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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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“H’m,” I said. “The Honorable Rupert Carrington is no beauty, by all accounts. He’d pretty well run through his own money on the turf, and I should imagine old man Halliday’s dollars came along in the nick of time. I should say that for a good-looking, well-mannered, utterly unscrupulous young scoundrel, it would be hard to find his match!”

 

“Then that settles it! Rupert Carrington is cleared.”

 

“Un moment,” interrupted Poirot. “Who had charge of the jewels? Your daughter, or the maid?”

 

“It was of the most simple.” Poirot waved a deprecating hand, then helped himself to more caviare. It is not every day that one lunches with a millionaire.

 

“Is there nothing to account for your daughter’s sudden change of plan?”

 

“That was a very interesting story you told us last night,” I said, breaking the silence.

 

“By the way,” I remarked, “that reminds me of a rather exciting tale I heard. A friend of mine was out on a shooting trip somewhere in East Africa. One night he came out of his tent for some reason, and was startled by a low growl. He turned sharply and saw a lion crouching to spring. He had left his rifle in the tent. Quick as thought, he ducked, and the lion sprang right over his head. Annoyed at having missed him, the animal growled and prepared to spring again. Again he ducked, and again the lion sprang right over him. This happened a third time, but by now he was close to the entrance of the tent, and he darted in and seized his rifle. When he emerged, rifle in hand, the lion had disappeared. That puzzled him greatly. He crept round the back of the tent, where there was a little clearing. There, sure enough, was the lion, busily practising low jumps.”

 

At that minute, Colonel Race stepped in through the window and came and joined us.

 

I thanked her, and said I felt slightly more like a human being.

 

To-morrow we shall be going through Bechuanaland. The dust will be atrocious. Also at every station, little Kafir children come and sell you quaint wooden animals that they carve themselves. Also mealie bowls and baskets. I am rather afraid that Mrs. Blair may run amok. There is a primitive charm about these toys that I feel will appeal to her.

 

“As my colleague says,” continued Lord Estair, “that affair is over and done with. Luckily, it failed. I wished I could say as much for the second attempt.”

 

“Why did you not say all this when you were arrested?”

 

“But I make money nowadays! Why should I not indulge a whim? By the way, Hastings, have you a revolver?”

 

And smiling and talking, the amazing little man conducted the bewildered nobleman to the door. He returned gently rubbing his hands.

 

“Let them mount,” said Poirot, carefully folding his grey trousers.

 

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