The Amorous Agatha Christie 04

Note- This is an alternative history tale featuring Christie as a thirty-year-old Flapper in the roaring twenties who becomes much sought after as a private investigator thanks to the success of her first, and only, novel. Embracing the free age, she also believes in free love for women. Kudos to Christie, one of the most revered English crime authors of all time.

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Chapter Six.

Cunning Linguists on the Orient Express.

xxx

After a full day of rail travel, Agatha Christie still hadn't gotten used to the loud clacking sound of the wheels on the rails. As the railway train rocked noisily along steel tracks, the low-light electric lamps with shades threw some light on her surroundings. She had boarded the train in Vienna after a short visit to the Austrian Capital City and she was to spend one night in a sleeper berth before arriving in Paris. A short-haired brunette in a beret and cocktail dress smiled at her as she waltzed down the passage from the rear of the coach.

"Darling Agatha. There you are."

Agatha felt the heat of the train and the stuffy air and she waved her hand in front of her face like a fan. Dressed in a slinky evening dress with a jagged hem, she looked ravishing in her heeled metallic silver and ivory turban strap shoes. The dress was tight at the waist and together with the cascading centre neckline, her unfettered breasts were suitably thrust out.

"Frankie!"

The renowned author of The Mysterious Affair At Styles had met Lady Frances Derwent at various parties throughout the year and considered her one of her few friends. They were much alike, embracing the Jazz Age and enjoying life as any man might do.

The young English woman, known to her friends as Frankie, was a whip-smart socialite whom Agatha described as a clever, unflappable woman with a flair for fun and gaiety. She was the daughter of Lord and Lady Marcham who resided in Derwent Castle in Marchbolt, Wales. Frankie also had a London residence in Brook Street Mayfair. She had holidayed in Istanbul and was en route to Paris.

She was tall, slim, and dark. Twenty-eight years of age, she had an air of cool efficiency, much like Christie herself. She was the kind of young woman who could care for herself perfectly wherever she went. She had poise and efficiency and was very attractive. Her eyes sparkled and her burnished short hair had neat waves under her beret. The train took a curve and Christie clung to a high-backed chair and felt a strong hand hold her up.

"Careful Miss, it takes a while to get used to being aboard the Orient Express, we're going at nearly 60 miles an hour!"

The scarlet uniformed aide with the French accent smiled and walked away happily. He carried a silver tray with three wine glasses in his white-gloved hand. The redheaded Flapper peered after him as he headed to the next coach where she could hear loud chatter. She took Frankie by the elbow and they both tottered off along the narrow aisle.

"Come on. Let's have a drink."

The train rolled and rocked and they used the chair backs as handrails to steady themselves. The fast-moving engine was able to cover the distance from Paris to Constantinople in only 67 hours.

As she was lost in the wonder of it all a tall square-jawed man brushed her bare arm and made her jump. She locked eyes with his brooding dark brown eyes as he ran a hand through his thick black hair. He said nothing and Agatha felt her heart leap in her chest as she watched the mystery man turn and walk away. He filled out his black tuxedo with broad shoulders and strong biceps.

"He looks scrumptious!" cooed Frankie as she watched him vanish into the neighbouring car.

"And how is Bobby?" Agatha asked as she took a healthy swig of Moët & Chandon.

Frankie shot her a look and then smiled.

"Bobby? He's history, darling. Utterly boring and no fun. He only gets hard when Jack Hobbs scores a six for England. No, we are no longer a couple."

The willowy brunette crossed her long pins and settled back in the plush chair.

"No, I'm up for fun, frolics, and the other F word."

Agatha spread her hands in feigned bemusement.

"Fishing?"

"No dear. Fucking!"

"Frankie! You're positively decadent."

"Don't pretend, darling. You're just as outrageous as I am. A little bird told me of your excursion to the 43 Club. You cheeky witch. Why didn't you ask me to tag along?"

"It wasn't all that."

"So you say. Oh, yes. I just want to dance, drink, and shag until dawn."

"Quite. Let's eat."

Ever curious about others, Agatha looked to the other side of the carriage. At the far end, against the wall, was a middle-aged woman dressed in black with a broad, expressionless face. German or Scandinavian, she thought. And stinking rich.

