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Mystery Cases For Christmas - Test your Power of Deduction During the Holidays The Mystery of Room Five, Sherlock Holmes - The Blue Carbuncle, The Flying Stars, Mr Wray's Cash Box, Mustapha, The Grave by the Handpost, A Christmas Capture and many more von Doyle, Arthur Conan (eBook)

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Mystery Cases For Christmas - Test your Power of Deduction During the Holidays

Who doesn't like a dose of mystery in a festive season? And who would ever say no to the master story tellers when they have these tingling Christmas mysteries for you: The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle (Arthur Conan Doyle) The Black Bag Left on a Door-Step (Catherine L. Pirkis) A Policeman's Business (Edgar Wallace) The Flying Stars (G. K. Chesterton) Percival Bland's Proxy (R. Austin Freeman) A Christmas Capture (Fred M. White) McAllister's Christmas (Arthur Cheney Train) The Mystery of Room Five (Fred White) Stuffing (Edgar Wallace) Mr Wray's Cash Box or, the Mask and the Mystery (Wilkie Collins) The Adventure of the Second Swag (Robert Barr) An Exciting Christmas Eve or, My Lecture on Dynamite (Arthur Conan Doyle) A Chaparral Christmas Gift (O. Henry) A Christmas Tragedy (Emmuska Orczy) Mustapha (Sabine Baring-Gould) The Thieves Who Couldn't Stop Sneezing (Thomas Hardy) Joseph: A Story (Katherine Rickford) The Grave by the Handpost (Thomas Hardy)

Produktinformationen

    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: watermark
    Seitenzahl: 319
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9788027301331
    Verlag: e-artnow
    Größe: 2037 kBytes
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Mystery Cases For Christmas - Test your Power of Deduction During the Holidays

The Flying Stars

Table of Contents
"The most beautiful crime I ever committed," Flambeau would say in his highly moral old age, "was also, by a singular coincidence, my last. It was committed at Christmas. As an artist I had always attempted to provide crimes suitable to the special season or landscapes in which I found myself, choosing this or that terrace or garden for a catastrophe, as if for a statuary group. Thus squires should be swindled in long rooms panelled with oak; while Jews, on the other hand, should rather find themselves unexpectedly penniless among the lights and screens of the Café Riche. Thus, in England, if I wished to relieve a dean of his riches (which is not so easy as you might suppose), I wished to frame him, if I make myself clear, in the green lawns and grey towers of some cathedral town. Similarly, in France, when I had got money out of a rich and wicked peasant (which is almost impossible), it gratified me to get his indignant head relieved against a grey line of clipped poplars, and those solemn plains of Gaul over which broods the mighty spirit of Millet.

"Well, my last crime was a Christmas crime, a cheery, cosy, English middle-class crime; a crime of Charles Dickens. I did it in a good old middle-class house near Putney, a house with a crescent of carriage drive, a house with a stable by the side of it, a house with the name on the two outer gates, a house with a monkey tree. Enough, you know the species. I really think my imitation of Dickens's style was dexterous and literary. It seems almost a pity I repented the same evening."

Flambeau would then proceed to tell the story from the inside; and even from the inside it was odd. Seen from the outside it was perfectly incomprehensible, and it is from the outside that the stranger must study it. From this standpoint the drama may be said to have begun when the front doors of the house with the stable opened on the garden with the monkey tree, and a young girl came out with bread to feed the birds on the afternoon of Boxing Day. She had a pretty face, with brave brown eyes; but her figure was beyond conjecture, for she was so wrapped up in brown furs that it was hard to say which was hair and which was fur. But for the attractive face she might have been a small toddling bear.

The winter afternoon was reddening towards evening, and already a ruby light was rolled over the bloomless beds, filling them, as it were, with the ghosts of the dead roses. On one side of the house stood the stable, on the other an alley or cloister of laurels led to the larger garden behind. The young lady, having scattered bread for the birds (for the fourth or fifth time that day, because the dog ate it), passed unobtrusively down the lane of laurels and into a glimmering plantation of evergreens behind. Here she gave an exclamation of wonder, real or ritual, and looking up at the high garden wall above her, beheld it fantastically bestridden by a somewhat fantastic figure.

"Oh, don't jump, Mr. Crook," she called out in some alarm; "it's much too high."

The individual riding the party wall like an aerial horse was a tall, angular young man, with dark hair sticking up like a hair brush, intelligent and even distinguished lineaments, but a sallow and almost alien complexion. This showed the more plainly because he wore an aggressive red tie, the only part of his costume of which he seemed to take any care. Perhaps it was a symbol. He took no notice of the girl's alarmed adjuration, but leapt like a grasshopper to the ground beside her, where he might very well have broken his legs.

"I think I was meant to be a burglar," he said placidly, "and I have no doubt I should have been if I hadn't happened to be born in that nice house next door. I can't see any harm in it, anyhow."

"How can you say such things!" she remonstrated.

"Well," said the young man, "if you're born on the wrong

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