Äåòàëüíàÿ èíôîðìàöèÿ îá èçäàíèè

Àâòîð:

Çàãëàâèå:

Lord Edgware dies

Òèï íîñèòåëÿ:

Îäíîòîìíèê.

Ìåñòî èçäàíèÿ:

London

Èçäàòåëüñòâî:

Harper Collins

Ãîä èçäàíèÿ:

2016

Îáúåì:

280 p.

Àííîòàöèÿ:

The memory of the public is short. Already the intense interest and excitement aroused by the murder of George Alfred St Vincent Marsh, fourth Baron Edgware, is a thing past and forgotten. Newer sensations have taken its place. My friend, Hercule Poirot, was never openly mentioned in connection with the case. This, I may say, was entirely in accordance with his own wishes. He did not choose to appear in it. The credit went elsewhere — and that is how he wished it to be. Moreover, from Poirot—s own peculiar private point of view, the case was one of his failures. He always swears that it was the chance remark of a stranger in the street that put him on the right track. However that may be, it was his genius that discovered the truth of the affair. But for Hercule Poirot I doubt if the crime would have been brought home to its perpetrator.

ISBN:

978-0-00-816485-0

ßçûê:

Àíãëèéñêèé

ÁÁÊ:

Ðàçìåðû èçäàíèÿ:

20 cì.

Ìåñòîíàõîæäåíèå èçäàíèÿ: