I have always chosen Agatha Christie’s books solely for their entertainment value. When the overt philosophy and profundity of other books becomes overwhelming, one can rely on the likes of Christie to provide one with an adrenaline rush befitting an escape of the mind. But “The Man in the Brown Suit” seemed to be nothing but a dull exercise. Murder, mystery, intrigue, adventure, romance and thrill all are fused into this story.
I yearned for adventure, for love, for romance, and I seemed condemned to an existence of drab utility
This is no Poirot or Marple detective story. Our protagonist the unlikely Miss Anne Beddingfeld who had long been confined to a life of bachelorhood under her ageing father’s control. His death provides her with respite and an escape to London where she inadvertently becomes witness to an odd death at the Underground Station. She ventures deep into the case, linking a Russian dancer’s death to that of an appearance of a doctor, an infamous ‘Colonel’ and an MP.
He didn’t seem in the least surprised to see Harry walk in, dripping wet, holding an equally dripping female by the hand. Men are very wonderful.
Her desire for adventure and to unveil the mystery shrouding a roll of film she discovers, leads her aboard a ship, traveling from England to South Africa. Anne begins connecting the dots between diamonds and a revolution brewing in Johannesburg. She becomes involved in a passionate love affair, escapes attempts made at her life and cleverly corners the chief perpetrator of all the crimes.
Diary is useful for recording the idiosyncrasies of other people – but not one’s own.
The ending of the story I felt was a tad bit anti-climactic. Only recommended for those who seek diversion from their reading shelf.