The Murder on the Links
On a French golf course, a millionaire is found stabbed in the back…An urgent cry for help brings Poirot to France. But he arrives too late to save his client, whose brutally stabbed body now lies face downwards in a shallow grave on a golf course.But why is the dead man wearing his son’s overcoat? 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…
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The Murder on the Links
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by
The Bodley Head Ltd 1923
Agatha Christie® Poirot® The Murder on the Linksâ¢
Copyright © 1923 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Title lettering by Ghost Design
Cover photograph © Alex Telfer/Gallery Stock (golfing grounds); Evening Standard/Getty Images (figure)
Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008129460
Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780007422562
Version: 2017-04-13
TO MY HUSBAND
A fellow enthusiast for detective stories, and to whom I am indebted for much helpful advice and criticism
Contents
CHAPTER 3: At the Villa Geneviève
CHAPTER 4: The Letter Signed âBellaâ
CHAPTER 5: Mrs Renauldâs Story
CHAPTER 6: The Scene of the Crime
CHAPTER 7: The Mysterious Madame Daubreuil
CHAPTER 8: An Unexpected Meeting
CHAPTER 9: M. Giraud Finds Some Clues
CHAPTER 12: Poirot Elucidates Certain Points
CHAPTER 13: The Girl With the Anxious Eyes
CHAPTER 17: We Make Further Investigations
CHAPTER 19: I Use My Grey Cells
CHAPTER 20: An Amazing Statement
CHAPTER 21: Hercule Poirot on the Case
CHAPTER 23: Difficulties Ahead
CHAPTER 25: An Unexpected Dénouement
CHAPTER 26: I Receive a Letter
I believe that a well-known anecdote exists to the effect that a young writer, determined to make the commencement of his story forcible and original enough to catch and rivet the attention of the most blasé of editors, penned the following sentence:
ââHell!â said the Duchess.â
Strangely enough, this tale of mine opens in much the same fashion. Only the lady who gave utterance to the exclamation was not a duchess.
It was a day in early June. I had been transacting some business in Paris and was returning by the morning service to London, where I was still sharing rooms with my old friend, the Belgian ex-detective, Hercule Poirot.
The Calais express was singularly emptyâin fact, my own compartment held only one other traveller. I had made a somewhat hurried departure from the hotel and was busy assuring myself that I had duly collected all my traps, when the train started. Up till then I had hardly noticed my companion, but I was now violently recalled to the fact of her existence. Jumping up from her seat, she let down the window and stuck her head out, withdrawing it a moment later with the brief and forcible ejaculation âHell!â
Now I am old-fashioned. A woman, I consider, should be womanly. I have no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a Billingsgate fishwoman blush!
I looked up, frowning slightly, into a pretty, impudent face, surmounted by a rakish little red hat. A thick cluster of black curls hid each ear. I judged that she was little more than seventeen, but her face was covered with powder, and her lips were quite impossibly scarlet.
Nothing abashed, she returned my glance, and executed an expressive grimace.
âDear me, weâve shocked the kind gentleman!â she observed to an imaginary audience. âI apologize for my language! Most unladylike, and all that, but, oh, Lord, thereâs reason enough for it! Do you know Iâve lost my only sister?â
âReally?â I said politely. âHow unfortunate.â
âHe disapproves!â remarked the lady. âHe disapproves utterlyâof me, and my sisterâwhich last is unfair, because he hasnât seen her!â
I opened my mouth, but she forestalled me.
âSay no more! Nobody loves me! I shall go into the garden and eat worms! Boohoo. I am crushed!â
