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The room which M. Renauld had chosen for his own particular use was small, but furnished with great taste and comfort. A businesslike writing desk, with many pigeon holes, stood in the window. Two large leather-covered armchairs faced the fireplace, and between them was a round table covered with the latest books and magazines.

Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and at the end of the room opposite the window there was a handsome oak sideboard with a tantalus on top. Poirot stood a moment talking in the room, then he stepped forward, passed his hand lightly over the backs of the leather chairs, picked up a magazine from the table, and drew a finger gingerly over the surface of the oak sideboard.

His face expressed complete approval. The piece of paper was roughly about two inches square. My friend Hastings here will tell you that anything in the least crooked is a torment to me.

The leg of the chair caught it in being pushed back. Whoever did this room. Since there is no dust, the room must have been done this morning. I reconstruct the incident like this. Yesterday, possibly last night, M. Renauld drew a cheque to the order of some one named Duveen.

Afterwards it was torn up, and scattered on the floor. Bex was already pulling impatiently at the bell. Yes, there had been a lot of pieces of paper on the floor. What had she done with them? Put them in the kitchen stove of course! What else? With a gesture of despair, Bex dismissed her. Then, his face lightening, he ran to the desk. Then he repeated his former gesture. The last counterfoil was blank. Renauld received his guest last night, eh? Bex took us out by the back of the house to where there was a small shed leaning against the house.

He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it. We moved it from the scene of the crime just before you arrived, as the photographers had done with it. He opened the door and we passed in. The murdered man lay on the ground, with a sheet over him.

Bex dexterously whipped off the covering. Renauld was a man of medium height, slender and lithe in figure. He looked about fifty years of age, and his dark hair was plentifully streaked with grey. He was clean shaven with a long thin nose, and eyes set rather close together, and his skin was deeply bronzed, as that of a man who had spent most of his life beneath tropical skies.

His lips were drawn back from his teeth and an expression of absolute amazement and terror was stamped on the livid features. Very gently, he turned the dead man over. There, between the shoulder-blades, staining the light fawn overcoat, was a round dark patch. In the middle of it there was a slit in the cloth.

Poirot examined it narrowly. In it was a small object that looked to me more like a paper-knife than anything else. It had a black handle, and a narrow shining blade. The whole thing was not more than ten inches long. Poirot tested the discoloured point gingerly with his finger tip. The veriest amateur of an English Mees knows it—thanks to the publicity the Bertillon system has been given in the Press. All the same, it interests me very much that there were no finger-prints.

It is so amazingly simple to leave the finger-prints of some one else! And then the police are happy. But we shall see. At this minute there was a tap on the door which Bex had closed after him. He strode forward and opened it. She endeavoured to peep in with ghoulish curiosity. She sends a message that she is much recovered, and is quite ready to receive the examining magistrate.

Bex briskly. Hautet and say that we will come at once. Poirot lingered a moment, looking back towards the body. I thought for a moment that he was going to apostrophize it, to declare aloud his determination never to rest till he had discovered the murderer.

But when he spoke, it was tamely and awkwardly, and his comment was ludicrously inappropriate to the solemnity of the moment. We found M. Poirot went up in a zigzag fashion which puzzled me, until he whispered with a grimace:. Renauld mounting the stairs; not a board of them but creaks fit to wake the dead!

A faint voice bade us enter, and we passed into a large sunny apartment looking out towards the sea, which showed blue and sparkling about a quarter of a mile distant. On a couch, propped up with cushions, and attended by Dr. Durand, lay a tall, striking-looking woman. She was middle-aged, and her once dark hair was now almost entirely silvered, but the intense vitality and strength of her personality would have made itself felt anywhere.

I know the value of time, if these scoundrelly assassins are to be caught and punished. It will fatigue you less, I think, if I ask you questions and you confine yourself to answering them. At what time did you go to bed last night? I was awakened by a hand being pressed over my mouth.

I tried to scream out, but the hand prevented me. There were two men in the room. They were both masked. His beard was reddish. They both wore hats pulled down over their eyes. He forced a gag into my mouth, and then bound me with rope hand and foot. The other man was standing over my husband. He had caught up my little dagger paper-knife from the dressing-table and was holding it with the point just over his heart.

