Agatha Christie: Miss Marple Omnibus
Agatha Christie: Miss Marple Omnibus
Agatha Christie: Miss Marple Omnibus
Agatha Christie: Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories
Also Available
Agatha Christie: The Mary Westmacott Collection
Agatha Christie: The Mary Westmacott Collection
Author’s Foreword to Miss Marple and the Thirteen Problems
These problems were Miss Marple’s first introduction to the world of detective story readers. Miss Marple has some faint affinity with my own grandmother, also a pink and white pretty old lady who, although having led the most sheltered and Victorian of lives, nevertheless always appeared to be intimately acquainted with all the depths of human depravity. One could be made to feel incredibly naïve and credulous by her reproachful remark: ‘But did you believe what they said to you? You shouldn’t do that. I never do!’
I enjoyed writing the Miss Marple stories very much, conceived a great affection for my fluffy old lady, and hoped that she might be a success. She was. After the first six stories had appeared, six more were requested, Miss Marple had definitely come to stay.
She has appeared now in several books and also in a play – and actually rivals Hercule Poirot in popularity. I get about an equal number of letters, one lot saying: ‘I wish you would always have Miss Marple and not Poirot,’ and the other ‘I wish you would have Poirot and not Miss Marple.’ I myself incline to her side. I think, that she is at her best in the solving of short problems; they suit her more intimate style. Poirot, on the other hand, insists on a full length book to display his talents.
These Thirteen Problems contain, I consider, the real essence of Miss Marple for those who like her.
AGATHA CHRISTIE
Penguin edition, 1953
‘The Actress’ was first published as ‘A Trap for the Unwary’ in The Novel Magazine, May 1923.
The shabby man in the fourth row of the pit leant forward and stared incredulously at the stage. His shifty eyes narrowed furtively.
‘Nancy Taylor!’ he muttered. ‘By the Lord, little Nancy Taylor!’
His glance dropped to the programme in his hand. One name was printed in slightly larger type than the rest.
‘Olga Stormer! So that’s what she calls herself. Fancy yourself a star, don’t you, my lady? And you must be making a pretty little pot of money, too. Quite forgotten your name was ever Nancy Taylor, I daresay. I wonder now – I wonder now what you’d say if Jake Levitt should remind you of the fact?’
The curtain fell on the close of the first act. Hearty applause filled the auditorium. Olga Stormer, the great emotional actress, whose name in a few short years had become a household word, was adding yet another triumph to her list of successes as ‘Cora’, in The Avenging Angel.
Jake Levitt did not join in the clapping, but a slow, appreciative grin gradually distended his mouth. God! What luck! Just when he was on his beam-ends, too. She’d try to bluff it out, he supposed, but she couldn’t put it over on him. Properly worked, the thing was a gold-mine!
On the following morning the first workings of Jake Levitt’s gold-mine became apparent. In her drawing-room, with its red lacquer and black hangings, Olga Stormer read and re-read a letter thoughtfully. Her pale face, with its exquisitely mobile features, was a little more set than usual, and every now and then the grey-green eyes under the level brows steadily envisaged the middle distance, as though she contemplated the threat behind rather than the actual words of the letter.
In that wonderful voice of hers which could throb with emotion or be as clear-cut as the click of a typewriter, Olga called: ‘Miss Jones!’
A neat young woman with spectacles, a shorthand pad and a pencil clasped in her hand, hastened from an adjoining room.
‘Ring up Mr Danahan, please, and ask him to come round, immediately.’
Syd Danahan, Olga Stormer’s manager, entered the room with the usual apprehension of the man whose life it is to deal with and overcome the vagaries of the artistic feminine. To coax, to soothe, to bully, one at a time or all together, such was his daily routine. To his relief, Olga appeared calm and composed, and merely flicked a note across the table to him.
‘Read that.’
The letter was scrawled in an illiterate hand, on cheap paper.
Dear Madam,
I much appreciated your performance in The Avenging Angel last night. I fancy we have a mutual friend in Miss Nancy Taylor, late of Chicago. An article regarding her is to be published shortly. If you would care to discuss same, I could call upon you at any time convenient to yourself.
Yours respectfully,
Jake Levitt
Danahan looked slightly bewildered.
‘I don’t quite get it. Who is this Nancy Taylor?’
‘A girl who would be better dead, Danny.’ There was bitterness in her voice and a weariness that revealed her 34 years. ‘A girl who was dead until this carrion crow brought her to life again.’
‘Oh! Then …’
‘Me, Danny. Just me.’
‘This means blackmail, of course?’
She nodded. ‘Of course, and by a man who knows the art thoroughly.’
Danahan frowned, considering the matter. Olga, her cheek pillowed on a long, slender hand, watched him with unfathomable eyes.
‘What about bluff? Deny everything. He can’t be sure that he hasn’t been misled by a chance resemblance.’
Olga shook her head.
‘Levitt makes his living by blackmailing women. He’s sure enough.’
‘The police?’ hinted Danahan doubtfully.
Her faint, derisive smile was answer enough. Beneath her self-control, though he did not guess it, was the impatience of the keen brain watching a slower brain laboriously cover the ground it had already traversed in a flash.
‘You don’t – er – think it might be wise for you to – er – say something yourself to Sir Richard? That would partly spike his guns.’
The actress’s engagement
