The Mystery of the Blue Train: A Hercule Poirot Mystery

By Agatha Christie

Prepare to embark on a thrilling journey aboard the luxurious Blue Train, bound for the French Riviera. A beautiful heiress, a precious collection of rubies, and a love triangle form the backdrop of Agatha Christie's fifth Hercule Poirot novel. As the Belgian detective sets out to solve the murder of American heiress Ruth Kettering, the reader is thrown into a web of suspicion and intrigue. Derek, her estranged husband, seems to be the prime suspect, but as Poirot delves deeper, the truth slowly unravels. Follow Poirot's reenactment of the deadly train ride...with the murderer on board. The "Queen of Crime's" masterful blend of suspense and misdirection will keep you guessing until the astonishing end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Release date: Jan 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9780486853703

Agatha Christie

Agatha Christie (1890-1976) was an English author of mystery fiction whose status in the genre is unparalleled. A prolific and dedicated creator, she wrote short stories, plays and poems, but her fame is due primarily to her mystery novels, especially those featuring two of the most celebrated sleuths in crime fiction, Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple. Ms. Christie’s novels have sold in excess of two billion copies, making her the best-selling author of fiction in the world, with total sales comparable only to those of William Shakespeare or The Bible. Despite the fact that she did not enjoy cinema, almost 40 films have been produced based on her work.

Book preview

1. The Man with the White Hair

It was close on midnight when a man crossed the Place de la Concorde. In spite of the handsome fur coat which garbed his meagre form, there was something essentially weak and paltry about him.

A little man with a face like a rat. A man, one would say, who could never play a conspicuous part, or rise to prominence in any sphere. And yet, in leaping to such a conclusion, an onlooker would have been wrong. For this man, negligible and inconspicuous as he seemed, played a prominent part in the destiny of the world. In an Empire where rats ruled, he was the king of the rats.

Even now, an Embassy awaited his return. But he had business to do first—business of which the Embassy was not officially cognizant. His face gleamed white and sharp in the moonlight. There was the least hint of a curve in the thin nose. His father had been a Polish Jew, a journeyman tailor. It was business such as his father would have loved that took him abroad tonight.

He came to the Seine, crossed it, and entered one of the less reputable quarters of Paris. Here he stopped before a tall, dilapidated house and made his way up to an apartment on the fourth floor. He had barely time to knock before the door was opened by a woman who had evidently been awaiting his arrival. She gave him no greeting, but helped him off with his overcoat and then led the way into the tawdrily furnished sitting room. The electric light was shaded with dirty pink festoons, and it softened, but could not disguise, the girl’s face with its mask of crude paint. Could not dis­guise, either, the broad Mongolian cast of her countenance. There was no doubt of Olga Demiroff’s profession, nor of her nationality.

All is well, little one?

All is well, Boris Ivanovitch.

He nodded, murmuring: I do not think I have been followed.

But there was anxiety in his tone. He went to the window, drawing the curtains aside slightly, and peering carefully out. He started away violently.

There are two men—on the opposite pavement. It looks to me— He broke off and began gnawing at his nails—a habit he had when anxious.

The Russian girl was shaking her head with a slow, reassuring action.

They were here before you came.

All the same, it looks to me as though they were watching this house.

Possibly, she admitted indifferently.

But then—

"What of it? Even if they know—it will not be you they will follow from here."

A thin, cruel smile came to his lips.

No, he admitted, that is true.

He mused for a minute or two, and then observed,

This damned American—he can look after himself as well as anybody.

I suppose so.

He went again to the window.

Tough customers, he muttered, with a chuckle. Known to the police, I fear. Well, well, I wish Brother Apache good hunting.

Olga Demiroff shook her head.

If the American is the kind of man they say he is, it will take more than a couple of cowardly apaches to get the better of him. She paused. I wonder—

Well?

Nothing. Only twice this evening a man has passed along this street—a man with white hair.

What of it?

This. As he passed those two men, he dropped his glove. One of them picked it up and returned it to him. A threadbare device.

You mean—that the white-haired man is—their employer?

Something of the kind.

The Russian looked alarmed and uneasy.

You are sure—the parcel is safe? It has not been tampered with? There has been too much talk . . . much too much talk.

He gnawed his nails again.

Judge for yourself.

She bent to the fireplace, deftly removing the coals. Under­neath, from amongst the crumpled balls of newspaper, she selected from the very middle an oblong package wrapped round with grimy newspaper, and handed it to the man.

Ingenious, he said, with a nod of approval.

The apartment has been searched twice. The mattress on my bed was ripped open.

It is as I said, he muttered. There has been too much talk. This haggling over the price—it was a mistake.

He had unwrapped the newspaper. Inside was a small brown paper parcel. This in turn he unwrapped, verified the contents, and quickly wrapped it up once more. As he did so, an electric bell rang sharply.

The American is punctual, said Olga, with a glance at the clock.

She left the room. In a minute she returned ushering in a stranger, a big, broad-shouldered man whose transatlantic origin was evident. His keen glance went from one to the other.

M. Krassnine? he inquired politely.

I am he, said Boris. I must apologize for—for the uncon­ventionality of this meeting place. But secrecy is urgent. I—I can­not afford to be connected with this business in any way.

Is that so? said the American politely.

I have your word, have I not, that no details of this transaction will be made public? That is one of the conditions of—sale.

The American nodded.

That has already been agreed upon, he said indifferently. Now, perhaps, you will produce the goods.

You have the money—in notes?

Yes, replied the other.

He did not, however, make any attempt to produce it. After a moment’s hesitation, Krassnine gestured towards the small parcel on the table.

