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Murder on the golf course
I
believe
that
a
well
-
known
anecdote
exists
to
the
effect
that
a
young
writer
,
determined
to
make
the
commencement
of
his
story
forcible
and
original
enough
to
catch
and
rivet
the
attention
of
the
most
blasé
of
editors
,
penned
the
following
sentence
:
“
‘
Hell
!
’
said
the
Duchess
.
”
Strangely
enough
,
this
tale
of
mine
opens
in
much
the
same
fashion
.
Only
the
lady
who
gave
utterance
to
the
exclamation
was
not
a
Duchess
!
It
was
a
day
in
early
June
.
I
had
been
transacting
some
business
in
Paris
and
was
returning
by
the
morning
service
to
London
where
I
was
still
sharing
rooms
with
my
old
friend
,
the
Belgian
ex
-
detective
,
Hercule
Poirot
.
The
Calais
express
was
singularly
empty
—
in
fact
,
my
own
compartment
held
only
one
other
traveller
.
I
had
made
a
somewhat
hurried
departure
from
the
hotel
and
was
busy
assuring
myself
that
I
had
duly
collected
all
my
traps
when
the
train
started
.
Up
till
then
I
had
hardly
noticed
my
companion
,
but
I
was
now
violently
recalled
to
the
fact
of
her
existence
.
Jumping
up
from
her
seat
,
she
let
down
the
window
and
stuck
her
head
out
,
withdrawing
it
a
moment
later
with
the
brief
and
forcible
ejaculation
“
Hell
!
”
Now
I
am
old
-
fashioned
.
A
woman
,
I
consider
,
should
be
womanly
.
I
have
no
patience
with
the
modern
neurotic
girl
who
jazzes
from
morning
to
night
,
smokes
like
a
chimney
,
and
uses
language
which
would
make
a
Billingsgate
fishwoman
blush
!
I
looked
up
now
,
frowning
slightly
,
into
a
pretty
,
impudent
face
,
surmounted
by
a
rakish
little
red
hat
.
A
thick
cluster
of
black
curls
hid
each
ear
.
I
judged
that
she
was
little
more
than
seventeen
,
but
her
face
was
covered
with
powder
,
and
her
lips
were
quite
impossibly
scarlet
.
Nothing
abashed
,
she
returned
my
glance
,
and
executed
an
expressive
grimace
.
