The writing on the wall …
She was lying on her side, her attitude natural and peaceful. But above the ear was a tiny hole with an
incrustation of dried blood round it.
Then Poirot’s gaze tell on the white painted wall above her and he drew in his breath sharply.
Its white neatness was marred by a big wavering letter J scrawled in some brownish-red medium. He leaned over the dead girl and very gently picked up her right hand. One finger of it was stained a brownish-red …
“The construction is flawless…
Poirot excels himself.” Daily Mail.
Por segunda vez en Styles, escenario del primer éxito de Poirot, se iba a cometer un homicidio. El autor ya había matado impunemente en cinco ocasiones. Como todos los criminales, se creía más inteligente que nadie. Y eso es algo que Poirot no puede consentir. Poirot ha vuelto a Styles porque pretende localizar a ese asesino. Pero el detective es ahora un inválido, condenado por la artrosis a una silla de ruedas y con un corazón enfermo.
There was only one person in the room and the only sound to be heard was the scratching of that person’s pen as it traced line after line across the paper.
There was no one to read the words that were being traced. If there had been, they would hardly have believed their eyes. For what was being written was a clear, carefully detailed project for murder.
The figure sitting writing raised its head. Across the serious face a smile came. It was a smile that was not quite sane.
The figure drew a deep breath. There was one thing lacking still .
With a smile the writer traced a date a date in September.
Poirot se enfrenta a uno de los casos más desconcertantes de su carrera.
Sir Charles Cartwright debería habérselo pensado dos veces antes de invitar a cenar a trece personas en su casa. Pues la velada concluye con uno de los invitados muerto tras haber ingerido un cóctel en el que no se encuentra ningún rastro de veneno.