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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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As she rang the bell of No. 20 she was conscious of Albert’s eyes slowly descending beneath the level of the floor.

 

The rim of steel pressed a little harder against the girl’s temple.

 

“There’s another thing. So far there has been no mention of Mr. Beresford. Where does he come in?”

 

“As a matter of fact he is. He’s an American. He’ll pay you that without a murmur. You can take it from me that it’s a perfectly genuine proposition.”

 

“He doesn’t want to marry me—he really only asked me out of kindness.”

 

“At any rate,” I said to Pagett, “you weren’t poisoned. You had one of your ordinary bilious attacks.”

 

“No,” said Colonel Race, smiling. “You’d have waked up to-morrow morning to find yourself in the Karoo, a hot, dusty desert of stones and rocks.”

 

“No, you may have been fortunate enough to brain an unlucky steward in the deck below.”

 

“I’m sorry to have to dispute the matter,” said Chichester with a meek smile which failed to mask his determination to get his own way. Meek men are always obstinate, I have noticed.

 

“I should like to know,” I said, “what became of the other young man. Not Eardsley but—what was his name?—Lucas!”

 

“Évidemment! since she renders you incapable of replying to my question. Describe her to me, then.”

 

“Oh, not really queer, Captain Hastings, but when we went to the agents, Stosser and Paul—we hadn’t tried them before because they only have the expensive Mayfair flats, but we thought at any rate it would do no harm—everything they offered us was four and five hundred a year, or else huge premiums, and then, just as we were going, they mentioned that they had a flat at eighty, but that they doubted if it would be any good our going there, because it had been on their books some time and they had sent so many people to see it that it was almost sure to be taken—‘snapped up’ as the clerk put it—only people were so tiresome in not letting them know, and then they went on sending, and people get annoyed at being sent to a place that had, perhaps, been let some time.”

 

We were fortunate in our quest. No. 8, on the fourth floor, was to be let furnished at ten guineas a week. Poirot promptly took it for a month. Outside in the street again, he silenced my protests:

 

“I am a police officer, and I have a warrant to search this house.”

 

“I attended him for some slight ailment a few weeks ago. An Italian, but he speaks English perfectly. Well, I must wish you good night, Monsieur Poirot, unless——” He hesitated.

 

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