Somehow, and I know I know it counts short stories, plays, and collection, this is the 25th Hercule Poirot novel and it’s only 1942. In a recent article I read, and thinking about her second Tommy and Tuppence novel N or M?, there’s a clear sense (outside of the text) that Christie was getting somewhat frustrated with Poirot by this time. In this story, we have an old murder that was satisfactorily solved, according to the police and others. An artist was killed, his wife […]