Beyond her was a couple leaning forward and talking animatedly together. The man wore English clothes of loose tweed and was obviously English. Though only the back of his head was visible to Christie, the shape of it and the set of the shoulders betrayed him. A big man and well-made. He turned his head suddenly and the crime writer saw his profile. A surprisingly handsome man of thirty-odd with a big fair moustache.

The woman opposite him was younger by far. Twenty at a guess. She wore a tight-fitting dress in black, with a small chic black toque perched at the fashionable outrageous angle. She had a beautiful face, white skin, large blue eyes, and jet-black hair. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. Her manicured hands had deep red nails.

She pushed back her chair and left with a slight bow to the other two leaving the carriage with her older partner. A buff-looking Englishman also got up and followed them. Gathering up her belongings, the Swedish woman followed suit, closely tailed by another older lady who spoke briefly in German. The restaurant car was thus empty save for Agatha and Lady Frances.

"I think I'll turn in, darling. Catch you on the flip-flop."

"I'll be right behind you."

Before she could rise from her chair, the seat beside her was unexpectedly filled.

"Can you oblige me with a light?"

It was the same man from earlier who had brushed by her so brusquely. His voice was soft and had a European accent.

"My name is Count Rudolph Andrenyi."

Agatha slipped her hand into her purse and produced a matchbox which she handed to the other man. He took it but did not strike a light.

"I think," he went on. "That I have the pleasure of speaking to Mrs. Agatha Christie. Is that so?"

"You have been correctly informed, Your Excellency."

The writer was conscious of those strange shrewd eyes summing her up before the other spoke again.

"I am from Hungary we come to the point quickly, Madam. I want to take you to bed."

Agatha raised a brow. The man was intensely exotic with slightly olive-toned skin.

"That's a rather bold statement. Who are you?"

"Forgive me. I am a Hungarian nobleman and diplomat. Recently I have spent a year doing business in London and Paris. I am widowed and live alone. I read your splendid novel and thought it wonderful. Little did I know that the author was so fetching.

"Well, thank you. But in England we have certain protocol before we are so brazen in our, shall I say, sexual desires."

"Indeed. I apologise Madam. The speed of the train, the romance, all of these have caused me to speak out of turn. I bid you a good night."

The man rose and then waved his hand to dismiss the subject. Agatha watched him as he left.

"Goodnight," she managed to choke out as her throat dried.

x

Agatha passed into her own compartment, which was sandwiched between the old birds from Germany and Sweden. She undressed and before she put on her nightgown, she studied her naked form in the full-length mirror. She nodded in approval as she put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. Her slender form was blessed with firm and pliant breasts and alabaster flesh. Her left hand wandered across her slightly rounded belly down to her sex which had curious reddish-brown curls of pubic hair. Her slender fingers traced inwards from her upper thighs to the softness of her mons as she recalled the dashing Count and his outrageous request for sex.

"Damned cheek!" she said with not too much conviction.

She got into her bed and read a book for about half an hour and then turned out the light. She was awoken some time later, with a start. A loud strangled groan was quickly followed by another cry, somewhere close at hand. At the same moment, the ting of a bell sounded sharp.

Agatha sat up and switched on the light and heard a commotion outside. She got out of bed and opened the door just as the conductor came hurrying along the corridor and knocked on the German lady's berth. Christie kept her door open a crack and watched. The conductor tapped a second time. A bell rang and a light showed over another door farther down. The conductor glanced over his shoulder. At the same moment, a voice from within the next compartment called out.

The conductor scurried off again, to knock at the door where the light was showing. Berth ten where the Swedish lady slept. Agatha returned to bed and switched off the light. He glanced at her travel clock. 1.45.

x

Agatha was again awoken in the small hours, this time by a loud and persistent knocking on the door of her compartment. She draped her coat over herself and opened up.

"Madam Christie. Might I have a discreet word?"

"It's a bit irregular but do enter."

The half-naked author let the stranger in and sat on the edge of her bed.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Monsieur Bouc, Director of the train operator Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits. I am merely a traveler on the train with you but something serious and alarming has occurred that demands attention and I ask you for assistance."

"And how exactly may I help?"

"You are of course well known for your crime novel and unique ways of detection. There is a mystery onboard the train and you are the perfect person to solve it. I am aware of your methods. This is the ideal case for you."

"And what kind of mystery do you refer to?"

"It is too incredible to discuss. Instead, I must show you. So you accept?"

