Classical crime fiction — a homage

The sale of Agatha Christie's works was surpassed only by the Bible and the works of William Shakespeare

I am an unabashed admirer of detective fiction. Though I used to devour the works of Arthur Conan Doyle, Earl Derr Biggers, Dorothy L Sayers, GK Chesterton and Dashiell Hammett, my favourite was and always will be, the inimitable, Agatha Christie, who wrote 66 detective novels and 14 collections of short stories, all of which I have read, and a number of plays for the theatre. Altogether her works sold two billion copies and the sale of her books was surpassed only by the Bible and the works of William Shakespeare.

But more than anything else, she created the memorable character of Hercule Poirot, the eccentric Belgian detective with the famous moustache, accent and an ego larger than the island of Serendip, which made him an instant icon. Around for a remarkable 55 years and appearing in 33 novels and more than 50 short stories, Poirot has been a fixture in the detective genre for many, many years. Who can forget his suspense-filled speeches in the drawing room at the end of every story during which he pointed accusing fingers at a number of people who had a motive, before nailing the murderer? After his death in the 1975 novel Curtain, his obituary appeared on the front page of The New York Times.

The literary historian Howard Haycraft considered that “few fictional sleuths can surpass the amazing little Belgian — with his waxed moustache and egg-shaped head, his inflated confidence in the infallibility of his little grey cells, his murderous attacks on the English language — either for individuality or ingenuity”. He is the only detective in crime fiction that I know who hated draughty English country homes and wore shiny black patent leather shoes.

Christie created a number of other interesting characters. Heading the list is dear, sweet old grandmotherly Miss Marple whom everybody would like to have tea with. With her headquarters in St Mary Mead she travelled to the most picturesque villages in England. And as she chatted with people over crumpets and scones and strawberry jam, she listened to accounts of deep resentment, suspected homicide, abuse and incest that lay just under the surface of every hamlet she visited. But while she knitted those abominable jerseys and kept dropping her balls of wool, her mind was solving some of the most diabolical murders in the history of crime.

Then there is the English detective, Parker Pyne, the sight of whom somehow or the other, brought a feeling of reassurance. He was large but not to say fat; he had a bald head of noble proportions, strong glasses and little twinkling eyes. Tommy and Tuppence Beresford who belonged to the Twenties’ era of caviar breakfasts, exceptionally long cigarette holders, the Charleston, sporty baronets, fast cars, scarves-in-the-breeze and silly girls with curls, were absolute wizards at tackling espionage. Harley Quinn and Mr Satterthwaite took it upon themselves to tackle the affairs of the heart and added a bit of romance.

There were two other sleuths whose exploits I enjoyed immensely — Lord Peter Wimsey and Charlie Chan. Wimsey was an amateur detective who drank the very best wines from the vineyards of Burgundy and travelled in style in his 1927 Daimler. Rich and light-hearted, Wimsey seemed frivolous until he did something spectacularly brilliant. Chan, of the Honolulu police force, who sported a perpetual grin, spoke broken English and constantly spouted aphorisms, was the most positive Chinese character to be introduced to European and American audiences. I could never tire of him or his native cunning in solving murders. None of these three detectives swore or used bad language. Alas, with their passing, crime fiction isn’t what it used to be.

Published in The Express Tribune, November 29^th, 2015.

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