You like apples, don’t you?” said Joyce. ” I read you did, or perhaps I heard it on the telly.
You’re the one who writes murder stories, aren’t you?”
“Yes”, said Mrs Oliver.
“We ought to hove made you do something connected with murders. Have a murder at the party tonight and make people solve it.”
Hallowe’en Party, Agatha Christie
There they were well down to it, their faces serious, the bids coming quickly.
And the raised voice was his official voice, so different that all the heads at the
bridge table turned to him, and Anne Meredith’s hand remained poised over an
ace of spades in dummy.
“I’m sorry to tell you all,” he said, “that our host, Mr. Shaitana, is dead.”
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