"Very well, I agree."

"C'est entendu. We are all at your service."

"Just let me get dressed."

x

Ten minutes later Agatha entered Berth Eight and saw that it was now empty.

"This is the compartment of Hildegarde Schmidt, a German subject. She sounded the alarm first. The steward Pierre was the first on the scene and he alerted me."

"Oui, Madam," said the uniformed fellow. "She was, 'ow you say, screaming like the banshee."

"Where is she now?"

Bouc stuck a thumb over his shoulder.

"In another carriage in a most distressed state. See here, Madam."

Agatha perceived the mess of the woman's clothing. She followed the man's finger and saw a pair of her undergarments lying on the top. Agatha picked them up and held them to her nose, drawing in that aroma of the crotch. But that scent was faint compared to the other stronger smell of male semen.

"I see. A man has broken in and ejaculated in the woman's garments. How gross!"

She felt the crotch and gasped. The garment was awash with spunk. A lot!

"Heavens! The culprit is quite singular. The consensus is that the average volume of ejaculate is up to one teaspoon. In general, younger males do tend to have more forceful ejaculations. But this is quite unique. In more accurate terms, the average volume of ejaculation is roughly 2-5 cubic centimetres. Whoever did this produced nearly TEN ccs. Remarkable."

The bemused redhead jiggled the underwear and saw the excessive amount of cum puddle in the crotch.

"There is more, Madam. Follow me."

Bouc led Christie to the berth of Greta Ohlsson, the Swedish subject. The same monstrous misdemeanour had occurred and the woman's underwear had been similarly soiled. Having made her cursory inspection, she looked up.

"This is a most unusual and unique situation. We seem to have a pervert on the train who not only has a fetish for female underwear but also possesses the ability to produce huge amounts of semen. The prostate produces well over 50% of the volume of an ejaculate load, and it's my initial guess that this fellow may possess not one but TWO prostate glands."

"Merde! But how on earth can we discover the culprit?"

Agatha gave him her demure smile and squeezed his arm.

"Leave it to me, Monsieur. It is a noteworthy case to be sure. I shall do my best for you and will have your man before daybreak. With the help of my friend, Lady Derwent, I think I may have an idea. "

x

Frankie sat on her bed as her friend Agatha Christie examined the contents of her travel valise.

"I was going to tell you in the morning. When I retired I saw that my silk underwear was saturated with cum. Ruined now. Sooo much goo!"

"This man is a pervert AND a pistol! I've never known such a person as this. Have you?"

"Well. I did sleep with Lord Wetherby's youngest. He used to gush like a fountain, but he always liked to cum in my mouth. Do you have any suspects?"

"The steward assures me that none may enter this first-class carriage from elsewhere, so that leaves all the men who are berthed here. The carriage is traveling light on this journey so not many to choose from. I have perused the passenger list. In Berth fifteen there is a Colonel Arbuthnot, who is aged seventy and retired. He looks to be too old for this lark. In Berth six is an American citizen, Hector McQueen. We all know that our American cousins are in the middle of a rejuvenated period since the Great War ended, and most live in a racy urban lifestyle. A very possible culprit."

"Go on."

"Then there is Edward Masterman and his partner Mary Debenham. I regard him to be the least likely as he seems to be rather busy in affairs of the bed with the young female."

"Right. Anyone else?"

"Only the dashing Count. My number one suspect. He even prepositioned me this very night."

"Agatha! You saucy mare."

"I dismissed him naturally."

"Naturally. Unlike you to turn down a definite shag. A bit tired were you? Anyhoo. What plan do you have to catch the fiend?"

"I can see but one course of action, my dear. We observe all three in orgasm and determine who comes the greatest."

"Are you proposing that we make whoopee with each suspect?"

"You have it in a nutshell."

"Surely there must be another way!"

"If I set my mind to it, yes. But isn't this way more fun? We shall visit each in turn and then act."

"Well blow me down!"

x

The two plucky women entered the winding corridor. Agatha in her pajama-negligee over a diaphanous nightgown, and Frankie in her striped pajamas with the straight legs and ankle-baring hem.

"Logically we should split up. You, my dear, shall take the American, while I shall seduce the Count. If we are unsuccessful in finding our culprit we shall team up and tackle Masterman and his girl. Agreed?"

