The Clocks: 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. Time is ticking away for a murderer in Christie’s classic, The Clocks, as Poirot investigates the strange case of a corpse surrounded by numerous timepieces in a blind woman’s house.
that was, or a china clock with flowers on it—or a leather clock with the name Rosemary written across the corner?” “Of course there wasn’t. No such thing.” “You would have noticed them if they had been there?” “Of course I should.” “Each of these four clocks represented a time about an hour later than the cuckoo clock and the grandfather clock.” “Must have been foreign,” said Mrs. Curtin. “Me and my old man went on a coach trip to Switzerland and Italy once and it was a whole hour further
no real desire to hear the stories brought in by their loquacious daily help. His sister never lost time in debunking these lurid flights of fancy, but nevertheless enjoyed them. “Some people are saying,” said Miss Waterhouse, “that this man was the treasurer or a trustee of the Aaronberg Institute and that there is something wrong in the accounts, and that he came to Miss Pebmarsh to inquire about it.” “And that Miss Pebmarsh murdered him?” Mr. Waterhouse looked mildly amused. “A blind woman?
else and they clap them back again. And as I say, the rumours! I mean, what with our daily woman and the milk and paper boy, you’d be surprised. One says he was strangled with picture wire, and the other says he was stabbed. Someone else that he was coshed. At any rate it was a he, wasn’t it? I mean, it wasn’t the old girl who was done in? An unknown man, the papers said.” Mr. Bland came to a full stop at last. Hardcastle smiled and said in a deprecating voice: “Well, as to unknown, he had a
anaemic, and had all the airs of an invalid who accepts her invalidism with a certain amount of enjoyment. For a moment or two, she reminded Inspector Hardcastle of somebody. He tried to think who it was, but failed. The faint, rather plaintive voice continued. “My health isn’t very good, Inspector Hardcastle, so my husband naturally tries to spare me any shocks or worry. I’m very sensitive. You were speaking about a photograph, I think, of the—of the murdered man. Oh dear, how terrible that
body of a dead man. The coroner then asked him: “Have you been able to identify the dead man?” “Not as yet, sir. For that reason, I would ask for this inquest to be adjourned.” “Quite so.” Then came the medical evidence. Doctor Rigg, the police surgeon, having described himself and his qualifications, told of his arrival at 19, Wilbraham Crescent, and of his examination of the dead man. “Can you give us an approximate idea of the time of death, Doctor?” “I examined him at half past three. I