Five Little Pigs. Agatha Christie

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Five Little Pigs - Agatha Christie


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      Five Little Pigs

       Copyright

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

      1 London Bridge Street

      London SE1 9GF

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by Collins 1942

      Copyright © 1942 Agatha Christie Ltd. All rights reserved.

      Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013

      Cover design by Ghost Design

      Cover photograph © Mohammad Itani / Trevillion Images

       www.agathachristie.com

      Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

      All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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 ebooks

      HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

      Source ISBN: 9780007120734

       Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007422340

       Version: 2018-08-13

       Dedication

      To Stephen Glanville

      Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       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

       Keep Reading

       About the Author

       The Agatha Christie Collection

       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—I’ve got to have—the best.’

      ‘Rest assured,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘I am the best!’

      Carla


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