I was listening to the Agatha Christie Close Up CD while adding covers to some of the books imported by MbD earlier this afternoon -- and guess what I discovered?  Penguin Random House is publishing a new series of Christie editions under the Vintage imprint!  And very pretty covers they have, as well ...

 

Golf is key to a number of books by Agatha Christie (not only in the Poirot series -- Hastings is not the only character by Christie who is an ardent golfer).  So my list of favorites is largely a mash-up of BrokenTune's and Obsidian's:

 

Agatha Christie favorites:

1.  4:50 From Paddington

2.  Murder on the Links

3.  Why Didn't They Ask Evans?

 

Honorable mentions from my TBR:

 

1.  P.G. Wodehouse: The Clicking of Cuthbert (short stories)

2.  Ian Fleming: Goldfinger (I've seen the movie but have yet to read the book)

 

... and a few Christie short stories:

 

1.  Murder in the Mews (Poirot)

2.  The Mystery of the Blue Jar (standalone)

3.  The Sunningdale Mystery (Tommy & Tuppence)

 

This is Christie's second Poirot mystery, and her third full-length novel. I read it for my chronological re-read of the Christie canon, which will include the short collections in order of publication.

She definitely has not hit her stride in this novel - in my opinion, that really happens with her sixth novel (and fourth Poirot offering) The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Murder on the Links is a middling Christie - better than some, but not one of her best.

A couple of specific notes - Hastings reappears as Poirot's sidekick. He is introduced in The Mysterious Affair at Styles as Watson to Poirot's Sherlock. Murder on the Links is told from the perspective of Hastings in a first person perspective. I find Hastings nearly intolerable in this book - his preening behavior in attempting to attract the fair "Cinderella" is about as subtle as a male peacock in full mating display. In other words, he acts like a buffoon.

I know, I know, Hastings always acts like a buffoon. But the prosecutor in me nearly swooned when he let his fair lady love - who won't even friggin' tell him her actual name - into the shed where the body, and the murder weapon, are being stored. All I can think about is "chain of custody, chain of custody, chain of custody." Someone should've thrashed him. If the murderer hadn't died before the end of the book, he had compromised the evidence to the point that, even in 1923, prosecution would've been nearly impossible.

And that ending. Oh, dear, that acrobatic, silly ending. 

One of the purposes of my reread - besides just sheer fun - is to take a look at Agatha's approach to justice and responsibility in her books, and try to evaluate if it changes or evolves over time. In Styles, the killers were obviously handed over to the authorities, but no mention is made as to their fate. Christie approaches the murder as a puzzle, and much more time is spent on matchmaking between the various existing or potential couples than on mourning the victim. In Links, the murderer receives street justice in self-defense and is killed before the end of the book.

Christie's early books had a romantic streak - couples were constantly falling in love at the drop of a hat. Hastings ultimately marries Cinderella, whose real name is Dulcie, as we learn at the end of the book. That pairing is totally unconvincing, and doesn't seem to age well as the books continue to be written. By the time Hastings disappears completely from the narrative, I am heartily sick of him. I far prefer Ariadne Oliver as Poirot's sidekick, even if most of her books aren't up to the quality of the early Poirots.

TLDR: a second tier Poirot with an annoying sidekick, but still a fun read for Christie fans. 

This book was so boring over the first third I thought I might have to kill myself. Then it improved somewhat, only to go to hell over the last 15% or so. The 3* rating should have a - [minus] appended.

So, it's a Poirot story as told by Capt. Hastings. It seems that a very rich man, M. Renauld, is fearful and writes Poirot to come to France to get/keep him out of trouble. But when Poirot and Hastings arrive at the man's villa, he is found to have just been murdered. He's lying in an open grave out on a golf course with a paper knife sticking into his back.

So, the suspects pile up. Perhaps the son, Jack, perhaps the jilted lover of Jack, Bella Duveen, perhaps Mme. Renauld, perhaps a gang of masked thugs, .... It seems that M. Renauld has a sketchy past and has recently begun to be blackmailed by the woman in the villa next door. Apparently they have some secret together buried some 20 years in the past. The woman's daughter has bewitched Jack, so perhaps she's involved. Or, perhaps the private secretary. It could be anyone. Then to make things more fun and confusing, there's a French policeman, M. Giraud, who is full of himself and who goes out of his way to insult M. Poirot. Given that Poirot is one of the world's supreme narcissists, that doesn't sit well, and M. Giraud must be taught a lesson.

Anyway, as you can tell by this garbled mess of a review, the book is rather a garbled mess. When it's not boring you to tears, it's tossing in all kinds of weird coincidences and improbably red herrings. I dunno. I didn't care much for this and will probably avoid Christie for a while. To be fair to Christie and Poirot, I have rather enjoyed the videos my spouse makes me watch with her.

It was a day in early June. I had been transacting some business in Paris and was returning by the morning service to London, where I was still sharing rooms with my old friend, the Belgian ex-detective, Hercule Poirot.

The Calais express was singularly empty—in fact, my own compartment held only one other traveller. I had made a somewhat hurried departure from the hotel and was busy assuring myself that I had duly collected all my traps, when the train started. Up till then I had hardly noticed my companion, but I was now violently recalled to the fact of her existence. Jumping up from her seat, she let down the window and stuck her head out, withdrawing it a moment later with the brief and forcible ejaculation ‘Hell!’

Ah, Hastings. This book is all about Hastings. 

And by the end of it, Christie may have had the proverbial excess of "a good thing", because even tho this is only the second book in the Poirot series, Christie seems desperate to get rid of Hastings. And I can't blame her.

 

Don't get me wrong, I love Hastings. However, in this particular book which is mostly written about him and not so much about Poirot, Hastings is utterly annoying. And what can possibly be worse than Hastings being annoying? Yes, there is only one thing - Hastings being in love.

 

Never mind the convoluted murder mystery in the French countryside ... somewhere near a golf course ... blah, blah,..., the real question is, will Hastings get the girl?

 

By the end of the book, I wished he would, because they seemed to deserve each other, and that maybe Hastings would learn a few things and stop being such an idiot (even if he is lovable). But as we know, ... that is not quite how it goes, and of course I desperately miss Hastings when he isn't in a Poirot story. 

 

So, there. Not quite a review of the book, but really the book isn't about the murder that much anyway.