From the back cover:
“For God’s sake, come!” Unfortunately, by the time Hercule Poirot received Monsieur Renauld’s urgent plea, the millionaire was already dead—stabbed in the back, lying in a freshly dug grave on the golf course of his adjoining Merlinville estate. There’s no lack of suspects: his wife, whose dagger served as the weapon; his embittered son, who would have killed for independence; and his mistress, who refused to be ignored—and each felt deserving of the dead man’s fortune. The police think they’ve found the culprit. Poirot has his doubts. A second murder proves him right.
The most applicable adjective I seem to be able to apply to this book is—diverting. It’s clever, certainly, but it lacked depth to me. Perhaps I’ve been spoiled by too much James, and a mere difference in style becomes almost a disappointment.
There were a few points in the tale that I found to be obvious, one that was telegraphed from the start, and another that I began to put together about ten pages before Poirot finally bludgeoned Hastings over the head with it. Hastings himself is a little smackworthy at times, and I wonder if the reader is really supposed to be misled into believing his theories, when he so clearly neglects to factor in crucial bits.
I did not, however, work out all the details, nor the actual perpetrator of the crime. Fans of twists and turns galore will appreciate the conclusion. All in all, the mystery is decent, Poirot is fastidious and both irritating and ingenious, and Hastings needs to take multiple cold showers.