… ist eine pfiffige Kurzgeschichte meiner LK-Schülerin Tanja Neumayer. Der Clou der Geschichte ist, dass alle fett formatierten Wörter Titel von Agatha Christie Büchern sind.
Die Geschichte wird dadurch zu einem ausgezeichneten Beispiel für „Intertextualität“, die nach Meinung einiger Theoretiker „das eigentliche Wesen der Literatur ist, dass alle Texte aus dem Gewebe anderer Texte geflochten sind, ob ihre Autoren es nun wissen oder nicht.“ (zitiert nach David Lodge Die Kunst des Erzählens, Diana-Verlag, S. 14). In Tanjas Fall ist klar, dass sie WUSSTE was sie tat und so kann man z.B. analysieren, welche Wirkung diese Titelzitate auf den Leser haben.
Murder à la Christie
It was about 3 o’ clock in the morning when a single well dressed man was leaving Bertram’s Hotel in London. Already yesterday he knew it would be an endless night but he didn’t expect himself to be that exhausted. The man in the brown suit crossed the square and felt alittle scared because of the dark houses surrounding him. In each window he could only see curtains and the smoke out of the chimneys formed strange figures. The secret of chimneys fascinated him although there was no more time for him to gaze at the mysterious things around him. He had a train to catch. According to his ticket his train would leave 4.50 from Paddington. He ran further along the street when suddenly some birds startled and flew away. The man took a closer look in the direction from where the birds came and noticed a cat among the pigeons. No good omen, he thought. He felt that there was death in the air.
At the same time three police men met at Paddington station where a cruel action had taken place just little time before. The three men stood in front of a blue train with a golden pattern. This look gave the train the nickname: Orient Express. But one of the wagons was now stained with blood. A man lay on the floor of the train. Dead. “Well actually this is not my field.” one of the police men said. “Yeah, neither it’s mine. Normally I don’t have to solve murders. Why didn’t they ask Evans? He would know what to do!” said another. “Who should have asked me?” The man in the brown suit, Inspector Evans, looked at the others sceptical. “Oh, Mr. Evans! What a happy accident that you meet us here before your departure! We need your help! There was a murder on the Orient Express!” the first policeman reported excitedly. “What do you know about the victim?” “His name is Roger Ackroyd.” “Is his destination unknown?” “No, we found a ticket in his pocket. He was on his way to the airport. He is a passenger to Frankfurt!” Suddenly Evans noticed a dog standing not far away. “Whose dog is this?” “Probably it’s Ackroyd’s. It was in the train, barking, when we arrived and we can assume that it is the only one who has seen the murderer.” “Oh fantastic. So we have only one dumb witness? Wonderful chances for you. What can you say about the course of events?” The first police man looked embarrassed. “Well, actually I hoped you could tell us. He has a large wound on his skull pan. But it’s not very probable that this caused the death.” “Hmh, yeah, let me take a short look at him!”
Evans went into the railway carriage and took a brief look around. There lay cards on the table, an opened case with a sticker of five little pigs on it stood near one seat and at one side there hang a mirror cracked from side to side. The corpse in the middle of the carriage didn’t give the impression that Ackroyd had defended himself in a fight. Evans turned the dead body so that he could see his front. The lips were slightly bluish, his mouth smelled like almond. The inspector checked immediately the carpet near the victim and noticed a sparkling powder: Sparkling cyanide, he thought. Again outside the train Evans talked to his colleagues: “Listen, I have little time so I tell you what I think about this case and will leave then. I can imagine that because of the time only few people were in the train. And even if there were any in this carriage they probably got off at the stations before because of the fireworks. And then there were none but the murderer and Ackroyd. First the murderer knocked his victim down from behind. Now it was easy to kill him. Secondly he gave the defenceless man cyanide to put him completely out of action. And last but not least he opened the victim’s case and probably stole something valuable. Perhaps money, I don’t know. A three act tragedy, as it were. I’m afraid there are many evils under the sun.” The others looked astonished and thanked Evans for his help. “Now, colleagues, the clocks don’t lie! I have to go to catch my train. The countdown runs towards zero. Good luck!”
Evans ran through the station till he finally arrived at his rail. The train would leave in few seconds so he got in fast without noticing that there was someone hiding in the lavatory. He moved to his seat and looked out of the window. At once the door to the lavatory opened and a man with an iron in his hands came out. Strange what things people carry around with them, Evans thought and smiled. But it got even more suspicious. The man with the iron moved towards a wall and left it with a hollow. Suddenly Evans began to think about the murder and the smile disappeared from his face: Wait a second … wasn’t Ackroyd’s wound triangular? And what did the man do with an iron in the lavatory? Of course: He washed away the blood! But it was too late for this realization. The train began to move and the murderer could escape. Little time later one of the cleaners would find the iron in the hollow, would be surprised at the bizarre find he made and it would never occur to him that there was more to it than meets the eye.
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