Peril at End House: A Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mysteries)
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The Queen of Mystery has come to Harper Collins! Agatha Christie, the acknowledged mistress of suspense—creator of indomitable sleuth Miss Marple, meticulous Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, and so many other unforgettable characters—brings her entire oeuvre of ingenious whodunits, locked room mysteries, and perplexing puzzles to Harper Paperbacks. In the Christie classic Peril at End House, a young woman who has recently survived a series of very close calls appears to be the target of a dedicated killer—and it’s up to Hercule Poirot to save her life.
with pretty grey hair and a very sweet smile. 'Who do you think this is, mother?' said Mr Croft. 'The extra-special, world-celebrated detective, Mr Hercule Poirot. I brought him right along to have a chat with you.' 'If that isn't too exciting for words,' cried Mrs Croft, shaking Poirot warmly by the hand. 'Read about that Blue Train business, I did, and you just happening to be on it, and a lot about your other cases. Since this trouble with my back, I've read all the detective stories that
pistol, the lady was,' continued the boy. 'She didn't have her throat cut. No!' We passed on to the house, and I felt thankful to get away from the ghoulish child. Poirot entered the drawing-room, the windows of which were open, and rang the bell. Ellen, neatly attired in black, came in answer to the bell. She showed no surprise at seeing us. Poirot explained that we were here by permission of Miss Buckley to make a search of the house. 'Very good sir.' 'The police have finished?' 'They
at the door. It was Commander Challenger. 'Just looked in,' he explained. 'Wanted to know if you were any further forward.' 'Parbleu,' said Poirot. 'At this moment I am feeling that I am considerably further back. I seem to progressen reculant.' 'That's bad. But I don't really believe it, M. Poirot. I've been hearing all about you and what a wonderful chap you are. Never had a failure, they say.' 'That is not true,' said Poirot. 'I had a bad failure in Belgium in 1893. You recollect,
right-' She knelt down beside him. 'I didn't mean-' His head dropped. The sentence was never finished. Frederica looked up at Poirot. 'Yes, Madame, he is dead,' he said, gently. She rose slowly from her knees and stood looking down at him. With one hand she touched his forehead-pitifully, it seemed. Then she sighed and turned to the rest of us. 'He was my husband,' she said, quietly. 'J.,' I murmured. Poirot caught my remark, and nodded a quick assent. 'Yes,' he said softly. 'Always I
was all. So that you might be in doubt when questioned. Then, when the box arrived-again how simple. She fills three of the chocolates with cocaine (she had cocaine with her, cleverly concealed), eats one of them and is ill-but not too ill. She knows very well how much cocaine to take and just what symptoms to exaggerate.' 'And the card-my card! Ah! Sapristi -she has a nerve! It was my card-the one I sent with the flowers. Simple, was it not? Yes, but it had to be thought of...' There was a