The American took it up and unrolled the wrapping paper. The contents he took over to a small electric lamp and submitted them to a very thorough examination. Satisfied, he drew from his pocket a thick leather wallet and extracted from it a wad of notes. These he handed to the Russian, who counted them carefully.

All right?

I thank you, Monsieur. Everything is correct.

Ah! said the other. He slipped the brown paper parcel negli­gently into his pocket. He bowed to Olga. Good evening, Mad­emoiselle. Good evening, M. Krassnine.

He went out, shutting the door behind him. The eyes of the two in the room met. The man passed his tongue over his dry lips.

I wonder—will he ever get back to his hotel? he muttered.

By common accord, they both turned to the window. They were just in time to see the American emerge into the street below. He turned to the left and marched along at a good pace without once turning his head. Two shadows stole from a doorway and fol­lowed noiselessly. Pursuers and pursued vanished into the night. Olga Demiroff spoke.

He will get back safely, she said. You need not fear—or hope—whichever it is.

Why do you think he will be safe? asked Krassnine curiously.

A man who has made as much money as he has could not pos­sibly be a fool, said Olga. And talking of money—

She looked significantly at Krassnine.

Eh?

My share, Boris Ivanovitch.

With some reluctance, Krassnine handed over two of the notes. She nodded her thanks, with a complete lack of emotion, and tucked them away in her stocking.

That is good, she remarked, with satisfaction.

He looked at her curiously.

You have no regrets, Olga Vassilovna?

Regrets? For what?

For what has been in your keeping. There are women—most women, I believe, who go mad over such things.

She nodded reflectively.

Yes, you speak truth there. Most women have that madness. I—have not. I wonder now— She broke off.

Well? asked the other curiously.

The American will be safe with them—yes, I am sure of that. But afterwards—

Eh? What are you thinking of?

He will give them, of course, to some woman, said Olga thoughtfully. I wonder what will happen then. . . .

She shook herself impatiently and went over to the window. ­Suddenly she uttered an exclamation and called to her companion.

See, he is going down the street now—the man I mean.

They both gazed down together. A slim, elegant figure was progressing along at a leisurely pace. He wore an opera hat and a cloak. As he passed a street lamp, the light illuminated a thatch of thick white hair.

2. M. le Marquis

The man with the white hair continued on his course, unhur­ried, and seemingly indifferent to his surroundings. He took a side turning to the right and another one to the left. Now and then he hummed a little air to himself.

Suddenly he stopped dead and listened intently. He had heard a certain sound. It might have been the bursting of a tyre or it might have been—a shot. A curious smile played round his lips for a minute. Then he resumed his leisurely walk.

On turning a corner he came upon a scene of some activity. A representative of the law was making notes in a pocketbook, and one or two late passersby had collected on the spot. To one of these the man with the white hair made a polite request for information.

Something has been happening, yes?

"Mais oui, Monsieur. Two apaches set upon an elderly Ameri­can gentleman."

They did him no injury?

No, indeed. The man laughed. The American, he had a revolver in his pocket, and before they could attack him, he fired shots so closely round them that they took alarm and fled. The po­lice, as usual, arrived too late.

Ah! said the inquirer.

He displayed no emotion of any kind.

Placidly and unconcernedly he resumed his nocturnal strolling. Presently he crossed the Seine and came into the richer areas of the city. It was some twenty minutes later that he came to a stop before a certain house in a quiet but aristocratic thoroughfare.

The shop, for shop it was, was a restrained and unpretentious one. D. Papopolous, dealer in antiques, was so known to fame that he needed no advertisement, and indeed most of his business was not done over a counter. M. Papopolous had a very hand­some apartment of his own overlooking the Champs Elysées, and it might reasonably be supposed that he would have been found there and not at his place of business at such an hour, but the man with the white hair seemed confident of success as he pressed the ob­scurely placed bell, having first given a quick glance up and down the deserted street.

His confidence was not misplaced. The door opened and a man stood in the aperture. He wore gold rings in his ears and was of a ­swarthy cast of countenance.

Good evening, said the stranger. Your master is within?

The master is here, but he does not see chance visitors at this time of night, growled the other.

I think he will see me. Tell him that his friend M. le Marquis is here.

The man opened the door a little wider and allowed the visitor to enter.

The man who gave his name as M. le Marquis had shielded his face with his hand as he spoke. When the manservant returned with the information that M. Papopolous would be pleased to re­ceive the visitor a further change had taken place in the stranger’s appearance. The manservant must have been very unobservant or very well-trained, for he betrayed no surprise at the small black satin mask which hid the other’s features. Leading the way to a door at the end of the hall, he opened it and announced in a respectful murmur: M. le Marquis.

The figure which rose to receive this strange guest was an im­posing one. There was something venerable and patriarchal about M. Papopolous. He had a high-domed forehead and a beautiful white beard. His manner had in it something ecclesiastical and benign.

My dear friend, said M. Papopolous.

He spoke in French and his tones were rich and unctuous.

I must apologise, said the visitor, for the lateness of the hour.

Not at all. Not at all, said M. Papopolous—an interesting time of night. You have had, perhaps, an interesting evening?

Not personally, said M. le Marquis.

Not personally, repeated M. Papopolous, no, no, of course not. And there is news, eh?

He cast a sharp glance sideways at the other, a glance that was not ecclesiastical or benign in the least.

There is no news. The attempt failed. I hardly expected any­thing else.

Quite so, said M. Papopolous: anything crude—

He waved his hand to express his intense distaste for crudity in any form. There was indeed nothing crude about M. Papopolous nor about the goods he handled. He was well-known in most Eu­ropean courts, and kings called him Demetrius in a friendly man­ner. He had the reputation for the most exquisite discretion. That, together with the nobility of his aspect, had carried him through several very questionable transactions.

