The Murder on the Links; A Pocket Full of Rye; Destination Unknown
1 journaler for this copy...
A Pocket Full of Rye
Mr Fortescue, old Mr Fortescue that is, was far from universally loved. He had expertly kept within the law to achieve something more than a moderate success for Consolidated Investments. In his prime he must have been physically impressive. Now, he was large, bald and desd. Dead in his own sanctum at Consolidated Invetsments, after drinking a cup of rather special and fussily-brewed tea. That it was a case of poisoning there could be no doubt, but poisoning by whom? Surely the polished and super-efficient private secretary who officiated at the tea-making ritual was the most unlikely of suspects. But then, there were a number of unlikely things about the Fortescue case. Why, in heavan's name, should the dead man have had a handful of rye in his jacket pocket? Before Miss Marple could answer that and other questions death was to flutter around the Fortescue again, and again.
The Murder on the Links
Mr Fortescue, old Mr Fortescue that is, was far from universally loved. He had expertly kept within the law to achieve something more than a moderate success for Consolidated Investments. In his prime he must have been physically impressive. Now, he was large, bald and desd. Dead in his own sanctum at Consolidated Invetsments, after drinking a cup of rather special and fussily-brewed tea. That it was a case of poisoning there could be no doubt, but poisoning by whom? Surely the polished and super-efficient private secretary who officiated at the tea-making ritual was the most unlikely of suspects. But then, there were a number of unlikely things about the Fortescue case. Why, in heavan's name, should the dead man have had a handful of rye in his jacket pocket? Before Miss Marple could answer that and other questions death was to flutter around the Fortescue again, and again.
The Murder on the Links
Destination Unknown
It was a strange proposition. Would she take on the identity of a woman who was not quite dead, but who very soon would be? Jessop did not minimize the dangers involved; in fact the slim chance of her coming out of the adventure alive was part of the bait which he offered. The woman that Hilary was being asked to impersonate lay in a Casablanca hospital, and was dying fast; and Jessop was desperately anxious to get on the trail of her missing husband by any means which might come to hand. A nuclear scientist with Thomas Betterton's knowledge and of such potential value to them was too important a quarry for one woman's life to seem of very much significance - if she was so bent on suicide then she might as well die usefully!
It was a strange proposition. Would she take on the identity of a woman who was not quite dead, but who very soon would be? Jessop did not minimize the dangers involved; in fact the slim chance of her coming out of the adventure alive was part of the bait which he offered. The woman that Hilary was being asked to impersonate lay in a Casablanca hospital, and was dying fast; and Jessop was desperately anxious to get on the trail of her missing husband by any means which might come to hand. A nuclear scientist with Thomas Betterton's knowledge and of such potential value to them was too important a quarry for one woman's life to seem of very much significance - if she was so bent on suicide then she might as well die usefully!
Journal Entry 3 by 
catsalive
at Rooty Hill, New South Wales Australia on Wednesday, February 26, 2014
catsalive at Rooty Hill, New South Wales Australia on Wednesday, February 26, 2014
The Murder on the Links
The summons was urgent, if rather unspecific. The writer wanted the services of a detective (of Hercule Poirot, no less) because he was in daily fear of his life on account of a secret he held. Below the signature, "P.T. Renauld", was a hastily scrawled and barely legible line of writing: "For God's sake, come!" It all seemed highly dramatic; melodramatic, almost. But, of course, Poirot would go, even though it would mean an inconveniently hurried departure fo France. Poirot would probably have answered the call even if the man had not been a millionaire; even if he had not said "name your own fee". As it happened, there was no need for Poirot to concern himself with a diplomatic approach to this delicate aspect of the affair. Because he found, on arrival, that M. Renauld had ceased to have personal need of Poirot's services. He was already quite, quite dead. He had been found a few hours earlier lying, face downwards, in a newly dug grave.
The summons was urgent, if rather unspecific. The writer wanted the services of a detective (of Hercule Poirot, no less) because he was in daily fear of his life on account of a secret he held. Below the signature, "P.T. Renauld", was a hastily scrawled and barely legible line of writing: "For God's sake, come!" It all seemed highly dramatic; melodramatic, almost. But, of course, Poirot would go, even though it would mean an inconveniently hurried departure fo France. Poirot would probably have answered the call even if the man had not been a millionaire; even if he had not said "name your own fee". As it happened, there was no need for Poirot to concern himself with a diplomatic approach to this delicate aspect of the affair. Because he found, on arrival, that M. Renauld had ceased to have personal need of Poirot's services. He was already quite, quite dead. He had been found a few hours earlier lying, face downwards, in a newly dug grave.
