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HERCULE POIROT, resplendent in a white duck suit, with a panama tilted over his eyes, his moustaches magnificently befurled, lay back in a deck chair on a sunny terrace overlooking the bathing beech. Casually his fellow guests at the luxury hotel moved around him, talking, knitting, drying from their bathes, anointing themselves with oil. It was August and the holiday mood ran high; there was laughter among the crowds on the sands, children's voices from the surf; gay couples climbed on the cliff paths. But, as Agatha Christie's famous detective says, "there is evil everywhere under the sun," and before long his languid holiday is disturbed by a more than usually urgent call for his professional aid. No reader can help being fascinated by Poirot's manner and methods.
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