“Freddie, give me your wrist watch as as a souvenir, will you?”
Slowly Frederica unclasped the jeweled watch from her wrist and handed it to Nick.
“Thanks. And now I suppose we must go through with this perfectly ridiculous comedy.”
“The comedy you planned and produced in End House. Yes but you should not have given the star part to Hercule Poirot. That, Mademoiselle, was your mistake your very grave mistake.”
Peril at End House, by Agatha Christie
For what he was looking at was a highly artificial murder scene. By the side of the pool was the body, artistically arranged with an outflung arm and even some red paint dripping gently over the edge of the concrete into the pool. It was a spectacular body, that of a handsome fair-haired man.
The Hollow, Agatha Christie
“Imagine, Hastings,” he said, “that house there-the one on the point that we have admired so much, it belongs to Mademoiselle here.”
“Indeed?” I said, though I was unable to recall having expressed any admiration. In fact I had hardly noticed the house.
“It looks rather eerie and imposing standing there by itself far from anything.”
“It’s called End House,” said the girl. “I love it but it’s a tumble-down old place. Going to rack and ruin.”
Peril at End House