Five Little Pigs: 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…including the classic Five Little Pigs, which has Hercule Poirot racing to solve a case from out of the past.
told me that Mrs. Crale put up with many hard things in her married life?” “Yes, and didn’t she let everybody know about it! Always the martyr! Poor old Amyas. His married life was one long hell—or rather it would have been if it hadn’t been for his exceptional quality. His art, you see—he always had that. It was an escape. When he was painting he didn’t care, he shook off Caroline and her nagging and all the ceaseless rows and quarrels. They were endless, you know. Not a week passed without a
presently they were rowing across to the other side. “We always went this way in the old days,” Meredith explained. “Unless, of course, there was a storm or it was raining, and then we’d take the car. But it’s nearly three miles if you go round that way.” He ran the boat neatly alongside a stone quay on the other side. He cast a disparaging eye on a collection of wooden huts and some concrete terraces. “All new, this. Used to be a boathouse—tumbledown old place—and nothing else. And one walked
Tate Gallery,” Poirot reminded her. Miss Williams sniffed. “Possibly. So is one of Mr. Epstein’s statues, I believe.” Poirot perceived that, according to Miss Williams, the last word had been said. He abandoned the subject of art. He said: “You were with Mrs. Crale when she found the body?” “Yes. She and I went down from the house together after lunch. Angela had left her pullover on the beach after bathing, or else in the boat. She was always very careless about her things. I parted from
possible effect on the jury. And then old Humpie got up. I expect you’ve seen him? He’s a great loss. Hitching his gown up, swaying back on his feet—and then—straight off the mark! “As I tell you, he made mincemeat of her! Led up to this and that—and she fell into the pitfall every time. He got her to admit the absurdities of her own statements, he got her to contradict herself, she floundered in deeper and deeper. And then he wound up with his usual stuff. Very compelling—very convinced: ‘I
muscles. I do not need to bend and measure the footprints and pick up the cigarette ends and examine the bent blades of grass. It is enough for me to sit back in my chair and think. It is this”—he tapped his egg-shaped head—“this that functions!” “I know,” said Carla Lemarchant. “That’s why I’ve come to you. I want you, you see, to do something fantastic!” “That,” said Hercule Poirot, “promises well!” He looked at her in encouragement. Carla Lemarchant drew a deep breath. “My name,” she