The direct attack— said M. Papopolous. He shook his head. It answers sometimes—but very seldom.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

It saves time, he remarked, and to fail costs nothing—or next to nothing. The other plan—will not fail.

Ah, said M. Papopolous, looking at him keenly.

The other nodded slowly.

I have great confidence in your—er—reputation, said the antique dealer.

M. le Marquis smiled gently.

I think I may say, he murmured, that your confidence will not be misplaced.

You have unique opportunities, said the other, with a note of envy in his voice.

I make them, said M. le Marquis.

He rose and took up the cloak which he had thrown carelessly on the back of a chair.

I will keep you informed, M. Papopolous, through the usual channels, but there must be no hitch in your arrangements.

M. Papopolous was pained.

"There is never a hitch in my arrangements," he complained.

The other smiled, and without any further word of adieu he left the room, closing the door behind him.

M. Papopolous remained in thought for a moment, stroking his venerable white beard, and then moved across to a second door which opened inwards. As he turned the handle, a young woman, who only too clearly had been leaning against it with her ear to the keyhole, stumbled headlong into the room. M. Papopolous displayed neither surprise nor concern. It was evidently all quite natural to him.

Well, Zia? he asked.

I did not hear him go, explained Zia.

She was a handsome young woman, built on Junoesque lines, with dark flashing eyes and such a general air of resemblance to M. Papopolous that it was easy to see they were father and daughter.

It is annoying, she continued vexedly, that one cannot see through a keyhole and hear through it at the same time.

It has often annoyed me, said M. Papopolous, with great simplicity.

So that is M. le Marquis, said Zia slowly. Does he always wear a mask, Father?

Always.

There was a pause.

It is the rubies, I suppose? asked Zia.

Her father nodded.

What do you think, my little one? he inquired, with a hint of amusement in his beady black eyes.

Of M. le Marquis?

Yes.

I think, said Zia slowly, that it is a very rare thing to find a well-bred Englishman who speaks French as well as that.

Ah! said M. Papopolous, so that is what you think.

As usual, he did not commit himself, but he regarded Zia with benign approval.

I thought, too, said Zia, that his head was an odd shape.

Massive, said her father—a trifle massive. But then that ef­fect is always created by a wig.

They both looked at each other and smiled.

3. Heart of Fire

Rufus Van Aldin passed through the revolving doors of the Savoy, and walked to the reception desk. The desk clerk smiled a respectful greeting.

Pleased to see you back again, Mr. Van Aldin, he said.

The American millionaire nodded his head in a casual greeting.

Everything all right? he asked.

Yes, sir. Major Knighton is upstairs in the suite now.

Van Aldin nodded again.

Any mail? he vouchsafed.

They have all been sent up, Mr. Van Aldin. Oh! wait a minute.

He dived into a pigeonhole, and produced a letter.

Just come this minute, he explained.

Rufus Van Aldin took the letter from him, and as he saw the handwriting, a woman’s flowing hand, his face was suddenly trans­formed. The harsh contours of it softened, and the hard line of his mouth relaxed. He looked a different man. He walked across to the lift with the letter in his hand and the smile still on his lips.

In the drawing room of his suite, a young man was sitting at a desk nimbly sorting correspondence with the ease born of long practice. He sprang up as Van Aldin entered.

Hallo, Knighton!

Glad to see you back, sir. Had a good time?

So so! said the millionaire unemotionally. Paris is rather a one-horse city nowadays. Still—I got what I went over for.

He smiled to himself rather grimly.

You usually do, I believe, said the secretary, laughing.

That’s so, agreed the other.

He spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, as one stating a well-known fact. Throwing off his heavy overcoat, he advanced to the desk.

Anything urgent?

I don’t think so, sir. Mostly the usual stuff. I have not quite finished sorting it out.

Van Aldin nodded briefly. He was a man who seldom expressed either blame or praise. His methods with those he employed were simple; he gave them a fair trial and dismissed promptly those who were inefficient. His selections of people were unconventional. ­Knighton, for instance, he had met casually at a Swiss resort two months previously. He had approved of the fellow, looked up his war record, and found in it the explanation of the limp with which he walked. Knighton had made no secret of the fact that he was looking for a job, and indeed diffidently asked the millionaire if he knew of any available post. Van Aldin remembered, with a grim smile of amusement, the young man’s complete astonishment when he had been offered the post of secretary to the great man himself.

But—but I have no experience of business, he had stammered.

That doesn’t matter a cuss, Van Aldin had replied. I have got three secretaries already to attend to that kind of thing. But I am likely to be in England for the next six months, and I want an Englishman who—well, knows the ropes—and can attend to the social side of things for me.

So far, Van Aldin had found his judgement confirmed. Knighton had proved quick, intelligent, and resourceful, and he had a distinct charm of manner.

The secretary indicated three or four letters placed by them­selves on the top of the desk.

It might perhaps be as well, sir, if you glanced at these, he suggested. The top one is about the Colton agreement—

But Rufus Van Aldin held up a protesting hand.

I am not going to look at a durned thing tonight, he de­clared. They can all wait till the morning. Except this one, he added, looking down at the letter he held in his hand. And again that strange transforming smile stole over his face.

Richard Knighton smiled sympathetically.

Mrs. Kettering? he murmured. She rang up yesterday and today. She seems very anxious to see you at once, sir.

Does she, now!