When the short man had finished with me, he joined the other, and they forced my husband to get up and accompany them into the dressing-room next door. I was nearly fainting with terror, nevertheless I listened desperately. But I recognized the language, a bastard Spanish such as is spoken in some parts of South America. They seemed to be demanding something from my husband, and presently they grew angry, and their voices rose a little.

I think the tall man was speaking. Where is it? We know you have it. Where are your keys? Soon after that, I think some noise in the house must have disturbed them, for they hustled my husband out into my room only half dressed. They hurried my husband through, the short man in front, and the tall man behind him with the dagger still in his hand.

Paul tried to break away to come to me. I saw his agonized eyes. He turned to his captors. I shall return before morning. He put me off evasively. Nevertheless, I was convinced that he was suffering some terrible anxiety. However, since he evidently wished to conceal the fact from me, I tried to pretend that I had noticed nothing. Hercule Poirot. Renauld from his pocket he handed it to the lady. Certainly my husband had many enemies, people he had got the better of in some way or another, but I can think of no one distinctive case.

I do not say there is no such incident—only that I am not aware of it. Little did they know it would testify against them.

Gently he picked away the fragments of broken glass. Suddenly his face changed to one of utter stupefaction. But Poirot, deft as ever, took the broken trinket from the startled commissary, and held it to his ear.

Then he smiled. The explanation of the mystery was greeted with a relieved smile. But the magistrate bethought him of another point. Possibly the watch gains, is that so, madame? With a gesture of impatience, the magistrate left the matter of the watch and proceeded with his interrogatory. It seems almost certain that the murderers entered that way, yet it has not been forced at all. Can you suggest any explanation? That is an excellent point, M.

Renauld repeated, thoughtfully. He watched Mrs. Renauld narrowly as he spoke, seeking to surprise any signs of anger or consciousness, but she merely shook her head in quite a natural manner. He continued his questions. But for the moment the magistrate was content to say no more. It seemed unlikely that Madame Daubreuil had any connection with the crime, and he was anxious not to upset Mrs.

Renauld more than necessary. He made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod. Then rising, he went across the room, and returned with the glass jar we had seen in the outhouse in his hand. From this, he took the dagger. Your husband was killed with this weapon. It was a present from my son. He was in the Air Force during the War. He gave his age as older than it was. That brings us to another matter. Your son, where is he now?

It is necessary that he should be telegraphed to without delay. My husband telegraphed to him yesterday. He had sent him on business to Paris, but yesterday he discovered that it would be necessary for him to proceed without delay to South America. There was a boat leaving Cherbourg for Buenos Ayres last night, and he wired him to catch it.

He was going overland from there to Santiago. It was at this moment, when we were all stunned by the mention of that word, that Poirot approached Mrs. He had been standing by the window like a man lost in a dream, and I doubt if he had fully taken in what had passed.

Though slightly surprised at the request, Mrs. Renauld held them out to him. Round each of them was a cruel red mark where the cords had bitten into the flesh. As he examined them, I fancied that a momentary flicker of excitement I had seen in his eyes disappeared. Renauld must be communicated with at once by wireless.

It is vital that we should know anything he can tell us about this trip to Santiago. I can bear all that is required of me.

I am ready—now. The doctor hastened forward, a cloak was thrown over Mrs. Bex hurried on ahead to open the door of the shed. In a minute or two Mrs. Renauld appeared in the doorway. She was very pale, but resolute.

Behind her, M. Hautet was clacking commiserations and apologies like an animated hen. She took her hand away and looked down at the dead man. Then the marvellous self-control which had upheld her so far deserted her. Oh, God! Instantly Poirot was beside her, he raised the lid of her eye, felt her pulse. When he had satisfied himself that she had really fainted, he drew aside. He caught me by the arm.

My little idea was all wrong. Eh bien! I must start again! Between them, the doctor and M. Hautet carried the unconscious woman into the house. The commissary looked after them, shaking his head. Well, well, we can do nothing.

Poirot, shall we visit the place where the crime was committed? We passed through the house, and out by the front door. Poirot had looked up at the staircase in passing, and shook his head in a dissatisfied manner. The creaking of that staircase, with three people descending it, would awaken the dead!

But Poirot continued to shake his head as though not fully accepting the explanation. On the sweep of the drive, he paused, looking up at the house.

