FiveLittlePigs - (EPUB全文下载)

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Five Little Pigs
To Stephen Glanville
Contents
About Agatha Christie
The Agatha Christie Collection
E-book Extras
Introduction
Book I
1 Counsel for the Defence
2 Counsel for the Prosecution
3 The Young Solicitor
4 The Old Solicitor
5 The Police Superintendent
6 This Little Pig Went to Market…
7 This Little Pig Stayed at Home
8 This Little Pig Had Roast Beef
9 This Little Pig Had None
10 This Little Pig Cried ‘Wee Wee Wee’
Book II
Narrative of Philip Blake
Narrative of Meredith Blake
Narrative of Lady Dittisham
Narrative of Cecilia Williams
Narrative of Angela Warren
Book III
1 Conclusions
2 Poirot Asks Five Questions
3 Reconstruction
4 Truth
5 Aftermath
Copyright
www.agathachristie.com
About the Publisher
Introduction
Carla Lemarchant
Hercule Poirot looked with interest and appreciation at the young woman
who was being ushered into the room.
There had been nothing distinctive in the letter she had written. It had
been a mere request for an appointment, with no hint of what lay behind that
request. It had been brief and business-like. Only the firmness of the
handwriting had indicated that Carla Lemarchant was a young woman.
And now here she was in the flesh—a tall, slender young woman in the
early twenties. The kind of young woman that one definitely looked at twice.
Her clothes were good, an expensive well-cut coat and skirt and luxurious
furs. Her head was well poised on her shoulders, she had a square brow, a
sensitively cut nose and a determined chin. She looked very much alive. It
was her aliveness, more than her beauty, which struck the predominant note.
Before her entrance, Hercule Poirot had been feeling old—now he felt
rejuvenated—alive—keen!
As he came forward to greet her, he was aware of her dark grey eyes
studying him attentively. She was very earnest in that scrutiny.
She sat down and accepted the cigarette that he offered her. After it was
lit she sat for a minute or two smoking, still looking at him with that earnest,
thoughtful gaze.
Poirot said gently:
‘Yes, it has to be decided, does it not?’
She started. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Her voice was attractive, with a faint, agreeable huskiness in it.
‘You are making up your mind, are you not, whether I am a mere
mountebank, or the man you need?’
She smiled. She said:
‘Well, yes—something of that kind. You see, M. Poirot, you—you don’t
look exactly the way I pictured you.’
‘And I am old, am I not? Older than you imagined?’
‘Yes, that too.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m being frank, you see. I want— ............

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