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247 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1961
Killing people. It makes you feel powerful and larger than life. It makes you feel you're God Almighty. But you're not. You're only a nasty bit of goods that's been found out. And when that fact's been presented to you suddenly your ego just can't stand it.
"Killing people. It makes you feel powerful and larger than life. It makes you feel you're God Almighty. But you're not. You're only a nasty bit of goods that's been found out. And when that fact's been presented to you suddenly your ego just can't stand it. You scream and you rant and you boast of what you've done and how clever you are. Well, you saw him."When I began reading this late-career (1961), non-Poirot / Marple work, I didn't suspect that it would ultimately be (so far) among my very favorite Christie novels. (At the moment, it might even be my favorite; though there are many titles I've yet to get to.)
... I became aware of a face peering out from the shadows of the dark hall. A queer, rather formless face, like something made in putty by a child who had strayed in to play in a sculptor's studio. It was the kind of face, I thought, that you sometimes see amongst a crowd in an Italian or Flemish primitive painting.'TPH' is split-in-two: generally in alternate chapters, the story is divided between the 'narrative' of historian Mark Easterbrook and a police procedural charged by Inspector Lejeune.
"You can never argue with a redhead," said Lejeune. "Don't I know it!"As is also rather common with the author, the pacing is breakneck, culminating in a resolution of breathless intensity.