[the murderer] had risen. His handsome face was transformed, suffused with blood, blind with rage. It was the face of a killer - of a tiger. He yelled: “You damned interfering murdering lousy little worm!”
He hurled himself forward, his fingers stretching and curling, his voice raving curses, as he fastened his fingers round Hercule Poirot's throat...
I found this Christie story really disappointing, to the extent that I am going to curtail my Agatha reading project. The murder takes place in an isolated location, and there's a locked-room element in the sense that it takes place on a deserted and inaccessible beach. There is some nice character stuff, particularly the victim's troubled step-daughter. But the solution depends on crucial misdirection of the reader by the author, and the motivation for the crime is pretty obscure. Enough Agatha for me for the time being.