The smile faded from the millionaire’s face. He ripped open the envelope which he held in his hand and took out the enclosed sheet. As he read it his face darkened, his mouth set grimly in the line which Wall Street knew so well, and his brows knit themselves ominously. Knighton turned tactfully away, and went on opening letters and sorting them. A muttered oath escaped the millionaire, and his clenched fist hit the table sharply.

I’ll not stand for this, he muttered to himself. Poor little girl, it’s a good thing she has her old father behind her.

He walked up and down the room for some minutes, his brows drawn together in a scowl. Knighton still bent assiduously over the desk. Suddenly Van Aldin came to an abrupt halt. He took up his overcoat from the chair where he had thrown it.

Are you going out again, sir?

Yes, I’m going round to see my daughter.

If Colton’s people ring up—?

Tell them to go to the devil, said Van Aldin.

Very well, said the secretary unemotionally.

Van Aldin had his overcoat on by now. Cramming his hat upon his head, he went towards the door. He paused with his hand upon the handle.

You are a good fellow, Knighton, he said. You don’t worry me when I am rattled.

Knighton smiled a little, but made no reply.

Ruth is my only child, said Van Aldin, and there is no one on this earth who knows quite what she means to me.

A faint smile irradiated his face. He slipped his hand into his pocket.

Care to see something, Knighton?

He came back towards the secretary.

From his pocket he drew out a parcel carelessly wrapped in brown paper. He tossed off the wrapping and disclosed a

Reviews for The Mystery of the Blue Train

[al9g · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

She got me again. I can sometimes identify the culprit before she reveals it but not on this one. There is a rich heiress in an unhappy marriage, a famous ruby, a powerful father to the unhappy daughter and a philandering husband (never mind that Mrs. Kettering is on the train to redezvous with her former lover, who is also a potential killer). Was Mrs. Kettering killed for her jewels or did her estranged husband seek to insure he would retain her wealth having discovered she is seeking a divorce? Or is her father enraged that she has taken up again with her former lover who he felt was unfit? It is a delightful read with false trails aplenty and I always enjoy the train as a settng. She has once again assembled a cast of likely culprits providing one and all with a motive or desire for the death that keeps the reader looking for suspects. But this one has a major red herring that threw me. I won't spoil it, but it is a good mystery and a great read!

[funstm · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Poirot gently uncrossed his knees, withdrew his gaze from the ceiling, and looked the young man full in the face. “My name is Hercule Poirot,” he said quietly, “and I am probably the greatest detective in the world.Christie, Agatha. The Mystery of the Blue Train: Hercule Poirot Investigates (Hercule Poirot series Book 6) (p. 149). William Morrow Paperbacks. Kindle Edition.I love Hercule Poirot. It's hard not to. Not only is he a fantastic detective he's a total character. I never prophesy,” he declared pompously. “It is true that I have the habit of being always right—but I do not boast of it.Christie, Agatha. The Mystery of the Blue Train: Hercule Poirot Investigates (Hercule Poirot series Book 6) (p. 85). William Morrow Paperbacks. Kindle Edition.He may not boast but he won't hesitate to preen. “He is a great admirer of yours, M. Poirot,” she said, and she related some of the things that Knighton had said. It amused her to see the little man plume himself like a bird, thrusting out his chest, and assuming an air of mock modesty that would have deceived no one.Christie, Agatha. The Mystery of the Blue Train: Hercule Poirot Investigates (Hercule Poirot series Book 6) (p. 178). William Morrow Paperbacks. Kindle Edition.There's nothing like reading Hercule Poirot investigate. There's amusing lines, complex mysteries and interesting characters - even if they're not always likeable. The Mystery of the Blue Train was a strange one. I can't say it's my favourite but it's not a total loss either. My main disappointment came from having to wait until Chapter 10 to see Hercule make an appearance. I did enjoy the mystery though - I guessed bits and pieces and was totally lost on a bunch of others. And I always enjoy Hercule besting everyone. “Can you tell us nothing more, M. Poirot?” urged the Commissary. “At present, no,” said Poirot, “but I may have news awaiting me at my hotel.” M. Carrège looked uncomfortable. “If the Marquis is concerned in this—” he began, and then stopped. “It upsets our ideas,” complained M. Caux. “It does not upset mine,” said Poirot. “On the contrary, I think it agrees with them very well.Christie, Agatha. The Mystery of the Blue Train: Hercule Poirot Investigates (Hercule Poirot series Book 6) (p. 233). William Morrow Paperbacks. Kindle Edition.3 stars.

[devil_llama · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Typical Agatha Christie, with all the usual suspects, including Hercule Poirot. It twists and turns through plot twists, and challenges you to figure out the culprit without having all the information necessary. I pegged one likely culprit at the beginning, but a nice red herring led me away from that suspect down a blind alley. Turned out I was right in the first place. All those years of reading Agatha Christie served me well, if I would have trusted me instincts. Part of my re-reads project, I don't remember reading this one, though it has been more than 30 years since my last read of mystery novels. Fun and a quick read.

[delphimo_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Agatha Christie focuses on many points of interest in regard to travel. The Mystery of the Blue Train, the infamous night express luxury train transports the wealthy from Calais to the French Riviera. Hercule Poirot happens to be one of the persons on this voyage, during which a woman is murdered, and her jewels are stolen. So begins the quest for the jewel thief and the murderer. So many red herrings in arresting the criminal. My thought ran with Rufus Van Aldin, the father of the victim. The dancer, Mirelle, aroused my suspicions. The French police go after Derek Kettering, the husband of the victim, and Armand the Comte de la Roche, the lover of the victim. Poirot follows all clues and investigates and comes to a different answer that he reaches with the assistance of Katherine Grey since Hastings does not grace this mystery. I really miss Hastings, but Katherine supplied a foil for Poirot. The descriptions of the characters and the settings stand as vivid reminders that Poirot notices everything.