It was a most unlikely thing that it should be. It was far more probable that they should at once try to force a window. And see—there is a tree by which it would be the easiest thing in the world to mount. I saw the justice of his words. There were two large oval flower-beds planted with scarlet geraniums, one each side of the steps leading up to the front door. The tree in question had its roots actually at the back of the bed itself, and it would have been impossible to reach it without stepping on the bed.

Poirot went close to the bed and studied it attentively. As Bex had said, the mould was perfectly smooth. There was not an indentation on it anywhere. Poirot nodded, as though convinced, and we turned away, but he suddenly darted off and began examining the other flower-bed.

In any case, it would have no importance, since this side we have no tree, and consequently no means of gaining access to the upper story.

I have a little idea that these footprints are the most important things we have seen yet. Bex said nothing, merely shrugged his shoulders. He was far too courteous to utter his real opinion. Instead of following the drive down to the gate, M. Bex turned up a path that branched off at right angles.

It led, up a slight incline, round to the right of the house, and was bordered on either side by a kind of shrubbery. Suddenly it emerged into a little clearing from which one obtained a view of the sea. A seat had been placed here, and not far from it was a rather ramshackle shed.

A few steps further on, a neat line of small bushes marked the boundary of the Villa grounds. Bex pushed his way through these and we found ourselves on a wide stretch of open downs.

I looked round, and saw something that filled me with astonishment. It was some of the men working on them who discovered the body early this morning.

I gave a gasp. A little to my left, where for the moment I had overlooked it, was a long narrow pit, and by it, face downwards, was the body of a man! For a moment, my heart gave a terrible leap, and I had a wild fancy that the tragedy had been duplicated. But the commissary dispelled my illusion by moving forward with a sharp exclamation of annoyance:.

They had strict orders to allow no one near the place without proper credentials! The examining magistrate has been awaiting you with the utmost impatience. As he spoke, I was scanning the new-comer with the keenest curiosity. He was very tall, perhaps about thirty years of age, with auburn hair and moustache, and a military carriage.

There was a trace of arrogance in his manner which showed that he was fully alive to his own importance.

Bex introduced us, presenting Poirot as a colleague. But methods are very different now. I saw at once that Giraud was prepared to be hostile. He resented the other being associated with him, and I felt that if he came across any clue of importance he would be more than likely to keep it to himself.

But Giraud interrupted him rudely:. The light is the important thing. For all practical purposes it will be gone in another half-hour or so. Is it your police who have been trampling all over the place? I thought they knew better nowadays. The marks you complain of were made by the workmen who discovered the body. You can just recognize the centre footmarks as those of M. Renauld, but those on either side have been carefully obliterated.

He seemed about to speak, but checked himself. He bent down to where a spade was lying. Here they are. I tell you, the men who planned out this crime were taking no chances. The man was stabbed with his own dagger, and would have been buried with his own spade. They counted on leaving no traces!

And I mean to find it. But Poirot was now apparently interested in something else, a short discoloured piece of lead-piping which lay beside the spade.

He touched it delicately with his finger. I guessed that he was merely bent on annoying the Paris detective and, if so, he succeeded. The other turned away rudely, remarking that he had no time to waste, and bending down he resumed his minute search of the ground. Meanwhile Poirot, as though struck by a sudden idea, stepped back over the boundary, and tried the door of the little shed.

Bex, to me ecstatically. What a man! Undoubtedly Giraud is the greatest detective alive today. Although I disliked the detective heartily, I nevertheless was secretly impressed. Efficiency seemed to radiate from the man. I could not help feeling that, so far, Poirot had not greatly distinguished himself, and it vexed me.

He seemed to be directing his attention to all sorts of silly, puerile points that had nothing to do with the case. Indeed, at this juncture, he suddenly asked:. Bex, tell me, I pray you, the meaning of this whitewashed line that extends all round the grave. Is it a device of the police? Poirot, it is an affair of the golf course. What a game! The obstacles, they are not arranged mathematically. Even the greens are frequently up one side! There is only one pleasing thing—the how do you call them?

They, at least, are symmetrical. I could not refrain from a laugh at the way the game appeared to Poirot, and my little friend smiled at me affectionately, bearing no malice. Then he asked:. He even had a say in the designing of it. When the men began to dig up the ground, all would have been discovered.

