Agatha Christie

“ Not only is truth stranger than fiction—it is more dramatic. Think of that solid middle-class English family, the Oglanders. Father and mother, son and daughter, typical of thousands of families all over this country. The men of the family go to the city every day; the women look after the house. Their lives are perfectly peaceful, and utterly monotonous. Last night they were sitting in their neat suburban drawing room at Daisymead, Streatham, playing bridge. Suddenly, without any warning, the French window bursts open, and a woman staggers into the room. ”

“ Poirot waved his hand. "I comprehend your anxiety. Mademoiselle Saintclair is a very dear friend, is it not so?"
The prince replied simply: "I hope to make her my wife."
Poirot sat up in his chair, and his eyes opened.
The prince continued: "I should not be the first of my family to make a morganatic marriage. My brother Alexander has also defied the Emperor. We are living now in more enlightened days, free from the old caste-prejudice. Besides, Mademoiselle Saintclair, in actual fact, is quite my equal in rank. ”

“ Family strength is a marvellous thing. They can all act, that family. That is where Valerie gets her histrionic talent from. I, like Prince Paul, believe in heredity! They deceived me! But for a lucky accident, and test question to Mrs. Oglander by which I got her to contradict her daughter’s account of how they were sitting, the Oglander family would have put a defeat on Hercule Poirot. ”

“ The tragedy had to occur in the back window in order to make it appear that Valerie Saintclair came to Daisymead by chance. Really, of course, she fainted, and John Oglander carried her across over his shoulders. That is why I said he must be a strong man."
"Did they go there together, then?"
"Yes. You remember Valerie’s hesitation when I asked her if she was not afraid to go alone? John Oglander went with her—which didn’t improve Reedburn’s temper, I fancy. They quarrelled, and it was probably some insult levelled at Valerie that made Oglander hit him. The rest, you know." ”

“ As a result of Mademoiselle’s first murmured words when she came round, the two male Oglanders stepped out, one to fetch a doctor to attend to the lady, who was evidently suffering terribly from shock, and the other to the police station—whence after telling his story, he accompanied the police to Mon Désir, Mr. Reedburn’s magnificent villa, which is situated at no great distance from Daisymead. There they found the great man, who by the way suffers from a somewhat unsavoury reputation, lying in the library with the back of his head cracked open like an eggshell. ”

“ Poirot led the way down through the garden, out through an iron gate, across a short stretch of green and in through the garden gate of Daisymead, which was an unpretentious little house in about half an acre of ground. There was a small flight of steps leading up to a French window. Poirot nodded in their direction.
"That is the way Mademoiselle Saintclair went. For us, who have not her urgency to plead, it will be better to go round to the front door."
A maid admitted us and took us into the drawing room, then went in search of Mrs. Oglander. ”

“ It would be to no one’s advantage to give an accident the appearance of murder."
"Quite so," acquiesced Poirot. "Could either of the blows have been struck by a woman, do you think?"
"Oh, quite out of the question, I should say. You are thinking of Mademoiselle Saintclair, I suppose?"
"I think of no one in particular until I am sure," said Poirot gently.
He turned his attention to the open French window, and the doctor continued: "It is through here that Mademoiselle Saintclair fled. You can just catch a glimpse of Daisymead between the trees. ”

“ She utters one word, "Murder!" before she sinks to the ground insensible. It is possible that they recognize her from her pictures as Valerie Saintclair, the famous dancer who has lately taken London by storm!"
"Is this your eloquence, or that of the Daily Newsmonger?" inquired Poirot.
"The Daily Newsmonger was in a hurry to go to press, and contented itself with bare facts. But the dramatic possibilities of the story struck me at once."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Wherever there is human nature, there is drama. But—it is not always just where you think it is. Remember that. ”

“ Poirot looked at him keenly. "Had she any reason to fear him?"
The young man hesitated. "There was an incident. You know Zara, the clairvoyant?"
"No."
"She is wonderful. You should consult her some time. Valerie and I went to see her last week. She read the cards for us. She spoke to Valerie of trouble—of gathering clouds; then she turned up the last card—the covering card, they call it. It was the king of clubs. She said to Valerie: ‘Beware. There is a man who holds you in his power. You fear him—you are in great danger through him. You know whom I mean?’ Valerie was white to the lips. ”

“ (That is the worst of Poirot. Order and Method are his gods. He goes so far as to attribute all his success to them.) ”

“ "Wherever there is human nature, there is drama. ”

“ And then, about eleven o’clock, the police came."
"How many voices did you hear?"
"I couldn’t say, sir. I only noticed the lady’s."
"Ah!"
"I beg pardon, sir, but Dr. Ryan is still in the house, if you would care to see him." We jumped at the suggestion, and in a few minutes the doctor, a cheery, middle-aged man, joined us, and gave Poirot all the information he required. Reedburn had been lying near the window, his head by the marble window seat. There were two wounds, one between the eyes, and the other, the fatal one, on the back of the head. ”