[threadnsong · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It is a good mystery with not just the incomparable Hercule Poirot helping solve the case, but also the intrepid Katherine whom he meets on the Blue Train (the one to the Cote d'Azur to Calais). There is a rich American heiress in a troubled marriage, her philandering husband, her doting and gruff father, along with the usual mix of household servants, rich and aging heiresses, and ne'er do wells.Somehow, though, this book did not keep my attention. I could smile at some of the more dated references and personalities, including the dancer who throws fantastic tantrums, and the plot twist at the end is pure Agatha Christie . . . but there was something about the writing style that was frankly boring. On the up side, the plot was tight, the mystery a surprise, and the characters had some depth. Just didn't hold my attention much.

[pgchuis · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Chosen because I have read a lot of disappointing novels lately and wanted something reliable, which this was.Ruth Kettering is murdered and priceless rubies stolen from her on the Blue Train across France to Nice. Also travelling on that train is Katherine Grey, who has just inherited a fortune, Ruth's estranged husband Derek, Derek's former mistress Mirelle, and (of course) Hercule Poirot.I enjoyed the first half of the story very much. There were humorous passages involving Poirot's egotism and Katherine's friends, but the actual solution was a little convoluted and left me slightly confused. SPOILERSWhat exactly was the Comte de la Roche's involvement? What money was Mirelle promising to get for him?

[jimgysin_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A solid Poirot outing as Christie begins to hit her stride. And as a fan of train settings, I had all the more reason to like this one (even though trains don't dominate here).

[deltaqueen50 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I know when I pick up an Agatha Christie book that I am going to enjoy the read and The Mystery Of The Blue Train did not disappoint. When the daughter of an American millonaire travels to the south of France on the luxury Blue Train, and is found dead upon arrival, suspicion falls upon her estranged husband. But Hercule Poirot is on the case and he has other ideas.Although it wasn’t difficult to figure out what happened, this story nevertheless held my attention and was very readable. I found Poirot a little more sympathetic than he usually is as he seemed to actually care about Katherine Grey, the young woman caught up in this murder. Originally published in novel form in 1928, this story was developed from one of her short stories, “The Plymouth Express” and is notable for the first mention of the fictional village of Mary St. Mead which was eventually to become the home of Miss Marple. I have read that Agatha Christie did not consider this book one of better ones, but I most certainly found this a very satisfying read.

[jguidry-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

 I really enjoyed this Hercule Poirot mystery.  The backdrop of traveling on a train made it more interesting because it opened a lot more possibilities.  Christie used this to her advantage, of course.  The characters were interesting, but I'll admit, I really didn't care for the person who was murdered, so it was no big loss.  Parts did seem to drag on during the investigation, most likely to show of Poirot's detecting skills, and that kept it from being a 5-star book.  However, I still truly loved reading this story.

[rosalita_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Who killed a wealthy American heiress on the luxury Blue Train while traveling to France to meet her lover? Was it her about-to-be-divorced-without-a-pence aristocrat husband? Or her French lover who only wanted her for her jewels? Or someone else entirely? Fortunately Hercule Poirot is on the case to bring about justice. An amusing note: Last year I started reading the Miss Marple and Poirot series in order, alternately between the two each month. I thought I was due to read a Poirot but I was mightily confused when this one started out in St. Mary Mead, the little village where Miss Marple spends her days between solving murders. The "old pussy" doesn't actually make an appearance here, and Poirot eventually turned up to reassure me that I hadn't messed up my reading schedule, but I thought it was amusing that Christie gave a sly nod to her other series within this one. And now I wonder: how would Miss Marple and Poirot have got on if they did wind up trying to solve a murder together??

[auntie0nanuuq · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Katherine Grey, the enigmatic young woman of the memorable eyes, has left her post of caregiver (the old woman died leaving Katherine well off) in St. Mary Mead (No Marple) and is bound for Nice on The Blue Train to visit her money hungry cousin.....

Lady Ruth Kettering (an American Heiress) is about to divorce her husband (at the behest of her father) and meet her gigolo of a lover in Nice, she too is aboard the Blue Train..... Lady Ruth is carrying the Former Tsarina's rubies and many people are very aware of that fact. In a moment of blue funk, Ruth befriends Katherine and unburdens herself.....

Ruth's gigolo, her husband, her husband's discarded mistress are also on the train....... All want Ruth's money and or the rubies.... Just outside Gare de Lyon, Ruth is found in her compartment strangled to death with a bashed in face....

There is no lack of suspects...... and there are the mysterious shadowers of the rubies......

Between a thoughtful & astute Miss Grey and Monsieur Poirot Ruth's murderer is caught and the rubies discretely go on to their next owner.

[bbbart-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Even after reading several Poirot stories from Agatha Christie, I'm still always put on the wrong foot by this cunning author. I love the atmosphere of Europe during the interbellum which comes out of the story and of course the individual characters who are all forever under suspicion by Poirot. Very nice little story, recommended for anyone who likes mysteries.