And that is clearly absurd, is it not? As we retraced our steps to the house, M. Giraud himself had been obviously delighted when Poirot declared that he had seen all he wanted. The last thing we observed, as we left the spot, was Giraud, crawling about on all fours, with a thoroughness in his search that I could not but admire. Poirot guessed my thoughts, for as soon as we were alone he remarked ironically:. Is it not so, my friend?

I meant little things—traces that may lead us infallibly to the murderers. But it is the romantic idea that all important clues must be infinitesimal! As to the piece of lead-piping having nothing to do with the crime, you say that because Giraud told you so.

Leave Giraud to his search, and me to my ideas. The case seems straightforward enough—and yet—and yet, mon ami , I am not satisfied! And do you know why? Because of the wrist watch that is two hours fast. And then there are several curious little points that do not seem to fit in. For instance, if the object of the murderers was revenge, why did they not stab Renauld in his sleep and have done with it?

Presumably some distance away, since they wish him to dress himself. Yet he is found murdered close at hand, almost within ear-shot of the house. Then again, it is pure chance that a weapon such as the dagger should be lying about casually, ready to hand.

Were they drugged? Was there an accomplice and did that accomplice see to it that the front door should remain open? He stopped abruptly. We had reached the drive in front of the house. Suddenly he turned to me. I have taken your reproaches to heart! We will examine some footprints!

Bex says that they are the footmarks of the gardener. Let us see if that is so. See, he approaches with his wheelbarrow. Indeed an elderly man was just crossing the drive with a barrowful of seedlings. Poirot called to him, and he set down the barrow and came hobbling towards us. My faith in Poirot revived a little. Since he said the footprints in this right-hand bed were important, presumably they were. They are truly superb.

They have been planted long? But of course, to keep the beds looking smart, one must keep bedding out a few new plants, and remove those that are over, besides keeping the old blooms well picked off. Those in the middle there, and in the other bed also? As Monsieur doubtless knows, one should not put in plants when the sun is hot. You do not use your excellent mental capacities sufficiently.

Well, what of the footmark? At last I am on the right track. I am still in the dark, but, as I hinted just now to M. Bex, these footmarks are the most important and interesting things in the case! That poor Giraud—I should not be surprised if he took no notice of them whatever. Without doubt she will be very much upset by M. The secret that he did not confide to his wife, it is possible that he may have told it to the woman whose love held him enslaved.

I admired the picturesqueness of M. I suspected that the examining magistrate was by now thoroughly enjoying his part in the mysterious drama.

Hautet dryly. We said no more, but fell into line. Poirot walked with the examining magistrate, and the commissary and I followed a few paces behind. It seems that three times in the last six weeks—that is to say since the arrival of M. Renauld at Merlinville—Madame Daubreuil has paid a large sum in notes into her banking account.

Altogether the sum totals two hundred thousand francs! Yes, there can be no doubt that he was absolutely infatuated. But it remains to be seen whether he confided his secret to her. The examining magistrate is hopeful, but I hardly share his views.

During this conversation we were walking down the lane towards the fork in the road where our car had halted earlier in the afternoon, and in another moment I realized that the Villa Marguerite, the home of the mysterious Madame Daubreuil, was the small house from which the beautiful girl had emerged.

She seems to have no friends or relations other than the acquaintances she has made in Merlinville. She never refers to the past, nor to her husband. One does not even know if he is alive or dead. There is a mystery about her, you comprehend. I was prevented from further argument by our arrival at the door. Hautet rang the bell. A few minutes elapsed, and then we heard a footfall within, and the door was opened.

On the threshold stood my young goddess of that afternoon. When she saw us, the colour left her cheeks, leaving her deathly white, and her eyes widened with apprehension. There was no doubt about it, she was afraid! For a moment the girl stood motionless. Her left hand was pressed to her side, as though to still the sudden unconquerable agitation of her heart.

But she mastered herself, and said in a low voice:. She entered a room on the left of the hall, and we heard the low murmur of her voice. And then another voice, much the same in timbre, but with a slightly harder inflection behind its mellow roundness said:.

