1929 Novel By Agatha Christie Novels & Stories

Sunlight cast the shadows of the massive columns into a grid pattern; in the flickering light and shadow, only the light tap of her boot heels could be heard. The man was dazed for a split second, then regained his cold composure. He quickened his pace, turning a corner swiftly and silently, but stopped abruptly, his sharp pupils constricting violently. The slender figure had vanished without a trace, leaving only the empty long corridor, so quiet one could hear a heartbeat. His finger was on the trigger of his gun, yet he felt no threat of falling into a trap. His gaze was suddenly drawn to something. At the end of the corridor was a life-sized statue of the Goddess of Fate.

Gerald looked up. “I’ve found everything about her. She’s dead. She died twenty-four years ago, months after we visited Russia. But she didn’t die in Russia. It was here, in New York.” Gerald frowned. “What did she come to do in New York?” His assistant shook his head. “Find out. In detail.” Gerald bit his fingers, his mind unwillingly connecting dots he didn’t want to connect. At Damien’s Mansion Agatha had waited, but Damien still hadn’t returned. She called Stella again.

Avery and Gio were in their bedroom. I made myself a cup of coffee, locking myself inside the library and searching for a book that would satisfy my craving. I came across a novel titled 'The Black Dahlia' by James Ellroy. The title was quite interesting, so I grabbed the book and sat on one of the armchairs, making myself comfortable and beginning to read. The story was intense. I was sucked into it. i was so invested in the crime fiction book that I almost missed the sound of a knock coming from the door. I used my pen to keep track of the page number, before looking up to see who the hell interrupted my moment with the book.

‘The black coffee’ by Agatha Christie, the great author, caught my eyes as I wanted to read this book for a very long time but I didn’t get to. When I was about to take it, a hand took in a fraction of seconds from behind me, where the book was on top. I turned to see him almost touching my body. His hands are still above me, having the book in his hands. He never forgets to give a death glare at me though I never crossed into his places. “I chose that book first.” I said, with a daring look. “I took that book first.” He smiled with a smirk. “You never come to libraries.” I said.

It's quite straight anyway, thank God. So now, we were in his livingroom, Axel was sitting and my head was rested on his thighs, while I was reading out loud. This time, it was Agatha Christie's turn and her novel And then there were none. I have never read this one before and I was loving it, with the exeption of Axel ruining every plottwist for me and then giggling like a schoolgirl when I got mad at him and swat his chest.

And just seeing him in the picture brings back flashbacks. The bald man. That creep. So I wasn’t drunk, and my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. So all those actually happened. The stalking, the chasing. Then the drink, the bullet in the Champagne. The note. Right! The note! I have it! Jumping to her feet, Agatha rushes to her hand bag that she took along with her and pulling out the tiny chit. “Wow. You really are real.” No shit Sherlock. Slowly she unrolls the note, rereading the words again.

I thought, approaching the front door when I suddenly heard chanting from the outhouse opposite Lakewood. And as I came closer, the chanting became clearer and more audible to listen to. I arrived at the door and placed my ears on it; I wanted to listen to what was happening when one of the girls from the party came. "What are you doing here?". The girl spoke in an audible voice. Loud enough for Jackson and Melvin to stop whatever they were doing and come out to see what was happening.. I was caught and Jackson wasn't too pleased. "Agatha, what are you doing here?".

Not wanting to be pedantic, I gave them a moment to come up with the answer on their own. Fawna furrowed her brow, and Adara shook her head. I hoped that one day I might look down on that head from above, as she kneeled before me with my cock in her mouth . . . . Neither knew the answer, so I said, a bit uncertainly, although I was very certain: “Agatha Christie, wasn’t it?” “That’s it,” said Fawna. “At her home in Devon?” asked Adara. I nodded. “At Greenway. Strange name for a house with a poison garden. Greenway.”

I sat beside her, and she immediately stretched her legs back out, her feet landing in my lap. "What are you reading?" She held up the book without looking away from the page. "A mystery novel. A detective in Victorian London." I caught sight of the cover. A woman in a low-cut dress leaned against a man in a top hat, their faces inches apart in the fog. The Scarlet Letter Murders. I grabbed the book from her hands. "Hey!" She sat up, reaching for it. I flipped through a few pages. My eyes landed on a passage. His mouth found the hollow of her throat as his fingers worked the laces of her corset…