[jiraiya_5 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

By Jove, if it isn't Monsieur Poirot. I've been reading all the Marple novels recently for the first time. I had forgotten about Poirot stories. This book threatens to be the best of the lot. I knew I had forgotten mostly about it, except the basic premise. This book has a fragile beauty and a grim charm to it. The fact that Poirot's shenanigans are kept to a minimum helps. It didn't feel like a re read at all. Therefore I do not cheat and I did honestly succeed in guessing the murderer's identity. More of that later.The book has to end somewhere. I didn't catch the hint regarding the ruby, the "Heart of Fire". Was the original in Mirelle's possession or was it a fake? Mirelle could not exact no revenge on her lost lover, but she is an unimaginable character. Agatha Christie makes me meet people I will never meet, not here, not in this age. I'm speaking of people in high places, but also people who have served in war, and those doughty Empire builders who were definitely English. I cannot judge how true these characters are, and when someone like Mirelle, or the Compte de la Roche appears, I'm at a loss to understand whether Agatha Christie is improvising or whether these creatures really walked the good Earth at some point in the lost past.The beginning was intriguing. There's a transaction of the ruby being carried, and a lot of very varied people being introduced. I would have liked this segment to go on more. But then in a jarring change Poirot appears and things get dull. But this doesn't last long. The passages where the victim is on the train are fantastic. A luxury train is very archaic. It's also very ghostly, like a ship in a mist. But a train, I think has more romance, especially one peopled by the sorts that the author imagined here. The victim is millionaire extraordinaire Van Aldin's daughter. She is a flawed beauty, a very beautiful woman who has inherited two millions (and a too masculine jaw line) and is about to die needlessly. Herein lies the one glitch in this story, if I must nitpick. The murder was not essential. And if I remember correctly, most Agatha Christie murders happen because of urgency and viral necessity. Someone named the Marquis doesn't sound like a serial killer. But here he is made out to be a ruthless(omigod, pun accidental) killer. The trouble of killing, but also of all the clever alibis being planned, they aren't worth doing if the cleverness is there. There is no motive for murder. In the movie " Once Upon A Time In the West" Henry Fonda says, people are scared when they are dying. That I can understand, but here the dead bodies don't give evidence line is not convincing and lacks punch. But we needed a murder, and a murder simply had to be conjured. Where would we be if Ruth was alive, if only being a victim of theft only? For one, I would have wanted very much to read this story, but it would be a short story. There wouldn't be enough to go on to make of the theft of the rubies a fascinating tale as this book turned out to be.A few random things now; that premonition of the attractive Katherine Grey that came out of the blue, was a manipulation of the author, who hid part of the experience. But I did guess the murderer's identity. I knew who was the Marquis. There was the simple line that surgeons were surprised of Knighton's limp. That was the only hint I could pick up. But as of the identity of his accomplice, Kitty Kidd, I was so wrong! I thought she was Lennox Tamplin, simply because I pounced on the detail that in a certain picture, she had averted her face and shown only her nape. That was a red herring that I'm still digesting! I thought she must have dual identities. The whole Tamplin entourage was a dead end. Too much prose wasted for little importance.This 5 well earned stars is perhaps the strongest one. I would have given it more if possible. I do not remember which book has so much romance and class as this book. From now on, I think it's all downhill. In my youth I read most of the Poirot mysteries in French, in disorder. I remember little of them for most of them. There's the Mystery of the Orient Express, but that one I know of too well. I dare not choose a too pedestrian book. And I prefer Marple over Poirot. Agatha Christie is very confident in her plots. When she makes a character praise the denouement, it's an act of faith. I recommend this book to anyone who reads and has not read it.

[breakerfallen · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Another good Poirot book. It was hard to get into, as the action didn't start immediately, but I enjoyed the character studies in the beginning. As slow as the murder actually was to present itself, though, the resolution felt rushed. That seems to be Christie's style as the books progress.

[helenliz_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

it's a Hercule Poiriot novel, where he gets to exercise his little grey cells on a murder and robbery of some famous rubies. The rubies in question are the focus of the start of the book, when they're bought by an American millionaire to give to his daughter. She's the apple of his eye and is currently married to the wrong man. He's been carrying on with a dancing girl, and so Papa decides that his darling Ruthie should cut her losses and divorce the dastardly Derek Kettering. However it doesn't all quite go to plan. once the background has been put in place (by way of jewel dealers, dancing girls and lots of beautiful stereotype characters) the cast is assembled and the train sets off the the South of France - only someone doesn't get there...
It's a murder and robbery that leave you wondering if it is one crime or two. Are they connected? Who has motive? Some have motive for one crime and not the other, some have an alibi, others do not. As usual, Poiriot gets to the bottom of it. I did find myself wondering about one character who seemed a little bit too good to be true, but won't spoil the surprise by giving it away. It all ends with the murderer unmasked and a fine match being made. A real evocation of an era past.

[clq_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Another Hercule Poirot story, and a relatively standard mystery. A woman gets killed. On a train of course. Who did it? The husband? The lover? The Butler? Who knows? Well, Poirot does. Not one of the best Christie's I've read, nor very original. Still, this book isn't bad. It continues to impress me how well Christie does dialogue. Even long-winded conversations between characters (of which there are quite a few in this book) somehow stay interesting and entertaining, yet plausible. I've come to expect that an Agatha Christie-book will keep me happy for the time it takes me to read it, and this one did. Just.

[druidgirl_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As always Hercule Poirot always gets his man or woman. He does at times act a little stumped or confused but this is a very shrewd move on his part. He tries to put the people at ease so they feel as though they are safe. It has a new twist at every turn, if you think you know who the culprit is, do not make any bets on it. Not as good as others I have read but none the less it was well written.

[mstrust · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

American Ruth Kettering is in an unhappy marriage with Derek, an impoverished English aristocrat who had become too indiscreet. When Ruth's millionaire father convinces her to file for divorce, the scheming begins. Ruth is found dead on the train to the Riviera and Poirot finds a number of suspects all circling round the victim.I place this one firmly in the middle of Christie's work; it isn't one of her greats (And Then There Were None) and it certainly isn't one of her stinkers (hello, Elephants Can Remember). It's a solid Poirot that is difficult to figure out, mainly because the reader isn't given a vital piece of evidence until 20 pages from the end.I detect the beginnings of her later Murder on the Orient Express here, with a murder of a wealthy, entitled person on a train, though that's where the similarities end. MotOE is a masterpiece.