She was not nearly so tall as her daughter, and the rounded curves of her figure had all the grace of full maturity. Her eyes, half hidden by the drooping lids, were blue. There was a dimple in the round chin, and the half parted lips seemed always to hover on the verge of a mysterious smile. There was something almost exaggeratedly feminine about her, at once yielding and seductive. Though very well preserved, she was certainly no longer young, but her charm was of the quality which is independent of age.

Standing there, in her black dress with the fresh white collar and cuffs, her hands clasped together, she looked subtly appealing and helpless. Hautet cleared his throat. You have heard of it, no doubt? It would, perhaps, be better if we could speak to you alone. I am not a child. I am twenty-two. I shall not go. We have reason to believe that you were in the habit of visiting the dead man at his Villa in the evenings.

Is that so? But you knew the dead man well. Did he ever confide in you as to any danger that threatened him? I really do not see why you should come to me. Cannot his wife tell you what you want to know? The examining magistrate looked at her.

He was aware that he was fighting a duel, and that he had no mean antagonist. Hautet, with calculated brutality. Her eyes flashed fire. And before my daughter! I can tell you nothing. Have the goodness to leave my house! The honours undoubtedly rested with the lady.

We left the Villa Marguerite like a shamefaced pack of schoolboys. The magistrate muttered angry ejaculations to himself. Poirot seemed lost in thought. Suddenly he came out of his reverie with a start, and inquired of M. Hautet if there was a good hotel near at hand.

A few hundred yards down the road. It will be handy for your investigations. We shall see you in the morning then, I presume? Though he has only been here a little over six weeks, they are perfectly well acquainted with M. Undoubtedly the dossier is a great institution.

But what is that? You must not tell my mother. But is it true, what the people say, that M. Renauld called in a detective before he died, and—and that you are he? But how did you learn it? Not that it matters. Well, mademoiselle, what is it you want to know?

The girl hesitated. She seemed longing, yet fearing, to speak. At last, almost in a whisper, she asked:. The girl seemed frightened by the question. And now, mademoiselle, you see what comes of being young and beautiful! I have betrayed professional secrets for you! Any one might be excused for being bowled over by her. Yes, I remember. She is not for you, that one!

Take it from Papa Poirot! A perfect angel! Do not excite yourself! I have not said that I suspected her. But you must admit that her anxiety to know about the case is somewhat unusual. Madame Daubreuil is very well able to look after herself without her daughter worrying about her. I admit I was teasing you just now, but all the same I repeat what I said before.

Do not set your heart on that girl. She is not for you! I, Hercule Poirot, know it. It was a long time ago, when I was still with the Police in Belgium. I have never actually seen the woman before, but I have seen her picture—and in connection with some case. We were up at the Villa betimes next morning. The man on guard at the gate did not bar our way this time. Instead, he respectfully saluted us, and we passed on to the house.

She will eat nothing—but nothing! And she is as pale as a ghost. It is heartrending to see her. Ah, par exemple , it is not I who would grieve like that for a man who had deceived me with another woman! The heart of a woman who loves will forgive many blows. Still, undoubtedly there must have been many scenes of recrimination between them in the last few months? Never have I heard Madame utter a word of protest—of reproach, even! She had the temper and disposition of an angel—quite different to Monsieur.

When he enraged himself, the whole house knew of it. The day that he quarrelled with M. Jack— ma foi! Jack went to Paris. Almost he missed his train. He came out of the library, and caught up his bag which he had left in the hall.

The automobile, it was being repaired, and he had to run for the station. I was dusting the salon, and I saw him pass, and his face was white—white—with two burning spots of red.

Ah, but he was angry! But Monsieur, he was like a thundercloud all day! Impossible to please him! Monsieur the commissary had some idea that it might have been used on the night of the murder. It is cool there on this hot morning. Au revoir. I strolled out of the front door. It was certainly hot. I turned up the path we had taken the day before. I had a mind to study the scene of the crime myself. I did not go directly to the spot, however, but turned aside into the bushes, so as to come out on the links some hundred yards or so further to the right.

If Giraud were still on the spot, I wanted to observe his methods before he knew of my presence. But the shrubbery here was much denser, and I had quite a struggle to force my way through. When I emerged at last on the course, it was quite unexpectedly and with such vigour that I cannoned heavily into a young lady who had been standing with her back to the plantation.

