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saroz162 's review for:
Peril at End House
by Agatha Christie
A blithe and snappy Christie in a classic configuration: Poirot and Hastings take a holiday on the Cornish coast and become involved with a young socialite, Mademoiselle "Nick," who has survived multiple murder attempts. Poirot takes it upon himself to protect her from further misfortune but (somewhat uncharacteristically) fails to be vigilant during a loud fireworks display, allowing someone else to be shot in the young woman's place. With the killer still at large and frustrated by his mistake, Poirot focuses his efforts to keep Nick from an untimely end that could come from any corner.
This is Christie by the numbers, at a point in her career (1932) when she could really first be said to have patterns and tropes emerging in her work. It's probably around this point that Christie starts considering phasing Captain Hastings out - he'll be gone from the novels in another five years - and Japp is already relegated to little more than an extended cameo. Still, this is very much the Poirot of the popular perception, fussy and a bit exaggerated, without the "Papa Poirot" speeches or tangents into Catholicism that occasionally show up in the earlier books. As such, Peril at End House is probably a strong candidate for the first "regular" Poirot novel - even coming, as it does, seventh in the series, and well after the runaway success of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. It's a strong formula, and if it seems a little familiar in retrospect, that doesn't stop it being entertaining. The book practically glides along: it's incredibly "readable."
Christie will stick to the same basic framework and tone for the Poirot mysteries for almost another decade, an unusually prolific period in her career; there are no less than fourteen Poirot novels between this one and Five Little Pigs in 1942, with several of them regarded as classics. It's only after the war - and Christie's own fears of being killed in the Blitz, which led to the writing and ferreting away of Curtain - that the stories start to take a far darker turn. This is, effectively, the Poirot everyone remembers, and the Poirot everyone wants to revisit. It's like your favorite childhood candy: nothing terribly substantial but full of nostalgia and pleasant memories. There are far worse ways to spend a couple of afternoons poolside than with Hercule Poirot, his friend Hastings, and the mysterious goings-on at End House.
This is Christie by the numbers, at a point in her career (1932) when she could really first be said to have patterns and tropes emerging in her work. It's probably around this point that Christie starts considering phasing Captain Hastings out - he'll be gone from the novels in another five years - and Japp is already relegated to little more than an extended cameo. Still, this is very much the Poirot of the popular perception, fussy and a bit exaggerated, without the "Papa Poirot" speeches or tangents into Catholicism that occasionally show up in the earlier books. As such, Peril at End House is probably a strong candidate for the first "regular" Poirot novel - even coming, as it does, seventh in the series, and well after the runaway success of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. It's a strong formula, and if it seems a little familiar in retrospect, that doesn't stop it being entertaining. The book practically glides along: it's incredibly "readable."
Christie will stick to the same basic framework and tone for the Poirot mysteries for almost another decade, an unusually prolific period in her career; there are no less than fourteen Poirot novels between this one and Five Little Pigs in 1942, with several of them regarded as classics. It's only after the war - and Christie's own fears of being killed in the Blitz, which led to the writing and ferreting away of Curtain - that the stories start to take a far darker turn. This is, effectively, the Poirot everyone remembers, and the Poirot everyone wants to revisit. It's like your favorite childhood candy: nothing terribly substantial but full of nostalgia and pleasant memories. There are far worse ways to spend a couple of afternoons poolside than with Hercule Poirot, his friend Hastings, and the mysterious goings-on at End House.