The women exchanged looks as the fast-moving train rumbled on its way with the odd squeal and belch of smoke. What a dear friend to have indeed, thought Agatha. She was exactly the person she wanted beside her. They shared that sense of adventure, that team effort and passion to push envelopes and explore the unexpected.

Frankie made her way to the berth of the American and was surprised but glad that the door of his compartment was unlocked. On further inspection, she saw that the occupant was busy in the adjoining toilet. The plucky brunette quickly stripped off and lay naked in his single bed. With a cough and a sigh, the gentleman in question returned with a robe over his silk pajamas.

"What the devil!" He exclaimed in an American as he saw the face of a strange female poke out from under the sheet.

"Oh, I'm most terribly sorry, is this your berth? I appear to have picked the wrong one. They all look so alike. I'll leave."

"I should say so. Leave my room this instant."

His eyes blazed with fury until she lifted up the sheet and he observed her nakedness. Frankie placed her right foot on the floor, and then the left very slowly, which gave him a tantalising glimpse of her downy-covered muff between her parted thighs. She smiled to herself as he ran his hand through his thick mop of hair in amazement.

"Would you be so kind as to pass my pajamas? It's just there."

The slim filly moved nearer to him and pointed, letting him inhale her perfumed body. He picked up her night attire and handed it to her with a trembling hand. He could feel the heat of her naked body and his own temperature rose in response.

"Is there something amiss, dear Sir?"

As she spoke she grazed her bare stomach with her hand absentmindedly. His wide eyes followed her fingers inching their way down between her legs until they rested on her puffy labia which protruded from her dark pubes. She saw the indecision on his face fade as his mind was in turmoil.

"Who the hell are you, and why are you in my compartment"

"You know? I'm pretty good at reading people, and my gut's telling me you're a nice chap. If I'm wrong then I apologise. But if I'm right. Well."

Lady Derwent stood up and let the fellow drink in her natural beauty. Her hand slipped into mine, and she gave him a little tug toward her. She kissed him hard in the mouth as her hands went straight for the buttons of his pajama bottoms. She slipped her tongue into his mouth and slipped her hand inside his fly. He groaned into her mouth as she stroked him to full attention.

"You...you're most handsome, Miss?"

"Lady. Lady Derwent. But call me Frankie. And you are?"

"Hector," he answered with a dry rattle.

"You look very virile, Hector."

As they locked eyes, she gripped his erection firmly.

"Do you know what my favourite thing is?" She said in her best husky voice.

"Your favourite thing? What's that?"

"Sucking cock."

She tightened her grip and began to stroke him to full hardness.

"Do you like having your cock sucked?"

She did not avert my gaze from his as she slowly pumped his prick and cocked her head in feigned interest.

"Y...yes!" he stammered.

"Me too. Come on."

The outrageous Flapper went onto bended knees and his cock immediately jutted out and up in her face. His mouth fell open as her scarlet lips slipped down on his thick length and she rotated my head from side to side as she pulled back. He moaned as her fingers dug into the base of his dick and her mouth worked up and down, covering the entire length. She slipped back and admired her work. A thoroughly hard, saliva-soaked, glistening prick.

"There, still want me to leave?"

He shook his head, the poor lamb, as Frankie closed her eyes and sucked him into her mouth. Her tongue ran wicked circles around the circumcised crown as she plunged down and let him hit the back of her throat. She cupped his balls as she ceased sucking and let his cock rest inside her mouth, her drool spilling out down her chin and onto her tits. Then she inched back up until his cock emerged as slick as a river.

"Amazing!" he uttered. "Are all the English aristocracy as fresh as you?"

"No, my good man. You just got lucky. Although this IS 1924. Women are much more relaxed about sex. I've known several occasional lovers."

She got back onto the bed laid back and let her left hand roam over her pale breasts. She widened her willowy pins to expose her dark bush. She licked her lips and watched Hector shed his robe and night attire.

"Is that a good thing? Sleeping with different men? No ties? No commitment?"

"Certainly. It keeps a girl in trim. Now come to me and lick my quim."

He let out a tiny moan and his head and kissed the inside of her left knee, rising slowly as he peppered her soft skin until he reached her inner thigh. At the same time, he caressed her right leg with tender care as her muff moistened most delightfully. Then his tongue extended and he ran the flattened flesh over her tingling cunt.