She not unnaturally gave a suppressed shriek, but I, too, uttered an exclamation of surprise. For it was my friend of the train, Cinderella! Have they given you a season ticket to and fro, on the strength of your M. By the way, how is your sister? Little boys should not be inquisitive. Got the M. I shook my head. You remember my telling you that my great friend was a detective? I nodded. There was no doubt that I had scored heavily. Her emotion, as she regarded me, was only too evident. For some few seconds, she remained silent, staring at me.

Then she nodded her head emphatically. Tote me round. I want to see all the horrors. Come on, show me all the sights. The place where it happened, and the weapon, and the body, and any finger-prints or interesting things like that. I turned away, sickened. What were women coming to nowadays? I had read of the mobs of women who besieged the law courts when some wretched man was being tried for his life on the capital charge.

I had sometimes wondered who these women were. Now I knew. They were of the likeness of Cinderella, young, yet obsessed with a yearning for morbid excitement, for sensation at any price, without regard to any decency or good feeling.

I thought of my mother, long since dead. What would she have said of this strange modern product of girlhood? The pretty face with the paint and powder, and the ghoulish mind behind! Of course you would. You see, it might make a big difference to me.

I might make a big scoop with one of the papers. I capitulated. Secretly, I knew that I should rather enjoy the part of showman. After all, the moral attitude displayed by the girl was none of my business. I was a little nervous as to what the examining magistrate might say, but I reassured myself by the reflection that no harm could possibly be done.

We repaired first to the spot where the body had been discovered. A man was on guard there, who saluted respectfully, knowing me by sight, and raised no question as to my companion. Presumably he regarded her as vouched for by me.

I explained to Cinderella just how the discovery had been made, and she listened attentively, sometimes putting an intelligent question. Then we turned our steps in the direction of the Villa. I proceeded rather cautiously, for, truth to tell, I was not at all anxious to meet any one.

I took the girl through the shrubbery round to the back of the house where the small shed was. I recollected that yesterday evening, after relocking the door, M. Giraud should require it while we are upstairs. Leaving the girl out of sight in the shrubbery, I entered the house. Marchaud was on duty outside the door of the salon.

From within came the murmur of voices. But I should very much like the key of the shed outside if it is not against regulations. You will return it to me when you have finished out there, that is all. The girl was waiting for me. She gave an exclamation of delight as she saw the key in my hand. Come along. But do you? This is going to be gruesome, you know, and—unpleasant. She looked at me for a moment with an expression that I could not quite fathom. Then she laughed. In silence we arrived at the door of the shed.

I opened it and we passed in. I walked over to the body, and gently pulled down the sheet as M. Bex had done the preceding afternoon. There was horror on her face now, and those debonair high spirits of hers were quenched utterly.

She had not chosen to listen to my advice, and she was punished now for her disregard of it. I felt singularly merciless towards her. She should go through with it now. I turned the corpse gently over. I left her, and rushed into the house. Fortunately none of the servants were about, and I was able to secure a glass of water unobserved and add a few drops of brandy from a pocket flask. In a few minutes I was back again.

The girl was lying as I had left her, but a few sips of the brandy and water revived her in a marvellous manner. Supporting her with my arm I led her out into the air, and she pulled the door to behind her. Then she drew a deep breath. I felt this to be so feminine that I could not forbear a smile. Secretly, I was not dissatisfied with her collapse. It proved that she was not quite so callous as I had thought her.

After all she was little more than a child, and her curiosity had probably been of the unthinking order. I insist on accompanying you back to Merlinville.

But this she combated with a good deal of energy. In the end, however, I prevailed so far as to be allowed to accompany her to the outskirts of the town. We retraced our steps over our former route, passing the grave again, and making a detour on to the road. Where the first straggling line of shops began, she stopped and held out her hand. Come and look me up tomorrow. I watched her out of sight, then turned and retraced my steps to the Villa.

I remembered that I had not relocked the door of the shed. Fortunately no one had noticed the oversight, and turning the key I removed it and returned it to the sergent de ville.

And, as I did so, it came upon me suddenly that though Cinderella had given me her address I still did not know her name. In the Salon I found the examining magistrate busily interrogating the old gardener Auguste. Poirot and the commissary, who were both present, greeted me respectively with a smile and a polite bow. I slipped quietly into a seat. Hautet was painstaking and meticulous in the extreme, but did not succeed in eliciting anything of importance. The gardening gloves Auguste admitted to be his.

