Agatha Christie, Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy L. Sayers, Patricia Wentworth
Murder on Mondays! Greatest prophecy of the century! T.P. Luffham was murdered!
Description
Murder on Mondays! Greatest prophecy of the century! T.P. Luffham was murdered!
Ferdinand Pole of the Murder League claims that, since 1918, thirteen murders have been committed on a Monday. A sleazy economist has now been slain, followed the next week by a blameless actress—both on Monday. While the press have a field day, it is up to Inspector Wharton of Scotland Yard, along with his inspired amateur co-investigator Ludovic Travers, to see if London has a new Jack the Ripper at work. The eccentric parrot-owning Pole seems to be out to implicate himself in the murders, though whether this is bravado or fact remains very much in question . . . This sly, often satirical, whodunit shows a master of classic mystery on top form.
The Case of the Monday Murders was originally published in 1936. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
Bibliographic Data
Category: Crime Fiction
Publication Date: February 2018
Territories: World English
ISBN: 978 1 911579 93 9 (paperback)/978 1 911579 94 6 (ebook)
“Have you heard the news, sir?” the waiter said.
“I’m afraid I haven’t. What is it?”
“Plumley’s dead, sir. Henry Plumley. We just got the news over the ’phone. Suicide they say it was. Anything else you want, sir?”
I am going to commit a murder. I offer no apology for the curtness of the statement.
“And that’s not all. Somers is dead too … He poisoned himself … in the lounge!”
Somebody at that very moment might be watching from behind the hedge! Melodramatic perhaps—but the fact remained that one murder had been committed and a second seemed more than likely.
However thorough your search was, I’m convinced the murderer, or the burglar—call him what you will—is still in the house.
“If you don’t think I’m taking a liberty in saying so, my opinion is that he was knocked down first and hanged after!”
Travers looked down at the face. On the collar was a red patch and a long streak. Across the throat was a gash.
“It was some sort of sudden death?”
Travers made a face. “It certainly was sudden. I’ll say it’s ten to one it was murder.”
“Let us know when you’re dead!”
Old Hunt slithered in the most amazing way and then fell to the floor. He lay between the seats, face upwards.
“Send someone here quick. There’s been a murder!”
Travers turned to Wharton. “I ask you, George, as a man of the world—do schoolmasters and mistresses have souls full of glamour and passion and intrigue? Are they torn by the same emotions that rend people like us?”
“Murder is easy. It’s child’s play to commit murder and get away with it.”
“It’s terrible. It’s a body . . . the head cut off . . . and the hands.”
Travers looked down at the thing that sprawled. The head gave a last movement, and there was a faint sound like a tired moan. The time was eight minutes to eight.
“You needn’t look impatient, sir. He’ll be finished with you long before dinner.ˮ
‘I judge him to have been dead just about twenty-four hours. Suicide, almost certainly.’
Palmer saw him out, and gave that little deprecatory cough.
“If you’ll pardon me, sir, is it another murder?”
“Looks like it,” Travers told him from the door.
“George Wharton said he hoped I’d have a nice murder for you.”
