Murder on the Orient Express, by Agatha Christie.
William Morrow: an imprint of Harper Collins
Publishing. 266 pages.
He's the murderer.
No! She's the murderer!
Wait! We can't rule out that suspect over there. . .
You've got it all wrong––
Clearly that suspect did it.
Okay, I confess - I DID IT!
The element of lingering doubt is what makes the most prolific
author of crime fiction––as well as the most widely read––who she was. Elvis,
Frank Sinatra and Billie Holiday could really sing. Frank Sinatra was a legend.
Babe Ruth could hit a little bit. Sometimes we must simply be appreciative of
living in the time we do, and be blessed with the opportunity to see the
masters of their craft; or in this case,
to read a masterpiece for ourselves. I had never read one of Agatha Christie’s books
before this one. I am marginally better for having done so.
We have a stranded group of people. One of them tried to hire the
lead character as he was well aware his number might be up. Nice try! Ticket
punched, we now move from “Save me!” to “Find out who killed me!”
The fact of the matter is, the dearly departed may not be missed,
much as that seems odd to write, much less say. He gave off quite the vibe.
Keep in mind please that the detective, Hercule Poirot, operates
prior to the existence of Google, Wikipedia, Yahoo, or Bing. This is shoe
leather, ask the right questions, and read body language. The reader is asked
to solve the case in spite of the slim possibility of a misdirect here and a
nuance there.
The novel is superbly constructed. It is literary architecture
along the lines of the Sistine Chapel. Were it Art one would look for it in the
Louvre first.
Enjoy the read, enjoy the ride, but don't get snowed under! (-:)
SORRY!
Thanks for reading -
Robert White
