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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away.

 

We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase.

 

There was the murmur of a man’s voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp’s rose in reply:

 

“What do you want me to do?” asked John, unable to help a faint smile. “Dash it all, Evie, I can’t haul him down to the local police station by the scruff of his neck.”

 

“One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this.” He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders.

 

But, if not in Florence, where had he been? In England? Actually in England at the time of the Mill House Mystery? I decided on a bold step.

 

Suddenly conscious of our scrutiny, he turned abruptly and disappeared.

 

Madame Nadina accepted the tribute with the ease of long habit and passed on to her dressing-room, where bouquets were heaped carelessly everywhere, marvellous garments of futuristic design hung on pegs, and the air was hot and sweet with the scent of the massed blossoms and with more sophisticated perfumes and essences. Jeanne, the dresser, ministered to her mistress, talking incessantly and pouring out a stream of fulsome compliment.

 

I had read the phrase or something like it in a money-lender’s circular, and I was rather pleased with it. It certainly had a devastating effect upon Mr. Chichester-Pettigrew. He opened his mouth and then shut it again. I beamed upon him.

 

“I was at the next table also inquiring about houses. Then suddenly in walked Anita Grünberg, Nadina—whatever you like to call her. Superb, insolent, and almost as beautiful as ever. God! how I hated her. There she was, the woman who had ruined my life—and who had also ruined a better life than mine. At that minute I could have put my hands round her neck and squeezed the life out of her inch by inch! Just for a minute or two I saw red. I hardly took in what the agent was saying. It was her voice that I heard next, high and clear, with an exaggerated foreign accent: ‘The Mill House, Marlow. The property of Sir Eustace Pedler. That sounds as though it might suit me. At any rate, I will go and see it.’

 

“Épatant!” he murmured. “You permit, madame?” He took the jewel in his own hand and scrutinized it keenly, then restored it to her with a little bow. “A magnificent stone—without a flaw. Ah, cent tonnerres! and you carry it about with you, comme ça!”

 

“I understand that I have carte blanche, messieurs—in every way, I mean? I must be able to go where I choose, and how I choose.”

 

“Eh, eh! but that is very charming of you. My grey cells are at your disposal. You have made no search yourself?”

 

Japp’s face fell. “Yes. . . . But somehow I’ve got the feeling he’s alive all right.”

 

“Toujours pratique, the good Hastings! Eh bien, to begin with we are going to cable to New York for fuller details of young Mr. Bleibner’s death.”

 

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