Agatha Christie. The Clocks. (1963) An absurdly complicated murder: Sheila Webb, a typist from an agency, arrives at her supposed client’s house, goes into the sitting room as directed, and finds a dead man behind the sofa. Miss Pebham, her supposed client, denies having asked for her. The dead man’s jacket pocket yields a business card for a non-existent insurance agency. And so begins a very tangled story, which Poirot does not solve until (as usual) a chance remark rearranges the facts into a satisfying solution.
The problem and solution is pure Christie: improbably complex, made plausible only because of the careful plotting and characterisation that creates the illusion of character-driven choices. It’s the asides that makes this book worth reading. There’s a charming passage in which Poirot pontificates on his reading of crime fiction (having exhausted the available true crime literature with which he has enlivened his retirement). There’s a suitable young man, Colin Lamb, whose secret service career is the reason for his being on hand when Sheila rushes from the house screaming with fear. There are venal and over-confident baddies, persons of interest, red herrings, and enough ambience to satisfy those of us who read Christie for the nostalgia.
All in all, a well done entertainment, above average for Christie. ***½
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