’ season of which this was the last night but one.  Carlotta Adams was an American girl with the most amazing talent for single-handed  sketches unhampered by make-up or scenery. She seemed to speak every language with  ease. Her sketch of an evening in a foreign hotel was really wonderful. In turn, American  tourists, German tourists, middle-class English families, questionable ladies, impoverished  Russian aristocrats and weary discreet waiters all flitted across the scene.  Her sketches went from grave to gay and back again. Her dying Czecho-Slovakian woman  in hospital brought a lump to the throat. A minute later we were rocking with laughter as a  dentist plied his trade and chatted amiably with his victims. Her programme closed with what she announced as ‘Some Imitations’. ...

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Book Title:  Lord Edgware Dies - Agatha Christie
Total Pages: 211                                          
Posted By: Shakil Ilyas                                                

The Peril At End House By (Agatha Christie)

No seaside town in the south of England is, I think, as attractive as St Loo. It is well named the Queen of Watering Places and reminds one forcibly of the Riviera. The Cornish coast is to my mind every bit as fascinating as that of the south of France.
I remarked as much to my friend, Hercule Poirot. 'So it said on our menu in the restaurant car yesterday, mon ami. Your remark is not original.' 'But don't you agree?'  He was smiling to himself and did not at once answer my question. I repeated it. 'A thousand pardons, Hastings. My thoughts were wandering. Wandering indeed to that part of the world you mentioned just now.''The south of France?' 'Yes. I was thinking of that last winter that I spent there and of the events which occurred.'
I remembered. A murder had been committed on the Blue Train, and the mystery-a complicated and baffling one-had been solved by Poirot with his usual unerring acumen.  'How I wish I had been with you,' I said with deep regret. 'I too,' said Poirot. 'Your experience would have been invaluable to me.'  I looked at him sideways. As a result of long habit, I distrust his compliments, but he appeared perfectly serious. And after all, why not? I have a very long experience of the methods he employs.
'What I particularly missed was your vivid imagination, Hastings,' he went on dreamily. 'One needs a certain amount of light relief. My valet, Georges,

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Book Title:  The Peril At End House - By (Agatha Christie)
Total Pages: 225                                          
Posted By: Shakil Ilyas                                                

The Mystery Of The Blue Train By (Agatha Christie)

 

A little man with a face like a rat. A man, one would say, who could never play a conspicuous part, or rise to prominence in any sphere. And yet, in leaping to such a conclusion, an onlooker would have been wrong. For this man, negligible and inconspicuous as he seemed, played a prominent part in the destiny of the world. In an Empire where rats ruled, he was the king of the rats.
Even now, an Embassy awaited his return. But he had business to do first - business of which the Embassy was not officially cognisant. His face gleamed white and sharp in the moonlight. There was the least hint of a curve in the thin nose. His father had been a Polish Jew, a journeyman tailor. It was business such as his father would have loved that took him abroad to-night.
He came to the Seine, crossed it, and entered one of the less reputable quarters of Paris. Here he stopped before a tall, dilapidated house and made his way up to an apartment on the fourth floor. He had barely time to knock before the door was opened by a woman who had evidently been awaiting his arrival. She gave him no greeting, but helped him off with his overcoat and then led the way into a tawdrily furnished sitting-room. The electric light was shaded with dirty pink festoons, and it softened, but could not disguise, the girl's face with its mask of crude paint. Could not disguise, either, the broad Mongolian cast of her countenance. There was no doubt of Olga Demiroff's profession, nor of her nationality

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Book Title: The Mystery Of The Blue Train - By (Agatha Christie)
Total Pages: 48                                          
Posted By: Shakil Ilyas