Three Act Tragedy — Book Review

A priest drops dead at a dinner party. The glass gets checked. No poison, nothing. That's your opening, and it's a beauty, because it isn't a whodunit so much as a how-is-this-even-a-murder.

I've always thought this one is underrated, mostly for the gimmick that turns out not to be a gimmick: she splits it into Act One, Act Two, Act Three, and it really does make you feel like you're watching a play tighten. Sir Charles Cartwright, a retired actor playing at detective, is the fun of it, his theatrical bigness both grates on and clicks with Poirot in a way Christie doesn't usually let herself be funny about.

The second act drags. They travel around interviewing people and it slackens. Push through, because the motive, when Poirot finally lays it out, is one of those reveals that sends you flipping back through the whole book. Ego, performance, hiding by playing a part. Very Christie. Very cold underneath.