Poirot searches out a murder on a French golf course in a stylish new comic book adaptation. Today the names of H. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, August Derleth, and Clark Ashton Smith, all regular contributors to the pulp magazine Weird Tales during the first half of the twentieth century, are recognizable even to casual readers of the bizarre and fantastic.

And yet despite being more popular than them all during the golden era of genre pulp fiction, there is another author whose name and work have fallen into obscurity: Seabury Quinn. His most famous character, the supernatural French detective Dr. Jules de Grandin, investigated cases involving monsters, devil worshippers, serial killers, and spirits from beyond the grave, often set in the small town of Harrisonville, New Jersey. Collected for the first time in trade editions, The Complete Tales of Jules de Grandin, edited by George Vanderburgh, presents all ninety-three published works featuring the supernatural detective.

Presented in chronological order over five volumes, this is the definitive collection of an iconic pulp hero. Previously published in the print anthology Poirot's Early Cases. On a ship bound for Egypt, a woman is found stabbed to death in her cabin. Unfortunately for the murderer, Hercule Poirot is on board. It features Hercule Poirot and Arthur Hastings.

A dangerous threat. A mysterious woman. A murderous past. Hercule Poirot is hunting a killer! Joining the investigation despite the opposition of a rival detective, he uncovers evidence that leads to the arrest of an innocent man. Poirot must prevent a deadly miscarriage of justice, but how can he succeed when even his close friend is working against him?

Here is a sparkling collection of mystery gems, polished puzzlers from the pen of Agatha Christie starring the vain, eccentric and utterly brilliant Hercule Poirot. Herein the detective deals with the theft of a gem said to have been the eye of a mysterious idol, a million dollars in bonds that disappear from a locked case, jewel thieves who have conceived of a seemingly impossible theft, and even the kidnapping of the Prime Minister of England.

He finds himself battling spies, masters of disguise and even trying to thwart a supposed Egyptian curse. For the next fifty years, writing at any length that took her fancy, Christie would continue to produce some of the finest mysteries ever written.

With an eye-catching new cover, and professionally typeset manuscript, this edition of Poirot Investigates is both modern and readable. It all began one Sunday afternoon around three years ago.

At home by myself, I was lounging on the couch and zapping idly across TV, young and carefree and looking for my kicks. Suddenly, I fell onto the start of an episode of Columbo. It drew me in and I watched it to the end, and after that I'd try and catch another episode whenever I could. Hi-tech procedural cop shows like CSI Wherever never appealed to me, but Columbo's top-drawer plots, writing and characters, plus a dazzling first episode directed by a certain young S.

Spielberg, got me hooked. Betweentimes, lesser but no less entertaining detective shows like The Mentalist and Castle scratched the itch.

Hercule Poirot observed his fellow passengers on the Orient Express: a Russian princess, an English colonel, an American with a strange glint in his eye and many more. He was looking forward to the journey. But is was not to be. After a restless night, he awoke to find that tragedy had struck.

Roger Ackroyd knew too much. He knew that the woman he loved had poisoned her brutal first husband. He suspected also that someone had been blackmailing her. Then, tragically, came the news that she had taken her own life with an apparent drug overdose. However the evening post brought Roger one last fatal scrap of information, but before he could finish reading the letter, he was stabbed to death.

And who was the impassioned love letter in the pocket for? Before Poirot can answer these questions, the case is turned upside down by the discovery of a second, identically murdered corpse.

With twists and turns until the final, satisfying conclusion, The Murder on the Links once again does not disappoint the legion of Agatha Christie fans. By morning, the millionaire Samuel Edward Ratchett lies dead in his compartment, stabbed a dozen times, his door locked from the inside.

Without a shred of doubt, one of his fellow passengers is the murderer. Isolated by the storm, detective Hercule Poirot must find the killer among a dozen of the dead man's enemies, before the murderer decides to strike again. Upon arriving at his home, the Villa Genevieve, local police greet them with news that he has been found dead that morning.

The tranquility of a luxury cruise along the Nile was shattered by the discovery that Linnet Ridgeway had been shot through the head.