[mrtall_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This early Poirot is a treat. Written and set in the late 1920s, it's both a highly satisfactory murder mystery, and a glimpse into a world long passed away.Ruth Kettering, an American heiress, has been at odds with her extremely well-bred but dissolute English husband. She decides to take the famous de luxe Blue Train to escape to the Riveria. But look -- isn't that her husband just a few berths down . . . ?Needless to say, another prominent passenger on this trip is Hercule Poirot, who appears here in his brash and self-aggrandizing early incarnation. Of course he is called in to consult when the unthinkable becomes the reality. The only thing I love more than a charming English setting and detail in an Agatha Christie novel is a charming foreign setting, and this is an excellent example.Highly recommended.

[mmyoung_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A nice return to form after the execrable The Big Four. The Poirot in this book is recognizably the same person as the one in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. In many ways this book is a novel interrupted by a murder and sidetrips into the world of international crime. The former is handled in the “ingeniously plotted” manner popular at that time and the latter is seems based more on the impressions Christie has picked up from watching films and reading popular fiction. Leave aside those elements and you have the unusually happy story of a companion who was left money and does not lose her head and man even get her man.The story of Katherine Grey has a flavour reminiscent of Persuasion and while we are following her slow flowering the reader may be distracting from the fact that Christie is also demonstrating that the only real function Hasting had in the earlier books is to watch and listen. Miss Grey watches, listens and if we read closely we realize that that was all Hastings really needed to do.

[figgles_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Early thriller-style Poirot. Not her best but enjoyable.

[bnielsen_30 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

England, ca 1928Ruth Kettering bliver foræret nogle meget kostbare rubiner af sin far. Hun er ved at forlade sin mand og tager rubinerne med i Det Blå Tog mod rivieraen. Hun bliver kvalt i toget og hendes ansigt bliver knust. Faderen er dybt ulykkelig og hyrer Hercule Poirot, som også var med toget. Mr Goby hjælper faderen Rufus Van Aldin med oplysninger på svigersønnen Derek Kettering og dennes elskerinde danserinden Mirelle. Derek er i desperat pengenød og konens død vil hjælpe stærkt på det. Derek får afsmag for Mirelle og interesserer sig i stedet for Katherine Gray, som nylig har arvet en formue.En glat juvelhæler ved navn Papopolous har en datter Zia, der skylder Poirot en tjeneste for at have ladet en Antonio Pirezzio gå fri for sytten år siden.Hercule Poirot og Katherine Gray bliver venner og afslører til sidst kammertjeneren Richard Knighton og stuepigen Ada Mason som farlige forbrydere, der har Ruths død på samvittigheden.Glimrende Poirot mysterie.

[riverwillow · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I never quite know what to make out about this book. It passes the time quite nicely, but its only real merit is that it shows the Poirot in the guise of a fatherly confessor - 'Papa Poirot' who pops up in other Christie books. Oh yes and its an interesting precursor to the other great train murder mystery 'Murder on the Orient Express'

[smik_3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Ruth Kettering's journey to Nice on the luxurious Blue Train was her last. By the time the train arrived in Nice she was dead. But what was the motive? The presence of her husband on the train makes him an immediate suspect especially as he becomes heir to her considerable personal fortune. But what about the fact that her jewellery, in particular a necklace containing the fabulous ruby the size of a pigeon's egg known as The Heart of Fire, is missing, along with her maid?The other element to the story is Katherine Grey, recently the beneficiary of an elderly woman's will, and on her way to Nice to stay with her relative Lady Tamplin. She meets Ruth Kettering on the train, and then Hercule Poirot in Paris.Hercule Poirot is eventually engaged by Ruth Kettering's father to discover who murdered his daughter, and what became of the ruby necklace. He sees Katherine Grey as a key witness, an excellent judge of character, and involves her in his investigation.THE MYSTERY OF THE BLUE TRAIN is set about ten years after World War 1, and Hercule Poirot has been "retired from his profession for many years." His former companion Captain Hastings does not appear in this story, although to a small extent he has been replaced by a valet George, whom Poirot uses at times as a sounding board.One of the characters says of Poirot He is a very remarkable person....and has done some very remarkable things. He has a kind of genius for going to the root of the matter, and right up to the end no one has any idea of what he is really thinking.Speaking of his own methods Poirot says I am now a lion - a giant. Ah, Mademoiselle Katherine, you have not seen me as I can be. You have seen the gentle, the calm Hercule Poirot; but there is another Hercule Poirot. I go now to bully, to threaten, to strike terror into the hearts of those listen to me. ...And I shall do it...Oh yes, I shall succeedAnd he does. He browbeats the truth out of some, but there are still intuitive leaps he has to make. The interesting thing about THE MYSTERY OF THE BLUE TRAIN is that Hercule Poirot gets some of the answer wrong, and initially the wrong man goes to gaol. The novel goes further than most of the Agatha Christie novels I have read so far. We see Poirot still worrying at the result, realising things don't hang together so well, and persisting until he has got it right.Christie claimed that this was one of the books she liked least, however the critics did not agree with her. The Times Literary Supplement said, “The reader will not be disappointed when the distinguished Belgian on psychological grounds builds up inferences almost out of the air, supports them by a masterly array of negative evidence and lands his fish to the surprise of everyone”.Other things of interest * I pointed out in reviews of earlier novels that I thought Christie was commenting on changing social conditions. This novel is set in the late 1920s and there are comments about the social structure, with a sense of a declining aristocracy, but still no understanding, by those who consider themselves aristocracy, of the lower classes. For example Lady Tamplin says of Ruth Kettering She has been a companion I tell you. Companions don't play tennis or golf. They might possibly play croquet-golf, but I have always understood that they wind wool and wash dogs most of the day. * Katherine Grey lives in St. Mary Mead, the small isolated village that Miss Marple will emerge from. * I posted last week about Christie's use of the word apache in this novel. I had noticed it in an earlier one, but it gets 3 outings in THE MYSTERY OF THE BLUE TRAIN.So yes, I enjoyed THE MYSTERY OF THE BLUE TRAIN. It has stood the test of time very well. There are plenty of red herrings, a further fleshing out of the character of Poirot as a person that young women find attractive, and puzzles to keep the brain engaged.

