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** spoiler alert ** This one might get a bit spoilery



This one got away from her. It’s one of those “Fake�� Christie novels that feels like an attempt at self parody or her attempt at seeing just how “Christie�� she can make a book and get away with it

I can’t stand Christie’s “no one will recognize me!�� Plots and this is the absolute nadir of her reliance on such a thing.


This narrative device has marred so, so many of Christie’s short stories and novels and I find myself audibly groaning when it happens again and again like someone who always does the exact same gag to end a scene at the local improv comedy club.

Invariably, like the ticking of a clock, a well constructed plot will hinge on someone passing themselves off as someone else, and invariably they will never come close to being recognized until they are by someone after the fact and that person is murdered, which ultimately gives the murderer away.

The “I’m really someone else�� plot is so groan worthy, not only because it relies on the murderer planning on something as out of their control as the memory of countless people towards their identity in the construction of the plot, it also is necessarily something that MUST be hidden from the reader and can always be revealed later as a surprise without any setup.

Any indication that

Sure the reader can always “guess�� that someone is really someone else but that’s not really satisfying as most people aren’t going to want to rely on a clue they can’t possibly see and end their thinking with that.

In the instance of this book, the mistaken identity is such a stretch that no one would guess it because it’s just too absurd to guess.

this is the most extreme example of that idea she’s ever done.

It’s also one of those “here’s a group of ten people and they’re all loathsome or criminal but none of it will matter to the murder�� books and it’s one of those where she doesn’t really attempt at breathing life into the characters outside of their narrative function.

Poirot (unlike Marple) is all about the mystery puzzle, and when that breaks down the book becomes hardly worth reading. This different focus is why some Poirot books are completely skippable in contrast to Marple, which may not have the heights of Poirot but is consistently more worthwhile.

I am frustrated by the inconsistency of Christy, some of her books function as genuine works of art. A few of her novels can be considered capital “L�� literature in my opinion.

Yet others, like this one, are comic books. Characters are created to serve the function of the plot, the setting is there for the plot. The entire thing is a construction meant to dupe the reader and keep them guessing, I know she’s capable of more, it’s just inconsistently applied.