[davidabrams · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As I began reading Agatha Christie's The Mystery of the Blue Train, I thought this was going to be an indigo-tinted version of Murder on the Orient Express. The two novels bear some similarities: the confinement of a train chugging across Europe, a rich American murdered in her sleeping compartment, a cast of suspects with equal portions of motive and alibi, contradictory statements from witnesses, and a funny little Belgian detective with a luxurious moustache who's there to ferret out the truth. But it's not long before The Mystery of the Blue Train goes off on a different track than Murder on the Orient Express. While Blue Train is not quite as cleverly-plotted as "Orient Express, it's still a fun ride on par with Agatha's other "cozy mysteries." Published in 1928 (six years before Murder on the Orient Express), The Mystery of the Blue Train centers around Ruth Van Aldin, the daughter of an American millionaire, who is found strangled in her sleeping compartment on the train. This comes shortly after she's been given a priceless ruby as a gift from her father. Of course, the jewel is nowhere to be found on the train. As always, it's up to Hercule Poirot—-traveling on the same train—-to get to the bottom of the case. He's hired by Rufus Van Aldin who wants the scoundrel responsible for his daughter's murder caught and convicted of the crime. The list of suspects facing Poirot is daunting. There's Derek Kettering, Ruth's estranged husband of ten years who was just about to be served with divorce papers, thus ending his claim to the Van Aldin fortune. There's exotic dancer Mirelle, Derek's mistress, who would like nothing better than to see her lover's wife six feet under ground. There's Katherine Grey, a fellow passenger on the Blue Train who happened to strike up a conversation with Ruth shortly before her death and was quickly taken into the doomed woman's confidence. There's Major Knighton, Rufus Van Aldin's secretary who knows more about the ruby than he should. There's Ruth's maid, Ada Mason, who abruptly leaves the train before it reaches its destination. And the list goes on and on in true Christie fashion. She was the Queen of Bafflement, throwing so many would-be murderers at us that we're constantly shifting our suspicion as the novel goes along. Agatha's powers of description have never been keener than they are here in The Mystery of the Blue Train. Whether it's painting a succinct word-picture of a character—-"a little man with a face like a rat"-—or of the rubies themselves-—"the stones glowed like blood"—-her prose is unmistakably memorable. In this novel which comes early in Poirot's literary career, he seems more sprightly, more energetic and comedically pompous. Agatha rarely misses an opportunity to expound on the detective's methodology. Here's a sampling of comments from Poirot, I found scattered throughout the novel: "What is important? What is not? One cannot say at this stage. But we must note each little fact carefully." "This is great," said Van Aldin. "Great! You are the goods, M. Poirot. Once and for all, you are the goods." "It is nothing," said Poirot modestly. "Order, method, being prepared for eventualities beforehand—-that is all there is to it." "Unless you are good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective." "But I am a good detective. I suspect. There is nobody and nothing that I do not suspect. I believe nothing that I am told." The Poirot of this novel is one with a comically inflated ego. There is not nearly enough room for his personality on the page—-he explodes past the boundaries of the book with his sense of self-importance. Tiresome? Perhaps. But also very funny. Witness this exchange when he shows up to interview a pair of unsuspecting servants: "Voila," said the stranger, and sank into a wooden arm-chair. "I am Hercule Poirot." "Yes, Monsieur?" "You do not know the name?" "I have never heard it," said Hippolyte. "Permit me to say that you have been badly educated. It is the name of one of the great ones of this world." Yes, Poirot's truly one of the great ones—-and not just in his own mind. The Mystery of the Blue Train spotlights Poirot in one of his finest hours. The sleuthing is terrific and the writing is just as keen. I'll leave you with a few interesting bits of trivia about The Mystery of the Blue Train: *We get our first snapshot of St. Mary Mead in these pages. Katherine Grey has just left her job in the tiny village before she books passage on the Blue Train. We briefly meet some of the gossipy old birds in those scenes. One of them remarks, "You know, things don't happen in St. Mary Mead." Not, that is, until two years later when the first Miss Marple novel, Murder at the Vicarage, is published. *Theatrical agent Joseph Aarons makes a cameo near the end of the book. He also shows up in The Big Four, Murder on the Links, and Double Sin. *This is the first Poirot novel to be told in the third person with no narrator. Hastings is nowhere to be found (though Poirot does make a brief mention of his name late in the book—-I think Agatha did that just to remind people that Hastings was still out there somewhere). *The plot of Blue Train is an expansion of a short story, "The Plymouth Express," which appeared in the collection The Under Dog in 1951 in the USA and in 1974 in the UK under the title Poirot's Early Cases. Immediately after finishing Blue Train, I read the short story. While "The Plymouth Express" is nowhere near as good as the novel, Agatha does a good job of setting up (and revealing) a brain teaser within just a few short pages.